The Black Sheep

by Patricia Ryan

  Still, Harley couldn’t think of anything to say. Rising, Tucker walked to the doorway. “What I just told you is the way it really went down, Harley. You can believe it or not, it’s your choice.”

  He turned and was gone.

  HARLEY SLEPT FITFULLY that night, so baffled and distraught that her few hours of slumber were plagued by anguished dreams from which she awakened at intervals feeling utterly shattered. You can believe it or not, it’s your choice. If only the truth were a matter of choice, but it wasn’t. It was a matter of facts.

  In the morning she awoke surprisingly clear-headed, more so certainly than she’d been the night before. There might be a way, she realized, to either confirm or disprove Tucker’s account of the circumstances surrounding his arrest and conviction—assuming the Miami Herald had uploaded its archives to the internet. Surely there would have been some kind of public statement about his Christmas Eve release.

  If it had really happened, that is.

  She sprang up out of bed, took a seat at her little writing desk, and fired up her laptop. It took her about three seconds to pull up the newspaper’s website, and five or six more to locate the archives. “Yes!”

  A search for “Tucker Hale” turned up links to three articles published sixteen years ago: the two familiar front page stories recounting Tucker’s arrest and conviction, and a third dated December 24, which she clicked on, whispering, “Please, please, please...” That article, which was all text, no photo, and much shorter than the other two, had most likely been buried dozens of pages into the paper.

  The words leapt out at her: Tucker Hale Released From Prison Today.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered as she started reading. Tucker Hale, twenty-one, falsely convicted on five counts of drug trafficking, was released from prison this morning....

  She slumped in her seat, cradling her face in her hands. “Thank God,” she whispered. “Thank God.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Tucker sat next to Harley on the stone wall overlooking the beach, numb from emotional overload. First, the early morning phone call that had awakened him, leaving him reeling. Then Harley’s contrite and unexpected apology. He wanted to accept it graciously, but he wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment.

  He spoke slowly. “I just wish... I don’t know. I wish you hadn’t found it so easy to believe the worst about me. I know it’s hard to discount something you read in black-and-white, but a little doubt would have helped.”

  She nodded, staring glassy-eyed over his shoulder at the sun sparkling on the corrugated surface of Long Island Sound. “I’m sorry I didn’t question it. I jumped to conclusions. I think I did it because I was scared.”

  “Scared of what? Me?”

  She transferred her gaze to her hands, clenched tightly in her lap. “You hit the nail on the head that first night, before you left, when you said I was afraid of anything messy or unexpected in my life. I didn’t expect you in my life. And I sure didn’t expect to... to grow to feel anything for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t handle it. I messed everything up. I’d like to... to wipe the slate clean and start over, if we could. I promise I won’t bring my preconceptions and prejudices into our relationship. I mean, now that you’ve explained how it was, what really happened—”

  “You mean, now that you’ve had a chance to go online and research my explanation like it was part of some thesis you were working on?”

  Clearly stung, she reddened and looked away.

  He sighed. “That was... I didn’t mean that to come out as snarky as it sounded. I get what you’re saying, honey. I do.” He saw her swallow hard as she nodded again. Softening to her, he said, “I am sorry you couldn’t accept my version of things on faith, but I’m also sorry for the part I played in all of this. I shouldn’t have kept Miami a secret from you. I realize that, now. And for that I apologize. I guess we’ve both been partially to blame.”

  After a long pause, he said, “Maybe it’s best that this happened when it did. I mean, what do we have in common—really have in common—besides the fact that our mothers killed themselves? Maybe you and I just weren’t meant to...”

  She bit her lip, and he knew she was struggling to hold her emotions in check. He resisted the impulse to take her in his arms and comfort her, much as he wanted to. If he held her, he would want to kiss her. And if he kissed her...

  No. There had been enough complications, enough confusion, for one summer. Why add pathos to what should be a clean end to things?

  A minute or more ticked by. He turned and gazed out at the Sound, trying to follow her line of sight. Near the horizon, the tiny silhouettes of two sailboats drifted slowly to-ward the east, and the Atlantic.

  “Liz called,” he said, his eyes following the boats’ stately progress. “While you were at the library. R.H. had a series of angina attacks and decided to cut his sailing trip short.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her turn to look at him. “He’s in Fort Lauderdale now, getting checked out, but he’s booked a flight for tomorrow morning. She’ll meet him at JFK and drive him back here. They’ll be arriving around one, tomorrow afternoon.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TUCKER SPENT THE AFTERNOON and early evening in the black Jag, touring Long Island’s back roads for hours, with no particular purpose or destination. A long drive usually relaxed him, distracted him from his troubles, but this one just felt pointless. The only thing that kept him behind the wheel was the knowledge that if he went back to the house, he would have to interact with Harley. Psyching himself up to leave, getting used to the idea so he could find the strength to do it, was hard enough. If he had to look at her while he thought about it, it would be impossible.

  It was dark by the time he pulled the car into the driveway. The lights were on in the house, and he saw shadowy movement behind the kitchen curtains. He sat in the driver’s seat for a minute and then got out and walked across the brightly lit patio and the dark lawn to the low stone wall overlooking the Sound. He sat facing the inky, moonlit water and breathed deeply, imprinting in his mind the distinctive fragrance that existed in this one spot and no other—lavender and thyme, salt air and seaweed.

  The fragrance of Hale’s Point. He would miss it.

  He patted his T-shirt pocket and sighed. That was a reflex that would take some time to lose, but one that was worth losing.

  The waves were unhurried tonight, a steady hush... hush... hush. There were other sounds, a lazy summer symphony carried on the warm breeze. He heard the distant drone of a powerboat way out on the water.

  The ambient light behind him disappeared, leaving the yard that much darker; she must have shut off the patio lights. He turned around just in time to see the sudden appearance of a glowing blue rectangle in the darkness as the pool lights snapped on. Where was she? Ah, there... walking across the patio to the shallow end, wearing that white terry-cloth robe of hers. She started untying it, and he turned back to face the Sound, leaning forward, elbows on knees, concentrating on the ceaseless, comforting hush of the waves.

  Their uneven rhythm was soon accompanied by gentle splashes from the pool as Harley took her evening swim. It was a short swim; he soon heard a different kind of splash and knew she was climbing out onto the deck. He glanced back over his shoulder and froze, staring.

  She was naked.

  Her lithe body shone like wet marble as she walked over to the outdoor shower and turned it on, testing the water.

  She had swum in the nude. Did she know he was there? The Jag sat in the driveway, and she would have heard him drive up. Still...

  She stood beneath the spray and rinsed off, her back to him. Then she turned toward him, tilted her face up, and let the water flow through her hair as she ran her fingers through it.

  She was perfect. He had never seen anyone like her, so flawlessly proportioned, tight and firm, with no excess anything. Tucker had always admired simplicity of design, a byproduct of his love for cars, boats, and planes. Sighing with regret, he turned back to
ward the water.

  Presently he heard the soft whisper of footsteps on the grass. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw her walking toward him, complete with robe, her wet hair slicked back. The robe was very white in the dark, and she had both hands in the pockets. He lifted his legs over the stone wall and sat facing her as she approached.

  She came to stand before him, withdrew one hand, and held it out to him. He took it in his. Her eyes beckoned him, a silent invitation, breathtaking in its frankness. He instantly grew hard.

  When he found his voice, he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  Her expression carefully neutral, she nodded. She had clearly expected this. Without releasing his hand, she took a step forward and knelt before him, his long, jeans-clad legs flanking her. Softly she said, “Then we should make the most of the time we have.” They had been his words. He had said them to her that first night, when he had come to her room, reckless and overeager. Overeager for her body, not for her. That was before he had fallen in love with her. Before everything had gotten so thrilling and wonderful, so full of potential... and so ultimately impossible.

  He realized he was staring at her, overwhelmed and uncertain. It was she who acted, she who let go of his hand to reach up with both of hers and guide his head down, meeting his mouth with her own in a deep and passionate kiss. She had never taken it upon herself to kiss him before, and after a moment’s stunned hesitation, a flood of longing washed through him, like a dam breaking somewhere deep inside.

  His arms encircled her; he couldn’t have stopped them if he’d wanted. He held her tight, clamped between his legs, his mouth crushed to hers, her scent and her warmth filling him, consuming him. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer. The kiss was blindingly intense. When his lungs were searing and his heart ready to explode, he tore his mouth away, gasping her name.

  He watched in slow motion as she fell back onto the grass, and realized as he followed her, settling onto her and fitting his body to hers, that she had pulled him down with her. Their mouths found each other’s again as they molded together in a hungry embrace.

  They rolled to the side; he stroked her wet hair, her shoulders and back, cupped her bottom through the terry cloth and pressed her toward him so she could feel the effect she had on him. She slipped a leg between his and moved her hips, and he moaned, pulling her hard against him and guiding the rhythm of her movements with his hands. All his reservations evaporated in the wake of his overpowering need.

  Too overpowering. He was too close, it was happening too fast. It was her first time, he would have to go slowly, but at this rate that wouldn’t be possible. He drew away from her and lay back on the cool grass, his chest heaving. Closing his eyes, he willed control over himself.

  Her fingertips, cool and soft, brushed his hair, his face, his throat. He opened his eyes and saw that she was sitting next to him, looking down. Her moonlit face was clouded with sadness, and he knew she already grieved for tomorrow. He took her hand, pressed her palm to his lips, and kissed it.

  “Don’t think about it,” he murmured. “Think about now.”

  She banished the grief from her eyes. “I don’t want to think at all.” She reached for the sash of her robe, fumbling with its double knot. Instantly his hard-won control vanished, replaced by unstoppable desire. Impatience drove him as he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her to the ground, straddling her and yanking at the knot until it loosened.

  A heartbeat’s pause... Slow down, Tucker, take it slow. The robe—that damn robe that had taunted and teased him all summer—was unbound, but unopened. Slow, now. For her.

  Harley sensed his inner struggle. She looked up at his face, incandescent against the night sky, as he slowly parted the robe and gazed down at her. Surprisingly, she felt not the least embarrassed under his rapt scrutiny, just as she had felt no shame earlier, swimming in the nude, hoping he would see her, come to her, join her. She had been forced to come to him, but that was all right. That was good. After the way she had screwed things up, that was as it should be.

  He touched a finger to her brow; she must have been frowning. “No thinking.” he reminded her softly.

  She forced a smile. “I forgot.”

  He buried his hands in her hair and massaged her scalp until it buzzed with pleasure and her eyes closed of their own accord. Lowering his touch, he traced light, feathery paths across eyelids and cheekbones and lips. She found it oddly moving for him to devote this kind of attention to her face when her body lay exposed beneath him.

  He did not ignore it for long. Her throat was next, and his delicate ministrations drew a purr from her. He ran a finger lightly back and forth along each collarbone, and then paused. Her breasts felt warm from his nearness even before he lowered his hands to lightly rest on them. When he caressed her—gently, as if he were testing fruit that he didn’t want to bruise—she moaned, and felt her nipples tighten. He grazed them with his palms, then captured one and leaned down to take it in his warm mouth. His teeth lightly scraped the tender flesh, igniting currents of pleasure that shot through her like lightning.

  She opened her eyes. He was still fully dressed. That wouldn’t do. She sat up, pulling at his T-shirt, which he whipped over his head and tossed into the darkness. She kissed his throat and those impossibly wide shoulders, her hands exploring him eagerly, while his tangled in her hair. When she reached the scar tissue on his left side, she paused. She considered his leg, his chest, his back, the terrible wounds.

  “Tucker... this won’t hurt you, will it?”

  He chuckled disbelievingly. “You’re worried about hurting me? I’m terrified of hurting you.” His brows drew together. “The first time... it could hurt.”

  She felt a curious thrill at this acknowledgment that they were actually going to make love. “Then we’re both terrified,” she said. “You’re terrified that you’ll hurt me, and I’m terrified that I’ll disappoint you.”

  “How could you possibly—”

  “I don’t know if I can... I mean, Brian always said I was probably fr—”

  “Brian’s an asshole. I told you.”

  “But—”

  He eased her back down and hovered over her. “You’re not only thinking too much, you’re talking too much.” His mouth closed over hers in a deep, delicious, thought-erasing kiss. He followed that with a series of licks and nibbles along her jaw that ended at her ear, into which he whispered, “I’ll show you how wrong Brian was.”

  Reclining on an elbow, he watched his hand trace a warm path down her chest and abdomen to her lower belly. He paused briefly before continuing, his fingers brushing ever so lightly.... She gasped and stiffened, clutching a fistful of grass in each hand.

  “Easy,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “I know, but—” Her words caught in her throat as he intensified the caress, stroking her in a languid rhythm. It was hypnotic; she closed her eyes and lay still, consumed by sensation. She heard his breathing, and hers, and felt the prickle of the grass beneath her open robe, but otherwise her senses were focused exclusively on his tantalizing touch. Her hips rose without her willing it. As if that were his cue, he slipped a finger deeper into her moist heat. Jolted, she drew in a sharp breath and opened her eyes to stare into the smoky depths of his.

  His smile was reassuring, his raspy words almost inaudible for the blood roaring in her ears. “Easy,” he repeated. “Give in to it. Go with it.” He leaned over her, his mouth descending on hers for a remarkably tender kiss, his intimate caress never pausing. “God, you’re so beautiful.” he murmured.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Harley turned her head, trying in vain to hide her face even as she writhed beneath his touch. As if sensing that she didn’t want him watching her, he lowered his head to her breast, where he bestowed flickering little licks on an ultrasensitive nipple. Drawing it into his mouth, he sucked, hard this time, using his sharp teeth and the dancing tip of his tongue to escalate the torment.

  The hand that play
ed between her legs grew bolder, generating an itch within the slick folds that grew into a kind of exquisite agony, grew and grew until she thought her heart would burst if she had to endure another second of it. Close... So close to... something. He found the tiny, hidden source of her pleasure, and one fleeting touch was all it took to draw a startled cry from Harley. Her back arched, and she grabbed his arms, her fingers sinking deep.

  He withdrew his hand. “No!” she groaned.

  “I want to be inside you when it happens.” Rolling to the side, he reached for his fly, but she got there first, unzipping with a lust-induced haste she had never felt before. Raising his hips, he swept jeans and shorts off in one swift motion.

  Harley stared. He noticed, and lay still, giving her time to look. She sat up straight and closed her robe around herself, feeling the same incredulous fear that she had felt once as a child, when a doctor whipped out a hypodermic about twice the size she’d thought it would be. He reached out and gently stroked her arm through the rough terry cloth. Trailing his fingers down to her hand, he took it and pulled it toward his erection.

  “Tucker, I don’t think—”

  “Shh.” He brought her hand to rest on the rigid shaft, which jerked at her touch. “Don’t think, remember?”

  She hadn’t expected the tightly stretched smoothness of it, the heat, the little pulses that quivered within. He closed her fingers around it, drawing her fist slowly along its length.

  His breathing quickened. “I told you a long time ago that it would be great between us, and it will. You trust me, right?”

  “Yes, but...” But that will never fit inside me.

  Tucker sat up and lowered her onto her back, leaning down for a lingering kiss. “Trust me. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll be as careful as I can.”

  He reached for his wadded-up jeans. “Speaking of being careful...” He withdrew his wallet from the back pocket, slid the little square packet out, and ripped it open.