Beckett's Cinderella

by Dixie Browning

  In his own way, L. J. Beckett was every bit as much a thief as her late husband had been. He’d stolen her heart without even trying. Now that the deed was done, she might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

  Thus spoke the new Liza Chandler. James had been a real education.

  In the sunlight that slanted through the east-facing bedroom window, she could see the texture of his skin, the tiny creases that fanned out from his clear gray eyes, the crisp texture of his hair. Before he could inventory all her flaws, she reached up and pressed her mouth to his. He certainly wanted her—wanted sex, at least. That much was dramatically evident.

  Coals of banked desire began to glow. Tiny flames began licking in the pit of her belly. She savored the now familiar taste of him, the soft tug of his teeth on her lower lip that opened her to a deeper invasion. She was lost. Light-years beyond the reach of reason. His tongue skillfully engaged hers in a game of seduction, and she gloried in every nibble, every thrust. Any remaining defenses she’d possessed had gone down without a whimper. This was her choice. She would take the lead and live with the consequences.

  His hands tangled in the fabric of her denim float as he lifted it over her head. She hadn’t bothered with a bra. Stepping into underpants had been painful enough without struggling to fasten a hook behind her back. She didn’t know which was worse—bandaged hands or stiff knees, but if she broke loose every scrap of gauze and adhesive tape, she was not going to let herself be handicapped. This time she intended to do more than let it happen.

  For long moments after he eased her clothes off, he simply held her. She loved being held. Until Beckett had come along, it had been years since anyone had held her this way. Since anyone had held her at all. She had never even missed it, never given it a thought, until this man had walked into her life.

  Beckett was here, and he was nothing at all like James. Instead he was warm and caring, strong and honorable. She couldn’t look at him without wanting to touch him, and it occurred to her that she had never felt that way about James, not even in the beginning.

  A rash of goose bumps broke out as Beckett nuzzled the sensitive place at the side of her throat. Her head fell back and she whimpered. Slowly, slowly…make it last, she told herself, wanting nothing more than to drag him closer and feel him on every part of her body, inside and out.

  His hands, unbelievably gentle, covered her small breasts. When his thumbs feathered the tips, making them rise like small pink acorns, she gasped, inhaling his clean, musky scent. She licked the skin of his throat with the tip of her tongue, felt him shudder and knew a small surge of power. He tasted slightly soapy, slightly salty.

  Mmm, delicious. She wanted more.

  And so she did it again and felt his arousal surge against her. Yes! She exulted, this is for me! Bandaged knees and all, it had to be more then merely physical.

  Although the physical alone was almost more than she could bear.

  Overflowing with love, she offered him one last chance to escape, if only to prove to herself that she could handle whatever did or did not come next. “Beckett, are you sure? I mean, this probably isn’t very…ohhh, smart.”

  “Shh, honey, no one’s checking IQs.”

  On an emotional razor’s edge, she couldn’t help it—she laughed aloud.

  She stroked his chest under the knit shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders with her padded palms, feeling like a molten puddle of liquid desire.

  Beckett stripped quickly and efficiently, removing something from his hip pocket first. He kept a first-aid kit in his car. It was equipped for all emergencies. “Honey, are you sure? I don’t want you to have any regrets…ever.”

  In other words, Liza interpreted, he wasn’t making any promises.

  She hadn’t expected any. Hadn’t asked for any. Quickly she stifled the last shred of doubt as to the wisdom of what she was about to do. There were times when wisdom was a highly overrated quality. She held out her arms, and he came down beside her.

  Sunlight gleamed on the sharp angles of his tanned face, glinted off his white teeth. She said, “Let’s not talk. I can’t talk and have sex at the same time. It just doesn’t work that way.”

  “Doesn’t it? Sweetheart, you could lie there reading aloud from the yellow pages and I’d still want to jump your bones, bandages and all.”

  “Hand me the phone book, then,” she demanded, and he laughed. Laughed and nuzzled her throat, then moved up to begin kissing his way down her body. Just before he reached her navel, he lifted his head and said, “Read on—don’t let me stop you.”

  Ignoring his teasing words, she arched her hips, oblivious to the pain of her knees. All too quickly the tension reached flash point. One more touch and she knew she would go up in flames.

  And then he made that one more touch. Liza, who had never been particularly sexual until this man had come along, opened herself to his explorations, gasping as he closed in on her most sensitive flesh. What had happened to her? She wasn’t like this. Until last night she had never felt this! Never ever gone off like a…like a firecracker! “Please…I can’t stand it,” she gasped.

  It built swiftly and exploded just as suddenly. Spiraling rainbows, arching and dissolving, arching and dissolving, until she was nothing but a shimmering beam of white heat.

  Beckett watched her ecstasy, feeling great pride and, oddly enough, an even greater sense of humility that he’d been the one to bring her this gift. And then his own control broke and he moved over her, and when she welcomed him, it began all over again.

  He began to thrust, slowly at first, but all too soon he was racing out of control. There was only the sound of groans and whimpers. The sound of his rasping breath and her shuddering, gasping sighs, and then the world went up in flames again.

  Twice within minutes, Liza marveled later, when her brain began functioning once more. Until last night that had never happened to her before. Usually, once didn’t even happen. Sex had always been…pleasant. Something men and women did together that meant more to the man than it did to the woman.

  Last night she’d been stunned by the magnitude of her climax. Today…

  How on earth was she going to get through the rest of her life without this man? Because she knew for a fact that sex with any other man, even if she could bring herself to the point, would wither in comparison.

  Beckett didn’t sleep afterward. His body was exhausted, his mind racing. Every particle of self-preservation he possessed was clamoring, urging him to get the hell out of her bed before it was too late.

  Studying the woman sleeping in his arms, he was reminded all over again of the reasons why this never should have happened. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let things go this far—that he would settle the debt, help her get through the storm and leave.

  Almost from the first time he’d seen her there in that crazy little stand of hers, looking like a down-on-her-luck duchess in her calico apron, he’d been stunned by his own reaction. It was that attitude of hers—part pride, part vulnerability—that had gotten under his skin. It had irritated the hell out of him the first few times he’d tried to do business with her.

  What he hadn’t known until she had come apart in his arms was how totally, devastatingly defenseless she really was. He didn’t know much about that jerk she’d been married to, except that he was a crook. He sure as hell hadn’t been much of a husband. Newly widowed, she’d evidently walked away from an up-scale address with little more than the clothes on her back, only to devote herself to taking care of an old man and his rinky-dink roadside stand.

  And now, along with all else she had to deal with, she was going to start piling on guilt, because whatever she said to the contrary, Liza Chandler wasn’t the kind of woman to take sex lightly. He’d been with enough of that sort to know the difference. When it came to sex, she probably knew less than today’s average teenager.

  A drop of water plunked down on his forehead and ran off onto the pillow. The rain had stopped hours ago, bu
t it would probably continue to drip through the ceiling for hours, maybe days. No wonder the damn roof was rotted. The whole house was probably about to fall down.

  He needed to shop for her groceries, rebandage her hands and knees, make sure Rambo and his groupie were gone for good and wouldn’t be bothering her again—and then he could hit the road with a clear conscience.

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  Lying on the petrified foam rubber mattress, listening to the soft purr of her breath beside him—feeling the heat of her bottom pressed into his groin, Beckett tried to rationalize his way out of the mess he was in. He’d been a practicing adult for the past twenty-odd years. Liza was only a few years younger than he was. She knows the score, he told himself.

  Nope. He’d seen her, wanted her and seduced her. Some women took a broader view of life than others. She might consider herself experienced, but she was as green as any kid—more so because she didn’t realize how vulnerable she was.

  With wry humor, he wondered what the chances were of pretending he had amnesia. “What? We had sex? Never happened, honey, you must have me mixed up with some other guy.”

  For a supposedly intelligent man, he had managed to pull some real blunders in his life, but this one was in a class by itself.

  Easing out of bed, he located his pants and headed for the shower. It had to be going on noon, and he still had a few things to do before he could leave. Damn. You’d think he was deliberately looking for reasons to stick around.

  From the bed, Liza watched him grab his clothes and make his escape. She hoped, she really did, that her last view of L. J.—Lancelot Jones Beckett—wasn’t going to be him scurrying out of her bedroom, his clothes clutched in his arms and a guilty look on his face.

  She got up, slipped on a T-shirt and loose jeans and stared at herself in the mirror. Yuck. Magic hadn’t happened over the past hour. She was still plain old Liza, bony face, messy hair and all, only now she had a look in her eyes that shouldn’t be there.

  Sadness. She was finished with sadness. She’d sworn off sadness when she’d left Texas and headed east to start over again.

  How many fresh starts was one woman allowed? She’d made her first one when, hungry for the close family she’d been missing ever since her mother died and her father had remarried, she had married James.

  She’d made another start when she’d moved to North Carolina.

  Another new start wasn’t going to happen, because Uncle Fred needed her. He’d been barely hanging on when she’d turned up on his front porch, uninvited. Somewhere he had a nephew—his wife’s kin, not his own, but family was family. The nephew was a sailor of some sort, and evidently he wasn’t into family relations.

  Bracing one hand on the iron bedpost, Liza slid first one foot and then the other into a pair of sandals and set out to put things back in order. They still had produce out there that needed spreading out to dry. Some of it would be beyond salvation. Then there was that blasted roof….

  The bathroom door opened and Beckett joined her in the kitchen. Pretending an intense interest in the list she was making, she ignored him. She’d managed to blunder through seducing the man. Trouble was, she hadn’t a clue when it came to postseduction protocol. Neither of them smoked. Besides, that probably only worked in old movies.

  Maybe she could come up with a smart quip, something like, Well, my, that was fun, wasn’t it? Do you want a cup of coffee before you hit the road?

  Yeah, that ought to do it.

  He came to stand behind her chair. “Is that the list?”

  “Is that what list?”

  “The stuff you want from the grocery store. What about the things your uncle wanted?”

  She stole a glance at him, gaining some small satisfaction from the fact that he seemed as ill at ease as she was. “This is all I can think of now. I’ll get together the things to take to Bay View, but, Beckett, you really don’t have to do this. I know you’re eager to get back to Charleston.”

  “Am I?”

  Scraping her chair back, she stood and glared at him. “Stop it. Just stop it right now. I know this is awkward and embarrassing, and if you’re looking for an apology, then here it is. I’m sorry, okay? Sorry I—that I—”

  “I’m not,” he said quietly. “Now give me the list and go round up whatever you want me to take to Fred.”

  Without another word she stalked off, plastic bag in hand, and filled it with the things her uncle had requested, throwing in several apples and a peach that wouldn’t last another day.

  “Here. Thank you very much,” she snapped.

  Her temper seemed to have a peculiar effect on him. He started to smile. The smile broadened to include flashing teeth and sparkling eyes.

  Liza’s eyes narrowed. Her jaw clenched, and then he confounded her completely by saying, “PawPaw’s going to flat-out love you, honey. I’ll stop somewhere on the way back and bring us a couple of barbecue sandwiches, okay?”

  Eleven

  To Liza it seemed as if days should have passed, but actually it had been than less two hours. The sun shouldn’t be shining so brightly, she thought. The sky shouldn’t be that incredible shade of blue, but it was. Glaringly bright, setting millions of diamonds to sparkling on emerald-green grass that was littered with storm debris.

  It could have been worse, she told herself as she circled the house, surveying the damage—mostly minor—and making a mental list of what needed doing immediately and what could wait.

  Another section of gutter had come down last night and was lying across the hood of the old Packard. More shingles blown off—no big surprise there. One of the oaks had lost a big limb, and the front yard was littered with leaves, twigs and green acorns. She would have to rake and tote, as Uncle Fred called it—but not today. Today she had other priorities.

  Such as seeing Beckett off with a smile that would linger in his heart long after he’d said goodbye.

  Oh, sure. “Grow up, Eliza,” she muttered, hurling a short, dead branch over into the cornfield.

  Her immediate concern was the stand. Everything inside the security fence would be drenched, but otherwise more or less intact. She had covered the cash register—her roadside antique—with a large plastic garbage bag. The three country hams she’d taken to the house, along with the soft goods. Water shouldn’t hurt the produce as long as it dried off quickly enough.

  In other words, she had her work cut out for her.

  By half past noon, her stomach reminded her that she’d skipped breakfast. Peanut butter didn’t count. And then she had to go and remember just why she’d skipped breakfast.

  A few minutes later she found herself sitting in Uncle Fred’s rocking chair, a sack of wet Mattamuskeet sweet onions on her lap, with tears overflowing her eyes.

  It wasn’t because of the onions, either.

  “Well, damn,” she growled, scrubbing at her cheeks with the now-filthy apron.

  Carefully setting aside the onions a few minutes later, she climbed up onto her stool, hammer in hand, and managed to remove the last few nails anchoring the strip of tin roof. Once the place dried out thoroughly, she might replace it with a heavy tarp, but for now the fresh air was welcome.

  She was carrying out the last few ears of corn and arranging them on the twisted tin to dry in the sunshine when Beckett pulled up in the graveled parking lot.

  Oh, damn. She was filthy. Her hands…her apron. Her shoes were caked with mud, and her hair was, too, where it had escaped her clip and she’d raked it back again and again.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Beckett demanded.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she returned, hoping there was no visible sign of her recent tears.

  “That could’ve waited until I got back.”

  “Fine. I should’ve stayed in the front parlor sipping tea and reading the Ladies’ Home Journal.”

  They were glaring at each other like a pair of feral dogs. Beckett held out a paper sack. “I br
ought lunch.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Don’t start with me, Liza, I’ve got a category-four headache.”

  That brought on a smile that was patently false. “Oh, what a pity. Take two aspirin and call me in the morning, all right?”

  “And then you’ll start with me?” The twinkle of a smile crept into his eyes, into his voice.

  “You wish.” Getting up off her knees, she winced, shook the wet grass and gravel from her apron and reached out for the paper sack he held tauntingly just out of reach. Her empty stomach reacted audibly to the tantalizing aroma of pit-cooked barbecue with a light, vinegary sauce.

  Instead of handing over lunch, Beckett grabbed her hand. “What the hell have you been doing?” he growled.

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” She looked around at the onions, potatoes and cantaloupe, the watermelons and squash and corn, all of it spread out in the sunshine like a huge, colorful quilt. Some of it wouldn’t make it—the rest would serve as hog food for the farmer who lived down the road. But whatever she could salvage would be produce she wouldn’t have to restock.

  Her shoulders drooped, and she sighed. “How’s Uncle Fred holding up? Did he say when he wanted to come home?”

  “As a matter of fact, we had a long talk about that. Let me get the groceries out of the car and we’ll go inside and eat.”

  “What do you mean, you had a long talk about that? Is he coming home this afternoon? Because I really would like to do a lot more cleaning up before he sees the place. At his age, something like this can be upsetting.”

  Beckett steered her past the rumpled section of rusty tin roofing. He should have known she’d tackle it the minute he was gone. “Dammit, Liza, would it have killed you to ask for help?”

  “I asked. You helped. What did you expect me to do, cry on your shoulder?”

  Whatever he’d expected, he’d got more than he’d bargained for. A hell of a lot more. Trouble was, he didn’t have it yet, not signed, sealed and delivered. “Let’s get you cleaned up and rebandaged, then we’ll eat, then we’ll talk.”