A Heart Speaks - Large Print

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “No.”

  “In St. Louis?”

  Though posed in a casual tone, his question brought her to her senses. “We’re supposed to be looking for a corner lathe with a red flag on it,” she reminded him.

  “Oh.” He shrugged, as if her deliberate evasion were of little importance. “Oh yeah . . . well, forget I asked.”

  She tried to do just that, but for the remainder of their walk the unanswered question hung between them.

  Chapter SIX

  BY the time they finished their survey the sun was high and hot. They had made nearly a complete circle, which brought them at last to the foot of a hill below what had once been a thriving orchard and busy farmhouse. Lee could see the peak of the roof above the apple trees, and a large, rustic barn loomed up at her right. As they walked beneath the laden trees toward the crest of the hill, the shade felt soothing after the heat of the sun. The orchard had a scent of its own, a fecund mixture of loam and ripening fruit. Lee felt the lingering loneliness of old places whose thriving days have passed.

  The house came into view. Like the barn, it had a fieldstone foundation. To Lee it seemed at once beautiful and sad, for the dreams that might have nurtured the building of this place were long dead with their dreamers. The voices of its past were long gone. Its windows, vacant now, had once reflected a yard filled with seasonal activity—cattle coming home at the end of deep afternoon, children at play . . .

  At the thought, a sharp pain of regret knifed through Lee, and she clutched her stomach.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No . . . no!” She turned back to Sam with assumed brightness and made a pretense of rubbing her stomach. “I . . . I’m just hungry, that’s all.”

  He glanced in the direction of the truck. “I can probably make it up that old driveway yet. Why don’t you wait here while I get the truck?”

  He strode off, and she watched until he disappeared, swallowed up by the trees. The abandoned house drew her irresistibly, and her feet moved almost against her will. She wandered around the foundation, peeking in windows at old linoleum, remnants of wallpaper, a sagging pantry door, a rusted iron pump, a hole in the wall where a chimney had once been. She kicked at a fruit jar that had been left lying in the deep weeds and fought an intense ache brought on by the old place, whose memorabilia brought back memories of her own past.

  A gay profusion of tiger lilies nodded on long stems beside the back stoop, and Lee sat down in the sun, dropping her forehead on her crossed arms and raised knees. The truck started, way off in the distance, but she scarcely heard it. Memories came flooding back, memories she wanted to blot out but couldn’t—wallpaper on other walls . . . another kitchen sink with a child’s dirty feet being washed at bedtime . . . a table with two people, then two plus a baby in a high chair . . . the view from another kitchen window . . . a swing set where a child fell and called for Mommy . . . another back door with a mother swooping through on her way to soothe the child’s cries . . . another backyard with day lilies blossoming in lemon brightness . . .

  The truck came gunning up the steep, rutted incline, sending rocks rolling behind it, then coming to a stop under the apple trees.

  “Lee?” Sam called as he stepped out of the cab. She raised her head slowly, pulling herself back to the present. “Come on down here. It’s cooler in the shade.” When she didn’t move, his hand slipped from the door and his shoulders tensed. “Hey, are you okay?”

  He started toward her, and immediately she pulled herself together and jumped off the step, brushing off her backside with a jauntiness she didn’t feel.

  “Yeah . . . yeah, sure.” She would have strode right past him, but he reached out a hand, and before she could prevent it, he swung her around and tipped up her unsteady chin. He studied her closely and, after a long, uncomfortable scrutiny, stated, “You’ve been crying.”

  She squelched the sudden, overwhelming urge to throw herself into his arms.

  “I have not,” she declared stubbornly.

  He dropped his eyes to her nostrils, and she made an effort to keep them from quivering. His gaze continued down to her lips, which felt puffy, then back up to her glistening eyes and damp lashes.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he invited very quietly.

  No . . . yes . . . oh, please, let me go before I do . . . His eyes invited her confidence, and the corners of his lips turned down as she hovered on the brink of telling him everything, which would prove utterly disastrous, she was sure.

  “No,” she finally answered.

  He seemed to consider for a moment, then his hand fell, and his voice came gay and bright. “All right. Then we’ll just eat our lunch.” He swung blithely toward the cab, reached inside, and came up with the sack lunch, then left the truck door open and the radio tuned to a country station as he turned to assess the area under the apple trees. “The ground’s probably wet. Why don’t we sit on the tailgate?”

  “Fine,” Lee answered, still thrown off guard by Sam’s sudden levity when she had expected him to press her for answers. He lowered the tailgate, set the bag down, and turned to her with the same carefree air.

  “Need a boost?” Before she could answer, Lee found herself deposited on the cool, brown metal. The truck bounced a little as Sam joined her then twisted to retrieve the cooler and pull out two icy cans of cola before popping their tops and handing her one. He tipped up his own and swilled nearly half its contents before licking his lips, running a hand across his mouth, and sighing with satisfaction.

  He looked down pointedly at the sandwich bag between their hips, and Lee realized she’d been watching him with undivided interest, trying to figure him out.

  “Oh! Help yourself,” she offered.

  “Thanks.”

  He took a sandwich, sank his teeth into it, and swung his feet in rhythm to the soft country songs coming from the cab behind them.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

  Lee was brought back from her wool-gathering and, dutifully taking a bite of the sandwich, discovered she was hungrier than she’d thought. Soon they were sitting in companionable silence, munching and sipping, listening to the birds and the radio.

  When Sam finished eating, he leaned back on one palm, hooked a boot heel over the edge of the tailgate, and draped his elbow indolently over an updrawn knee, swinging the cola can idly between his fingers. Lee grew increasingly aware of his scrutiny and of the privacy of the old orchard and abandoned farmyard.

  “Are you still hung up on your husband?” Startled, Lee turned to find Sam’s brown eyes steady on her face. They were undeniably stunning, their lashes longer than her own. His unsmiling lips had a symmetry and fullness that must have broken a heart or two in their time, she thought.

  Unsettled by her observation, she looked at some distant point and answered, “No.”

  “That’s not why you were crying, then?”

  She gave up the senseless argument that she hadn’t been crying. “I . . . no.”

  “Over somebody else, then?”

  “No, there’s nobody else.”

  A long silence followed, and she sensed him looking at her hair, then at her profile. “Well, then . . .” The ensuing pause was electric. She still felt his eyes on her face but was afraid to look at him. The hand with the can left his knee, then a single, cold index finger lifted her chin until she was forced to meet his eyes. She stared mutely into them—stunning, steady brown eyes—telling herself to turn away sensibly. Instead, she sat as if transfixed as his lips moved closer . . . and closer . . .

  “Brown, don’t,” she said at the last moment, turning aside. Her voice was reedy and strained.

  “Well, if it’s not your ex-husband and it’s not somebody else, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t kiss you, is there?”

  There were a hundred reasons why not, but they all escaped Lee at that moment as he tipped her face up once more. The noon sun sent splinters of light through minute openings in the branches
overhead into their private domain, like miniature green-gold starbursts. Somewhere in the distance a meadowlark warbled.

  “Brown, you’re my boss and I don’t think—”

  His kiss cut off her argument as he leaned over, pressing a palm against the floor behind her, and meeting her lips above the brown paper bag and the remains of their meal. His lips were cold from the drink, but soft and appealing as he tipped his head to the side and moved it in lazy, seductive motions back and forth. The coolness left the skin of his inner lips and was replaced by warmth from her own.

  Oh, Brown, Brown, you’re too damn good at this.

  Lee found her common sense at last and pulled back, but Sam continued leaning toward her in that nonchalant pose. The wrist and can were on his knee again, but his eyes were on her mouth.

  “I’ve been thinking about that since long before our walk today,” he said.

  “Don’t say things like that.” She frowned at his chin to convince him she was serious, though she suspected she was the one who needed convincing for it had suddenly become very hard to breathe.

  “Why not?” he asked with a half smile.

  “Because it could cause innumerable problems, and I’m not up to handling them.”

  He leaned even closer. “No problems—I promise.” While she was still trying to sort out rationality from response, he kissed her again, sending tiny shudders up her arms and fluid fire through her veins. His warm tongue circled her lips, and even as she told herself this was dangerous, this man was too appealing and far, far too expert, her lips parted and answered his tongue with a first hesitant response. The kiss grew warmer and wider and better until Sam Brown’s softly sucking mouth melted Lee’s resistance, and she leaned toward him, realizing how much—how very much—she had missed this.

  Oh, Brown, we never should have started this.

  But even as she thought it, his mouth left hers and she watched, mesmerized, as he slipped the can from her fingers and placed it to one side with his own. He confiscated her sandwich, which now wore two flat-pressed fingerprints. Methodically, he cleared away the rest of their lunch and placed the bag beside the soft drink cans on his far side. When he turned back to her, his intention was clear.

  The pulse jumped in Lee’s throat, and a band seemed to cinch about her chest, bringing with it a sweet expectation that rivaled the sweet scent of the orchard. Sam’s right hand slipped to her ribs, his left to cup her hip and slide her over until she bumped firmly up against him. Then her head was tipping back and his warm lips opened over hers again.

  A thousand forgotten feelings swept over Lee as Sam’s hand slipped beneath the ribbing at her waist and her fingers found his collarbone. It had been so long . . . so long. Then, in one deft motion, he pulled her across his chest and took her backward with him, falling onto the bed of the pickup, little caring that it was hard and dirty and cold.

  Her shirt slid up as his hand moved over her bare back and warm fingers slipped underneath the narrow band of elastic that crossed beneath her shoulder blades. His other hand slid down over her backside and expertly adjusted her length atop his own until she felt exactly how tough and hard all that running had made his thighs. And while he kissed and tempted her with a strong molding of tongue upon tongue, something more grew tough and hard beneath Lee’s body. Her own body leaped to life.

  And—oh, God—it felt so wonderful to be held again, caressed again. Sam’s compelling lips shut out all thought of stopping the warm hand that curved around the side of her breast while his other arm pressed against her spine. He slipped his fingers inside the front of her bra, between lace and skin, the tips not quite reaching her nipple. A moment later he’d reached around her to release the clasp between her shoulder blades. His warm palms moved between their bodies, finding her freed breasts and caressing them slowly before rolling their tips between his fingers as if they were flowers he’d plucked on their stroll through the meadow.

  He was ardent and persuasive and so undeniably tempting as she lay on him. She knew all the dangers of succumbing to his tantalizing sorcery, but she told herself not to think of them as her body responded fully.

  But then Sam suddenly rolled her to her hip and reached for the snap on her jeans, and she plummeted to earth again.

  “Brown . . . this is crazy, stop it!” She caught his straying hand and dragged it to safer territory. Everything inside her had gone zinging-singing, turned-on crazy with incredible desire for him. His eyes glinted down into hers like dark, metallic sparks, and his fingers curled into the back of her hand until she whispered fiercely, “Don’t!”

  To Lee’s immense surprise and relief, he rolled away and fell flat on his back, his hands coming to rest, knuckles down on the corrugated metal beneath him.

  “Sorry, Cherokee.”

  That name again! It did the strangest things to her stomach. She sat up and drew a steadying breath, wondering what had ever possessed her to let things get so far out of hand. She was thoroughly embarrassed now, for even with her back to him she could feel his eyes on her. But she had little choice except to reach behind her for her bra.

  Once again Sam Brown did the unpredictable. He sat up immediately and slipped his hands under her shirt. “Here, let me. I’m the one who messed it up.” With a total lack of compunction he pushed her shirt up and found the trailing ends of the bra and hooked them together again. His putting it back on had an even greater sexual impact than when he’d released it. Goose bumps erupted over her skin and left her more tinglingly aware of him than ever. But he unselfconsciously pulled the shirt down to her waist, smoothed it into place, and dropped his hands from her. He seemed to dismiss the entire episode with an almost cheery note. “You’re probably right. We should stop.”

  She was astonished by his mercurial change of mood. Somehow she’d expected him to be demanding or angry at her rebuff. But he sat beside her now as if they’d shared nothing more than a bag lunch. At least that was the impression he gave until his lopsided grin returned and he drawled devilishly, “But it was fun.”

  She bit back a smile and scolded, “Brown, have you no scruples whatsoever?”

  “Well, I didn’t see you exactly high-tailing it in the other direction.”

  “Oh no?” She boosted herself up and dropped off the tailgate, then turned to inform him from that safe distance, “I think it’s time we headed back to town.”

  He only grinned, curled his hands over the edge of the tailgate, and swung his legs loosely from the knees.

  “Whatcha doing this weekend, Cherokee?”

  “Cut that out, Brown. I said I don’t want problems.”

  “I’ve got another name besides Brown, you know.”

  “That’s all we need—a little more familiarity between us, and everyone in the office will have their jaws wagging.”

  “What time do you get up on Saturdays?”

  How was a woman supposed to fight an irresistible tease like him? It was all she could do to keep a straight face.

  “None of your business. Are you coming or not?”

  He leaped nimbly from the truck, revealing three dirty stripes down the back of his white shirt. As he slammed the tailgate shut he suggested, “How about we rent some roller skates and try the skate trails?”

  “I said no!” She added in exasperation, “Oh, Lord, you’re as striped as a polecat, Brown. Hold still while I get rid of the evidence.”

  She stepped quickly up behind him to whisk the dirt away, but as her hands brushed over his hard back, he grinned over his shoulder—a devastatingly charming grin. “You scared I might make a pass at you again and catch you in a weaker moment?” She felt a telltale blush creep across her cheeks and immediately stepped back and jammed her hands into her pockets.

  “You know what your problem is? You read too many girlie magazines!”

  Sam laughed and plucked an apple off a tree, then draped his elbows on top of the tailgate behind him as he took a lazy bite.

  “Well, I just thoug
ht, since you’d changed your brand of perfume—”

  “That wasn’t perfume, that was mosquito spray!”

  Again his rich peal of appreciation lifted through the orchard before his teeth snapped through the skin of the apple. He considered her unhurriedly. “What about tomorrow?”

  The man was undauntable. If he kept it up, he’d break her down yet! She stamped her foot and declared, “No, no, a thousand times no!” then spun from him, strode to the pickup, and got in.

  He flung the apple core beneath the trees and climbed in beside her as she wondered frantically how to break the sexual tension spinning between them. But as Sam started the engine, he managed to break it himself by glancing at her from the corner of his eye and teasing, “You know, you’re cuter ’n hell when you’re on the warpath, Cherokee.”

  She could resist no longer and burst out laughing. He was an outlandish tease and a tempting creature. But he was her boss and the last man in the world she should encourage—assuming she wanted to encourage any man, which she didn’t. Yet even as she promised herself sternly to avoid being alone with Sam Brown, a glow of well-being spread from her smiling lips all the way down to her tingling toes.

  Chapter SEVEN

  LEE spent the following morning at her usual Saturday drudgery—cleaning house. She had changed the sheets, cleaned the upstairs, vacuumed the steps, and was shoving the vacuum cleaner along the living room carpet when she thought she’d heard the doorchime. She heard it again more clearly and, mumbling a curse, turned the machine off with a bare toe.

  She opened her front door and stopped dead still. There, his hips against the wrought-iron handrail, sat Sam Brown, practically naked!

  “Hi,” he greeted, puffing hard. “This is an obscene house call.”

  Without warning, Lee burst out laughing. She covered her mouth with both hands and bent forward, overcome with mirth. “Oh, Brown, I believe you!”

  There he sat, wearing nothing but his beat-up running shoes, a pair of white jogging shorts with a green stripe, and a red headband. Sweat ran down his heaving chest, making it shine in the sun. There was little hair on it, but what there was burned like red-gold sparks as trickles of perspiration ran down the center hollow toward his navel. His legs were crossed at the ankle, but his shoulders slumped forward as he panted laboriously.