Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Liam
I took her at her word. Old Tony’s bombshell had rattled the hell out of me, too. My mind raced madly with ominous possibilities.
But I was genuinely surprised when I found myself pulling up under the big maple that shaded my own driveway. This was a tricky choice to sell in her current mood. It had started raining as we drove there. Water drummed down on the truck in the silence.
At the diner, she had been grilling me about my ideal woman. Which meant that she was skeptical about our chances, just like I was. That she was thinking about it anyway, just like I was.
Nancy looked around, as if waking from a dream. “Huh? Where are we?”
I braced myself. “This is my house.”
Her gaze cut nervously away. “Oh. I didn’t even see where we were going.
It’s, ah … pretty.” She twisted her hands and stared, wide-eyed, at the water sluicing down the windshield.
“That poor guy,” she said. “And his wife. And her mother. How awful.” She looked back at him, her eyes haunted.
“This is not a coincidence. You know that, right?”
I hesitated for a moment, unwilling to scare her any further, but honesty prevailed.
“You might be right,” I said. “What happened to Lucia was bad enough on its own. Then the break-in, the letter you found, and now the jeweler. God knows I’m no expert, but it’s such a tight cluster of events. Seems improbable that they aren’t connected.”
We sat there in the cab, watching the rain on the windshield. I reached for her hand. It was as cold as ice. I put my other hand on top, gently rubbing it. Wishing I could lift it to my lips, but that was still a bridge too far.
“Come on in,” I urged her. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”
She stared down at her hand, clasped in mine, not agreeing, not pulling away.
“I’m the opposite of your ideal woman, you know,” she blurted out.
My jaw clenched. “The whole ‘ideal woman’ thing is made up out of nothing,” I said, hoping it was true. “Let’s pretend we never talked about it.”
She shook her head, ignoring my suggestion. “All that bread-making and flower-growing and candle-dipping and mellowness,” she said. “It ain’t me, babe. Let that be right up front. Right out in the open.”
“The candle-dipping and the toothpick carving is a bit much,” I commented.
“Not really,” she said. “So where does that leave us?”
I looked up at the bare, dripping tree, the heavy clouds. “At the moment, it leaves us parked outside, in a truck, in the rain.”
Her face turned pink. “You want me to come in?”
“Only if you want to,” I said. Hah. I wanted her to come in more than I wanted my next lungful of air.
“I hardly know you,” she whispered. “I know zero about you.”
“We can fix that. Come in for a cup of tea. We’ll tell each other stories.”
“That’s very nice of you. But it’s not a good idea to have a first date in one’s own private space.” Her voice sounded prim.
I felt myself start to grin. “Is that what it would be? Doesn’t breakfast count?”
She looked flustered. “I don’t know. Second date, then. What would you call it?”
I drummed my fingers on the wheel. “I’d call it a cup of tea.”
Nancy wrapped her arms around herself. “Well. Actually, I don’t think that breakfast counts.
It wasn’t premeditated. And a first date—that is, um, any first encounter—should take place on a mutually agreed-upon neutral ground.
A public place, like a bar, or a restaurant.
And just a drink, not dinner. Just to see how it goes. ”
“Is that how it’s done?” I dared to lift her hand and press a soft kiss against her knuckles. “All right, then. Tea’s a drink, right? But I still think breakfast counts.”
“No.” She sounded breathless. “No way. We’re nowhere yet. Breakfast doesn’t count. Intention is everything.”
“Now that is the God’s own truth.” It almost felt like I was in a dream, watching myself stroke her cheek. Warm, soft, as exquisitely smooth as I’d imagined. She smelled good. Warm. Sweet. Like honey. Like rain.
She made a low, inarticulate sound as I stroked her again, feeling the sharp angle of her jaw, studying the fine, delicate details. Dazed by her softness.
I leaned forward in tiny increments, until our faces nearly touched. We commenced a slow, careful dance of advance, retreat. Feeling her breath against my cheek, stroking her jaw. Tracing that elegant jut of delicately sculpted cheekbone beneath her skin.
I hung onto my control, sensing her caution and her longing, waiting patiently until caution and longing found their perfect balancing point, and ... ah. Yes.
Her eyes shut as my lips brushed hers. So lightly, so carefully. Tasting them. The contact made me gasp. She tasted like light. Incredible, electrifying. Her lips felt so soft and shy beneath mine. Trembling. A shimmering heat swelled inside my chest.
I explored her face with my fingertips, stroking her jaw, her throat. She drew in a sharp breath as my hand slid down her back, settling on the deep curve of her hip. Her nipples jutted against her blouse, and my fingers ached to brush over them, caress them.
I touched the first button, tugged it loose, revealing the hollow of her throat, and a warm cloud of her exotic, woodsy scent rose up. I wanted to gulp it in. To not waste a single precious breath of it.
I pulled her closer, kissing her jaw, her throat. My lips brushed over the gold of the pendant Lucia had given her, warmed by her body. My hand brushed over her breast. Her nipple brushed my palm. The little nub was hard, tight.
I deepened the kiss, my arm tightening around her, tasting her sweet flavor?—
Whoa. I felt it, the very second the door slammed shut inside her.
One moment she was melting in my arms, her fingernails digging into my shirt.
Then suddenly, she went stiff and arched away, rigid and brittle.
I was so in tune with her, I could feel the alarm jangling inside her, like her surge of anxiety was my own.
I forced myself to let go. Eased back, hands clenched, giving her the space she needed. I was at it again, pushing and grabbing. It was a piss-poor time for this. I’d scolded myself for being a greedy dickhead already, but apparently, it hadn’t taken.
She was a complicated woman, grief stricken, stressed out, and I was being an asshole, forcing the issue. I had to struggle not to pant.
Fists clenched. Slow breathing. Don’t even look at her. Eyes straight ahead.
Minutes ticked by, measured by drops of water making their way down the windshield. By the ragged breathing I struggled to keep silent. By my pounding heart.
At length, I heard her rustling, the soft sounds of fabric shushing together. Buttoning her blouse, getting herself in order. A cough. Clearing her throat. “Ah . . . um, Liam? That was, ah?—”
“Amazing.” I stared fixedly at the lean-to, and the pattern of the carefully stacked wood for my fireplace beneath the eaves. “But I pushed you too hard. I’m sorry.”
She looked at her lap. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.
I sent out, um, mixed signals, I guess. But I didn’t mean to lead you on.
Look, I need to get back. I need to talk to the cops about that letter, the jeweler, and clue my sisters into all these new developments.
You’ve been great, and I appreciate the company, but I’m?—”
“Scared,” I said. “Of me. For some reason that I can’t imagine.”
She sighed. “Not of you.” Her voice was low. “You’re a good guy. I can feel that. I know it when I see it. It’s just ... well. Everything.”
“Yeah?” Frustration hardened my voice, despite my best efforts. “Everything’s not here in the cab of this truck, Nancy. It’s just me in here with you.”
She shook her head. “I just…I can’t.”
“It’s just a cup of tea,” I reminded her. “Not the end of the world.”
She let out a dubious snort. “You know exactly what would happen if I went into your house, Liam.”
“Yes, actually, I do. I’d pull up a chair for you, put the kettle on the stove.
Rummage around in the pantry for that tin of ginger butter crisps that I know is in there somewhere.
I already know that you take milk and sugar.
I’d make pleasant conversation. Ask leading questions about your childhood.
Say nice things about your eyes, your hair, your earlobes.
I’d try my best to be witty and charming. ”
“My earlobes?” A smile flickered on her face.
I nodded, willing it to be true. That scenario required iron-clad self-control.
“It sounds…very nice,” she said demurely. “But…oh, never mind.”
Yeah, she didn’t have to say it. I saw that alternative scenario, too. The one where my iron-clad control faltered, and I ended up peeling the clothes off her luscious, sinuous body, pinned her against the wall and pounded her until we both exploded.
My heart thudded as the fantasy roared through my head, uncontrollably vivid.
Cool it. The moment was so fragile. She was so sensitive to my every word, my every thought. The air between us was a shimmering force field, alive with possibilities.
I caught her eye flicking to my lap and then darting nervously away. Yeah, there it was. Exhibit A, the boner of the century, aching with each thud of my heart for the soft touch of that cool hand, gripping and squeezing me. Heat burned into my cheekbones.
I gave her a shrug that said, yeah, and so?
Maybe I couldn’t control my body’s response to her, but I could by God control my actions.
I wanted her to know that, beyond all doubt, but there was no good way to say it without overstating it, sounding stiff and stupid.
Anything could blurt out of my open mouth. Better to keep it shut.
“I just need things to be … under control,” she whispered. “I have enough to be scared of right now without piling on, you know?”
I rubbed my hand against my face, feeling around instinctively with my senses for a way through this maze. But I couldn’t turn around and go back. That was not an option.