Informed Risk: A Hero For Sophie Jones

by Robyn Carr

  And that would be that. She would leave—or he would be forced to move to plan two.

  Either way, this thing between them would be finished, which was good. It never should have gotten started in the first place.

  “Around ten?” she asked so hopefully. “The show ends around ten.”

  His conscience, rusty and rarely used, prodded at him: Why put it off? Why not tell her right now?

  He opened his mouth to do it. But all that came out was, “Fine. I’ll see you at ten tomorrow night.”

  Sophie barely slept a wink that night. What had happened between herself and Sinclair almost didn’t seem real, now he was gone and she lay all alone in her bed.

  Really, she hardly knew a thing about him. He hadn’t mentioned what he did for a living. Or how long he’d be staying in Grass Valley, or where he would go when he returned to wherever he now called home.

  If he didn’t come back tomorrow night as he’d promised, the only way she could find him would be to visit that hotel he’d mentioned. And if he’d checked out, she might never see him again.

  But then, it was silly for her to think that way.

  Of course, he’d come back. He’d said that he would. And tomorrow night, she vowed to herself, when they were alone again, she’d learn more about him.

  She’d also make sure she was better prepared to go where her heart led her. True, she had a full day tomorrow. At this time of year, there was always more work to do than hours in the day. But inevitably, Myra would send her to pick up a few things. She could buy what she needed while she was out.

  He didn’t come to the movie.

  Sophie sold the tickets from the small booth Caleb had made for her, right outside the barn doors. As each of her guests appeared out of the trees, coming from the small graveled area she’d designated as a parking lot, her heart rose—only to fall when she saw it wasn’t him. By the time she’d closed the doors, shut the curtain from the entrance and concession area, and moved down in front to begin her introduction, she felt utterly bereft.

  Which was so silly.

  She’d told him to come after the movie—which he had seen just last night. There was no reason in the world for him to show up before ten.

  Except that she wanted him to. And though she knew it was totally irrational, she kept feeling in her heart that he should know and respond to the longing she felt, that he should feel it, too, and be incapable of staying away.

  Since he hadn’t appeared before the show, she started hoping that he might come during intermission. She knew just how it should go: he would walk in, and she would hand him a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of spring water. She would look in his eyes and see a yearning so powerful—a longing every bit as overwhelming as her own.

  “I saved a seat for you,” she would say, her voice low and intimate, only for him.

  He would give her one of those looks of his, a look that meant to be distant—yet couldn’t help being tender. “Thanks for the popcorn,” he would murmur teasingly.

  “You can help me wash the bowl later.”

  He would chuckle and head for the seat she’d saved him in the fifth row.

  Through the whole of intermission, she kept expecting to look up and find him there, waiting to be handed his water and popcorn. But it never happened because he didn’t come.

  The show ended at ten o’clock. When she pushed open the doors, she just knew he’d be waiting on the other side, with the pines and the moon, the night breeze and the stars.

  He wasn’t.

  She forced goodbye smiles for her guests. By ten-fifteen they had all disappeared back through the trees toward the parking lot, except for the few who needed a place to spread their sleeping bags for the night. She sent them off to the campground.

  And then, all alone, she trudged back inside.

  He wasn’t coming. She was certain of it now. Tomorrow, she’d have to reach some sort of decision. Should she risk making a complete fool of herself trying to track him down? Or just set her mind to forgetting him?

  Overhead, in the rafters, that pigeon she could never quite shoo out of there set to cooing. Sophie thought she’d never heard such a sad, lonely sound.

  She looked at the stacks of empty popcorn bowls and thought of how Sinclair should have been here, offering, as he had last night, to help with the cleaning up. She kept remembering the way it had been last night, the two of them, in the little space in back, leaning against the sink, flirting, getting to know each other a little.

  She couldn’t face those bowls right now. It was just too depressing.

  She cleaned up behind the concession counter, then moved on to the rows of seats, gathering up the few empty drink containers that the occasional thoughtless guest inevitably dropped on the floor. She got the broom and swept up, and finally carried the trash out to the big industrial-size bin around back.

  By then, it was nearly eleven. And the popcorn bowls were still waiting.

  With a sigh, Sophie scooped up half of them and carried them through the curtain to the sink. She had squirted in the dish soap and started the water running when that low velvety voice spoke from behind her.

  “Let me make myself useful.”

  A warm shiver passed through her and her heart rose up. Suddenly she felt light as a white cloud in a clear summer sky.

  But she didn’t turn. Oh, no. After what he’d put her through, he didn’t deserve to know he had her full attention—not yet, anyway. He came up on her left side, carrying the rest of the bowls. She edged to the right. The bowls in his hands tumbled into the sink. She watched the soap bubbles rising up beneath the stream of water.

  She started washing, still not looking at him. “You’re late.”

  He moved around her, to the other side of the sink. “No, I’m not.” Turning the faucet his way, he started to rinse.

  “I said ten o’clock.”

  “But I’ve been here since before the show started.”

  She dared a quick glance at him. Tonight, he wore a blue shirt and dark slacks. And he was every bit as fine as she remembered. He stole her breath and made her heart do flip-flops. “Here? At the Mountain Star?”

  He nodded. “Down by the creek.” Thinking of your eyes. Wanting only to see you. Dreading what I have to say to you.

  Sophie picked up another bowl, swirled it in the soap suds and passed it to him. She felt as if she might laugh out loud—or burst into tears. Yet she strove for lightness, and somehow found it. “Afraid to face me, huh?”

  You don’t know the half of it. “Could be.” He rinsed the bowl, set it to dry. “Caleb finally found me there.”

  “By the creek, in our spot?”

  He looked at her then, a look of heat and longing, a look that made a day of agonized waiting worth it, after all. He turned off the water. Without that soft, rushing sound, the small space seemed to echo.

  Into that echo, he asked, “You think of it as our spot now?”

  “I do.”

  He lifted his wet hand and put his finger beneath her chin. She felt that touch all the way down to the absolute center of her being.

  “What…were you doing there?”

  “Nothing. Just sitting.” He tipped up her chin. “Eventually Caleb found me there. He wanted to know what I was up to. I told him I was only sitting. Enjoying the creek and the trees. He let out a grunt, as if he didn’t believe a word I’d said. And then he walked off and left me alone.”

  “You said it yourself. He’s protective of me.”

  Sinclair moved his hand upward, so he cradled the side of her face. Sophie felt all quivery and warm—full of hope. And delicious desire. She did what he had done the night before, turning her face just enough that she could touch the soft inner pad at the base of his thumb with her lips. Water still clung there. She put out her tongue and licked it away.

  He said her name, low and rough. “Sophie.” It sounded like a warning as well as a plea.

  Though only a few of the bowls had been wash
ed, she reached for a towel, dried her hands and passed the towel to him. He used it, then hung it back on its peg.

  Before he could lower his hand, she caught it, cradled it, then smoothed the fingers open, so she could stroke his palm. “I thought you weren’t coming. It was awful. Never do that to me. Please. Never again.”

  “Sophie…”

  She looked up into his eyes.

  He muttered roughly, “We can’t…”

  She did not waver. She kept looking right into his eyes. “Yes. We can. And we will.”

  “You don’t know…” He let the words trail off.

  “What?”

  Now, he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  She touched his jaw and guided his face around so he had to look at her again. “Tell me. You can say anything to me. Anything at all.”

  But he said nothing.

  Somewhere nearby, just beyond the curtain to the concession area, that pigeon started cooing again. They both turned toward the sound, and then back to each other.

  He said her name again, low and rough, the same as before, “Sophie.”

  She only said, “Yes.”

  And then he reached out.

  She went into his arms, joyous, eager, offering up her mouth.

  And he didn’t refuse her. He didn’t try to argue with her anymore.

  He only put his lips on hers and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and hard against him.

  Heat and need shot through her, swirled around, moved out to the surface of her skin and then flowed back in again. And he went on kissing her, endlessly, only stopping once—to lift his mouth and slant it the other way.

  Finally, with a joyous, breathless laugh, she pulled away. He made a sound, a needful moan deep in his throat, and tried to pull her back.

  She resisted, moving away another step. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “The guest house.”

  He stared. He looked stricken. Almost guilty. So strange.

  “Sinclair? What is it?”

  And then he was reaching for her, yanking her close again, kissing her some more. She sighed in delicious surrender, wrapping her arms around him, letting him have what he demanded of her, pressing herself close.

  That time, he was the one who broke the kiss. He tucked her head beneath his chin and held her so cherishingly, rocking from side to side a little, leaning back against the sink.

  “You’re too trusting,” he whispered into her hair.

  “No. This is right. You and me. This is…meant to be.”

  “Too damn trusting…” he muttered again.

  She looked up, sought his eyes. “Is there someone else? Is that it?”

  His brows drew together. “Someone else?”

  “Another woman. A wife? A fiancée? A…live-in lover? Whatever.”

  He shook his head. “No one. Not anymore.”

  “Not…anymore?”

  “There was someone,” he admitted. “It didn’t work out.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Willa.”

  “Are you…still in love with her?”

  “Love?” He was frowning.

  “Yes. Love. Are you still in love with her?” Breath held, she waited for his answer, feared it wouldn’t come.

  But it did, at last.

  “No. No, I’m not in love with her.”

  The surge of relief Sophie felt made her realize how afraid she’d been to ask those particular questions. “I’m so glad,” she whispered. “So very, very glad.”

  He dragged in a breath. “Sophie—”

  She didn’t let him get any further. “I just want to be with you. Maybe it’s not logical. Maybe it’s not even wise. But it is right. I know it. It’s the rightest thing in the world.”

  He only said her name again. She could see how much he wanted her, it was shining in those black eyes. So she lifted on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss on his beautiful mouth. “Come with me. Now.”

  “Sophie, I—”

  She stepped back. “I’m going to the guest house. And this time, I am prepared.” By some miracle, when she said that, she managed not to blush. “Are you coming?”

  He neither moved nor spoke. For an awful minute, she was sure he would say no.

  But then, at last, he nodded.

  She let herself breathe again. And she held out her hand.

  Chapter 5

  Her bedroom was like her living room: charming and old-fashioned. She had a big high bed with a carved headboard. A three-mirrored vanity. A heavy, bow-fronted bureau. Lacy curtains. Ferns.

  Sin looked around him, wondering how the hell he’d gotten there, thinking that there was no excuse, by his own hard and cold rules of who he was and how he operated, for him to be there.

  Yet he made no move to leave. Because he wanted her, a desperate kind of wanting that made no logical sense at all. And because she wanted him in return.

  Last night her doubts had saved them both.

  But not tonight. Tonight, the light of certainty shone in her eyes. Tonight, there would be no one saved. Tonight, she was ready. The conviction in her eyes held him. It beckoned him.

  Goodness that lured.

  She had the box of contraceptives waiting, right there by the bed. She gave him a sweet, rueful smile. “See?” she whispered. “Prepared…”

  He grabbed her then, and started kissing her again—hard, hungry kisses. She sighed and kissed him right back, turning cruelty to sweetness.

  Baffled, bewildered, aching with want, he fell across that big old bed with her in his arms.

  And then it was all awkwardness, all rolling and sighing and pulling at buttons, tugging at sleeves. Within moments, they were both naked, their clothes strewn beneath them, more softness on that soft bed.

  Her sweet hands caressed him, her body called to his, a call he could neither deny nor refute.

  They fumbled together with the box on the side of the bed. He rose above her. And then he was in her.

  They both sighed. She looked up at him through those shining, trusting eyes.

  Fast, it was. And needful. Without wariness. Or foreplay. Like no sex he’d ever known.

  He kissed her on her white throat, latching on, sucking, and then moving lower to her full waiting breasts. She held him close against her heart, a heart that beat so strong and steady and sure.

  By then, somehow time had slowed. Everything. Slowed. They moved together, rising and falling, connected, sharing pleasure. Sharing breath.

  He remembered the stars last night. Running with her beneath the moon. The bed of green moss. The creek flowing on, forever, in that place that had been his. That place that shouldn’t even exist anymore.

  Yet it did exist. And it had become theirs. She had said so.

  She said his name. His whole name. “Sinclair…”

  He lifted his head and looked down into her stunned, sweet face as her pleasure crested. Her body contracted around him, beckoning, urging.

  He surrendered and joined her, pressing hard. Holding. Forever. Throwing his head back in a silent cry as his release finally took him down.

  She moved in his arms, her gentle hand straying up to touch his brow. “Are you okay?”

  He made a sound in the affirmative.

  She sighed. “I’m glad.”

  He stroked her arm. “How about you?”

  “I’m okay, too. Very much okay.”

  “Good.”

  She brought her sweet mouth closer. And he couldn’t resist kissing her. She sighed some more, every smooth, supple inch of her eager and warm, soft. So fine and good.

  “Oh!” she said into his mouth. She could feel him against her, wanting her. “Oh…”

  He combed his fingers through the warm silk of her hair as the miracle began all over again.

  All through that night, he kept thinking—whenever he could think—that this would be all of it, that he would somehow get enough of her. That after this
, it would end.

  But it didn’t seem to be happening the way he kept thinking. Each touch only served to make the hunger stronger. Each release became a prologue to a kiss.

  The smooth terrain of her body beguiled him. His hands and his mouth wandered everywhere. And she welcomed each separate, yearning caress.

  Sometime near dawn, they finally slept.

  He woke before her. It couldn’t have been that much later than when they’d dropped off. His mind felt clear and sharp as a cloudless winter sky.

  He thought, I will wake her now. And somehow, I’ll tell her—But then she stirred. “Sinclair?” The word in his ear on a sweet exhaled breath.

  And he was lost. He told her nothing. Only reached out and put his hand on her smooth belly.

  She let out a small cry—of surprise and delight.

  He moved his hand down.

  “What do you do?” Her head rested on his arm and her legs were twined with his. “For a living?”

  Carefully he told her, “I’m in property acquisition.”

  She moved beneath the sheet, untangling her legs from his, lifting up on an elbow. “Real estate? You buy and sell property?”

  “Yes. For development mostly. Shopping malls. Office complexes.”

  “You said the other night that you had business to take care of. Are you planning to buy property here in Nevada County.”

  “Possibly. I’m…looking into the situation.”

  A coiling lock of hair fell over her eye. She blew it away. “Where do you come from?”

  He stalled, saying nothing, trying to decide just how much to reveal.

  She leaned in closer and pitched her voice to a teasingly conspiratorial level. “I’m asking you where you live.”

  He gave her the truth. “Los Angeles.”

  She grinned, flipped to her stomach and punched at her pillow. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She turned to her back, laced her hands behind her head and beamed at the antique light fixture overhead.

  The fine bow of her collarbone tempted him. He indulged himself, moving close enough that he could run a finger from one shoulder to the other across the ridge of that bow.

  She rolled her head to look at him. “Was it?”