A Will and a Way

by Maggie Wells

  “Another?” the bartender asked Will.

  He eyed the finger of scotch in his glass speculatively, then gave his head a brisk shake. “I’m good for now. Thanks.”

  The moment the bartender’s back was turned, Betty lifted the glass to her nose and gave a tentative sniff.

  “It’s an Australian Shiraz,” Will informed her. She didn’t bother hiding her surprise, so he countered with a placid stare. “Taste it. It’s good. No socks added.”

  She did as he prompted then turned to him with a sheepish smile. “It is good, but I really shouldn’t drink it. I had a glass at home before I came out.”

  He propped an elbow on the bar and slid her a sidelong glance as he reclaimed his own glass. “Ah, that explains the dastardly second glass. Tell me did Marty’s wine taste like clean socks or dirty?”

  “For my own peace of mind, I’m going to say clean.”

  There was something about her voice that drew him in. She was southern, that much was obvious and all too arousing. Sweet as honey, but smoky as aged bourbon. “And what happens if you drink a third glass?”

  “Things that can only be spoken of in hushed tones,” she replied, matching his tone of mock severity.

  He nodded as he digested that tidbit of information, took a sip of scotch, then turned to face her. “Drink up. I promise to keep my voice low.”

  Betty unzipped her parka and reached for the stem of the glass. The wine danced along the sides of the bowl as she swirled. Beneath the bar, her knee brushed his. “Will Sister Laurent mind that I’m drinking her wine?”

  “I may have to bang some erasers at recess, but no, I don’t think so.” He gave her a wry smile. “Sister Laurent prides herself on being the soul of Christian charity.”

  “Ah, pride.” She cleared her throat, tucked her chin to her chest and locked her gaze on the far-less-dangerous third glass of wine. “Isn’t that one of the deadliest sins?”

  “I imagine, like the rest of us, the good sister has racked up a few others,” he said, tossing off his favorite nun’s eternal soul with a shrug. “She never shares her pretzel bowl, so that’s both greed and gluttony. I’ve always suspected her of coveting Sister Magdalene’s onyx rosary, even though she complains that the beads click too loud.”

  He leaned in closer, but she stared straight ahead. He wanted to swirl his tongue along the curve of her neck, feel her pulse skip and jump in her throat, suck her ear lobe between his lips and bite. Ever so gently.

  She shivered and he gave in to temptation. He brushed the barest of kisses across her ear, and her spine lost a gratifying bit of starch. “I know she’s guilty of lust, too.”

  Betty stiffened, but not in revulsion. If anything, she leaned in closer, her breathing soft and shallow. “She is?”

  “Sister Laurent only drinks Australian wine.”

  He caught the scent of scotch on his own breath and prayed it didn’t offend her. She braced a hand on his knee. Not too high, but close enough to kick things up to DEFCON five in terms of arousal. He gave her ear another nuzzle then retreated to his stool before he was tempted to take things a step too far.

  She blinked and gave her head a slight shake, but her hand didn’t move. “I don’t understand what lust has to do with wine.”

  “Don’t you?” He spoke the question in undertone.

  She answered by giving his thigh a gentle squeeze then took her hand away.

  Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes, hoping a slight change in topic might help him downshift. “Have you ever read The Thorn Birds?”

  Her lashes fluttered and her brow beetled. Will was sure he’d never found befuddlement as sexy on any other woman.

  “The Thorn Birds? Yes.”

  “Then you know about the priest,” he said, adding a shudder to his smirk to emphasize his point.

  “The priest?”

  He gave her a pointed look. “The naughty priest.”

  “Oh. That priest.”

  “Yes, that priest.” He gestured to a two-top just under a backlit Heineken sign. “Most nights, Sister Laurent sits right there, drinks Australian wine, and reads the most battered paperback copy of The Thorn Birds never to grace the St. Sebastian school library.”

  She let her confusion go in a slow hiss. “I see.”

  And she did see. He could see that she saw. Her eyes darkened and she hummed softly. He sat up a little straighter, wondering if she was thinking about committing at least a few deadly sins herself. He just hoped to God she’d commit them with him. Needing to stake a claim, he planted a big, warm palm on her leg and turned her to face him.

  “So we’ve covered pride, greed, gluttony, lust, and envy, though I think I have her beat in that department. The rosary beads are nice, but…” he gave Betty’s knee a gentle squeeze then cast a glance around the barroom. “Nope. I’ve definitely got envy in the bag.”

  She cocked her head. “How so?”

  “Sweetheart, there isn’t a man in here not eating his heart out over the fact that you were looking at me and not at them,” he growled. “And I’m just Catholic enough to confess I like it. I like that they’re watching me talk to you and wishing they were me. I like it a lot.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.” He shifted another inch closer. “I’ve seen you before, you know.”

  She jerked a little and her forehead puckered, so he rushed to dispel her of any stalker worries.

  “You were at a bus stop. You’re kind of hard to miss in that coat.”

  “Is that why people keep staring at me?” She tossed her hair then fixed him with a laser-like glare. Despite the obnoxious coat and hat-flattened hair, she was magnificent when she got her back up. Like a peacock fanning its plumage. “Everyone wears so much black up here,” she said with a tiny shudder. “It’s like the whole world is in mourning. I prefer pink.”

  She made her declaration with such conviction he had to smile. This strange and beautiful woman hadn’t walked into just any bar. She walked into his. Her bus stop companion wore Target bags, and she wore pink. Will knew right then there was no way in hell he’d be putting her on a plane with some other guy.

  “They stare because you’re beautiful,” he corrected without missing a beat. “The coat just makes you stand out. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” He looked directly into those vivid eyes. “Still can’t.”

  Chapter 4

  Betty stared at Will, transfixed by the light in his dark eyes. He gave another one of those silent little laughs that makes a woman wonder what it would take to get one with audio. The lighter fluid she’d guzzled minutes before ignited in her tummy. She stared down at his hand. It was no surprise to see it was broad and strong, but she had to wonder why he was so tan. It was hard to imagine the sun shining on this town long enough to warm the skin, much less bake it.

  “How come you’re so tan?”

  His laugh turned out to be too good-natured to fit with the debauched movie star thing he had going on. Deep, and throaty, and ten thousand other adjectives sure to get her ejected from any Sunday school in the world came to mind. His hand rested lightly on her arm, his palm remained flat and his fingers extended. He wasn’t trying to hold or restrain her, but it anchored her to the moment. If she chose to allow it. He was giving her a choice, making it clear she could shake him off with little more than a twitch, if she wanted.

  Like any woman in her right mind would.

  “I suppose I’m tanner than you because I work outdoors most of the time.”

  “Outdoors? In this weather?”

  The horror in her tone seemed to tickle him because he laughed again. Another one of those rippling, ought-to-be-illegal rumbles that she could swear went right through his fingertips and sent a million volts of ‘yes, please’ barreling straight to her hoo-hah. Up close, she could see the strands of silver streaking through his dark hair. He wore the imprint of every scowl, smirk, and sleepless night in the creases on his forehead, but
instead of detracting from his overall appeal, they only made him more attractive.

  His smile spread like brush fire—a slow, wicked burn that ate up any token resistance she might have offered. Not that she planned to resist. She was there because she wanted a new adventure. A fresh start. A chance to determine her own destiny.

  “I told you. It’s spring.”

  And boy was she feeling it. Every hormone she had was zipping and zinging, flitting through her bloodstream like bees in a pollen frenzy. Donald was gone. Her marriage was in ashes. And, Lord, she was tired of being the good girl. Sitting there with him, she wasn’t some small-town widow who hoped no one noticed her gulping verboten glasses of wine. Will Tarrant seemed to think she was his fate. Who was she to debase him of that notion?

  “I’ve been looking for signs everywhere,” she said in the breathy drawl she’d perfected before she’d entered the seventh grade. “Bunnies hoppin’ about, birds flyin’ in my window to help me dress, but so far….” She gave a helpless shrug. “…not a single young man fancying thoughts of love.”

  “Would you settle for a not-so-young man with thoughts of lust?”

  Betty caught her smile before it blossomed and dialed it back to something approaching demure. “Oh, my.”

  She stared at his hand, absorbed in mapping the scars and marks obscured by a dusting of fine, dark hair. It had been so long since anyone touched her. Too long. Her skin prickled, though layers of fabric separated them. The noise that filled the barroom faded as her blood thrummed in her ears. The muscles in her arm jumped, but thanks to the geese that gave their undercoat so she could have an overcoat, he would never know.

  Swallowing her nerves, she forced herself to look up. Bittersweet chocolate eyes shone with patient good humor, and one side of his mouth kicked up in a cocky smile. He knew precisely how affected she was. And he was toying with her.

  She released a slow, measured breath, making sure she kept enough oxygen in reserve in case he hit her with another one of those heart-lurching assertions. “You are very direct, aren’t you?”

  “I told you, this is Fate.”

  The scar that bisected his upper lip gleamed white against dark stubble. She wanted to touch it. With her tongue. “I believe people create their own paths.”

  Up until about six months ago, the statement would have been a load of pure horse manure on her part, but he didn’t need to know that. This was the new Betty. Bold Betty. The woman who was done playing the fool for any man. A woman to be reckoned with, as her grandmamma would have said. One who wasn’t afraid to take what she wanted from life, because she was damn well done giving.

  He slid his hand down and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Still holding on loosely. Still making it completely her choice. “I want to make a path with you, then.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, fixing him with a challenging stare. “You want to get in my pants.”

  Will looked down, and she resisted the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. So she hadn’t exactly dressed to impress when she decided to ditch her cracker-box apartment that evening. The yoga pants she wore tucked into her fake Uggs were clean, and at least she’d changed the sleepshirt dotted with sheep for a cable-knit sweater before she set forth on her quest for the grape.

  “More than you can imagine.”

  The lack of finesse behind his terse but scrupulously honest answer should have rankled, but it didn’t. If anything, the gravelly rasp in his voice infused the simple confession with an urgency that made her heart beat faster.

  “I think you might underestimate what I can imagine.”

  He lowered his hand to her thigh, and she almost sprang straight off the stool. “I would never underestimate a woman like you.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  His hand crept a little higher, the tip of his middle finger tracing her inseam. “Tell me everything.”

  “I don’t usually drink this much wine.”

  He eyed the glass she’d barely touched. “I don’t usually have the chance to pass an evening at The Pump talking to pretty ladies, but sometimes you have to break out of your comfort zone.”

  “You said you’ve been coming here for years. I’d have thought this was your comfort zone,” she said, a note of accusation creeping into her voice.

  “The bar, yes. The company is what’s out of the ordinary.”

  She shot him a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t think you do too badly in that department, either”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, blinded as you are by my movie star good looks, but I’m not twenty anymore.”

  She tried for wide-eyed mockery, but her voice came out wispy and girlish. “You’re not?”

  “No. Thank God.” He laughed that tease of a laugh then leaned in to speak directly into the ear he’d loved and left just minutes before. “If I were, I’d have you pressed up against a wall by now.”

  She should have been outraged. Any well-bred southern woman worth her salt would have been. But training and polish aside, she’d been born with nothing more than a daddy who’d struck it rich and married one those proper ladies in hopes of smoothing off his rougher edges. Maybe that was why this man made her blood rush rather than cool. His forward manner and frank words marked him as the worst kind of dog. Just the sort of man a woman with more than her fair share of mongrel blood avoided all her life.

  A sip of wine gave her time to rein in the surge of need his brazen assumptions unleashed. “I imagine you know some of the people in here.”

  She sensed his gaze on her.

  “Most of them.”

  “So this is a regular hangout bar. Like on Cheers,” she said, adding a flash of a smile to show she approved. Though she couldn’t imagine why she did. She’d just moved seven hundred miles to get away from the scrutiny Will probably felt every time he walked through the door here. “Do you like that?” And there she went with the questions again. “I mean, this is a big city. Anonymous. Do you like having a place where…” She trailed off, feeling like the country mouse cliché as a smile lit his face.

  “Where everybody knows my name?”

  “Where you feel comfortable,” she corrected with a sniff.

  “Do you want anonymity? Is that why you moved here from….”

  He circled his hand encouragingly, and good manners forced her to comply. “Percy, Mississippi.”

  “Percy, Mississippi?” He moved the wine glass she’d been fiddling with an inch or so, and Betty automatically clasped her hands in her lap. “Did you come to the frozen tundra so you could blend into the landscape? Because, I have to tell you, it’s not working.”

  A laugh boiled out of her like steam from a kettle. She turned to face this too-handsome man with the perfectly imperfect face and cruelly charming smile, and summoned her inner Scarlett O’Hara. “Are you saying I don’t belong here?”

  “I didn’t say that at all. I was paying you a compliment.”

  He leaned in closer, and she caught a whiff of aftershave. Her skin tingled. It had been a while since she’d had a man this close. Even longer since she wanted one. A thrum of anticipation beat low in her belly. She bit her lip to keep from blurting something embarrassing and tore her gaze from those dark, mesmerizing eyes.

  “You strolled in this dreary old bar on a Tuesday night wearing your shiny pink parka expecting that no one would notice? Sweetheart, you’d have gotten less attention if a magician had pulled you out of his hat.”

  This time, the indignation she felt was real. And hot. He was hot. Exciting. Her emotions zinged all over the place. She wanted him. She wanted to run. But overriding it all, she needed to prove to this man that she was anything but a timid woodland creature. “Are you calling me a bunny rabbit?”

  He straightened as if having one of those ‘Eureka!’ moments guys in sitcoms and chick flicks were oh-so prone to, but the cynical twist of his lips ruined the ah-ha innocence he was meant t
o convey. “Not at all, but I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind petting you. Scoot a little closer.”

  The sheer audacity of his command broke her, but she absolutely refused to give him any more reward than one short, incredulous laugh. “Is everyone so direct up here?”

  He ran a knuckle over the back of her hand and every nerve ending in her body perked up. “I don’t see any point in lying about it, but I can add some subtlety if I’m offending you.”

  He flashed a smile so disarming she snatched the glass from the bar and took a slug of Sister Laurent’s sexy Australian Shiraz to buy herself a little time. It didn’t help. She liked his bluntness. Liked the fact that he didn’t try to play it cool or act the fool. Admired the artlessness of his seduction. And it was a seduction. A practiced, practical assault on her defenses. How the hell was she supposed to arm herself against what she craved?

  “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I watched you walk through that door. I wanted you the whole time I watched you watching me.”

  His blunt admissions should have been off-putting, but they weren’t. They were downright refreshing, truth be told. She’d been born to breathe the little white lie, trained in the art of well-intentioned fibbing. I love your dress. You haven’t changed one bit! No, I don’t mind that my husband was fucking the town whore and everyone knew it. In all honesty, Betty couldn’t remember the last time she’d told the absolute truth.

  “Betty?”

  She jumped when he touched her leg. A streak of purple wine sloshed over the rim of her glass as she set it down a tad too forcefully. Before she could reach for a bar napkin, Will caught her hand and drew it to his mouth. Those dark eyes fixed on her, he pressed his lips to her knuckles then parted them slightly, sipping the wine from her skin.

  “Good gracious, you are the devil, aren’t you?” she said as he released her.

  He favored her with a crooked smile. “That’s what my poor, sainted mother used to claim.”

  “I need to…I want….” she pushed off the stool.

  She cast about, trying to catch the thread that might tell her what her next move should be. A burnt wood sign announced that the restrooms could be located down a barely-lit hall. The front door beckoned. She tried to move, but the soles of her boots were stuck to the floor.