Chapter 16
Sixteen
Jake Wyczynski was in a foul mood. One of the worst he could ever remember.
He kept trying to think back to. some time in his thirty-five years when he’d felt this cantankerous.
There was the time in Singapore, when he and his uncle Jack had gone drinking at some waterfront dive.
Uncle Jack had had one of his rare fights with Louisa, and Jake had felt like raising a little hell.
A broken hand and seventeen stitches later, he’d felt a little more mellow, and Uncle Jack had been inordinately proud of himself. There weren’t many seventy-two-year-olds who could still hold their own in a barroom brawl.
And then there was the time in Kenya, when Jake had run afoul of a local official and barely escaped with his. skin intact His uncle hadn’t been with him that time, though he’d bemoaned that fact later.
But now Uncle Jack was dead, and Jake was still getting into trouble. It had been years since he’d gotten himself into such a mess—Aunt Louisa used to
tell him he was getting positively staid. All he needed was a wife to make him as conservative as a banker.
He’d laughed at her, of course. She was just needling him—there was no way he’d ever settle down, not completely. And he certainly didn’t need anything as ordinary as a wife. Not the same woman, day after day, year after year, through good times and bad. Not unless she was someone like Louisa.
But that was before he’d met Susan Abbott.
Funny, but she reminded him of a younger Louisa, and he wasn’t quite sure why.
They were both tall, though Louisa was stooped with age.
They had different eye color, but there was something similar in their expression.
A sort of a vulnerable, to-hell-with-you bravado that was both infuriating and enchanting.
He’d spent half his life with his uncle Jack and aunt Louisa, and now he’d fallen for her clone.
No, she wasn’t a clone. It would be easier to ignore her if she was. He’d always had a kind of crush on the magnificent Louisa—what young kid wouldn’t have, and finding a youthful version of her was tempting. And he was so damned tempted he was going nuts.
The doors on the old garage were ridiculous—giant French doors with filthy glass.
He shoved them open, letting the air rush into the place.
It was late, the heat of the day had faded, and the wind was picking up, riffling through the trees.
It felt more like home now—his tumbledown house in Spain, or the ruined palazzo in Venice.
He wanted to be home now. But somehow the thought of it seemed empty.
Hell, he thought in total disgust, he was lying to himself, when he’d always made a practice of being scrupulously honest. He didn’t want to go back to Spain, to that house, without Susan Abbott along to drive him crazy.
He shoved his wet hair back from his face.
He’d gone swimming on his way back to the old garage—there was a pond hidden deep in the woods that was clear and cool, but it hadn’t managed to chill his blood.
Keeping watch over Susan while she slept, watching the rise and fall of her small, perfect breasts, the flicker of her eyelids as she dreamed, the softness of her lips, had driven him half-crazy with desire.
Maybe once he was out of here he’d forget about her. If he had any sense he’d skip the wedding and head on out tomorrow morning, and to hell with his promises to Louisa. It would be a simple matter to book passage on a tramp steamer and make his excuses later. Louisa would understand.
Or would she? He’d never been a coward in his entire life. Not a physical coward, not an emotional one. Why the hell was he starting now?
There was a sudden gust of wind, and he looked up. And froze. Susan Abbott was standing just inside the open door, and for a moment he had the strangest vision. She looked different, with long, flowing clothes and a mane of dark hair.
And then he blinked, and she was still standing there. In the jeans and T-shirt he’d last seen her in, looking as lost and confused as he felt.
He didn’t move, afraid to make the wrong one. He was wearing nothing but an old pair of cutoffs that he’d pulled on after his swim, and maybe he should find a shirt, or maybe he shouldn’t, if he was just going to take it off again. He watched her.
There was no electrical power in the old, abandoned building, and the place was only lit by a couple of oil lamps. It didn’t matter. He could see her quite clearly, see the doubt and frustration in her eyes.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” she said.
“Don’t you?” He kept his voice even, noncommittal. He felt like a homy teenager, acutely aware of the rumpled bed behind him. Wondering if she was thinking of it, too.
“I went to see Edward. To talk with him. But he was...preoccupied. Busy. I could see him through the window. So I ran away.”
“With another woman?” he asked, trying to hide his surge of triumph.
Susan shook her head. “Worse. He was watching golf on TV.”
Being a man, Jake couldn’t quite see the criminality of such an act. “What’s wrong with watching golf?”
“On the night before your wedding? When your fiancée has decided to take a two-day siesta? It’s a little cold-blooded, don’t you think?”
“Edward never struck me as a particularly passionate sort,” he offered.
“Neither am I.” There was delicious doubt in her voice.
“I think you’re wrong about that,” he said. “You just haven’t found the right man.”
She managed to summon up the ghost of her old defenses. “And that would be you?” she said, faintly caustic.
“That would be me.” The words astonished him with their rightness. For all his frustration and denial it was suddenly very clear. He was the right man. And she was the right woman.
“Do you play golf?” she asked suspiciously.
“Occasionally. But I never wear funny pants. And I never watch golf on TV. And you can be damned sure I wouldn’t be spending my time alone when I could be with a woman like you.”
He wondered who was going to make the first move. If he took a step toward her would she run away again? He didn’t think he could stand it if she did.
“I can’t marry Edward,” she said in an odd voice.
He nodded, for lack of anything better to do. “Did you just figure that out?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ve known it for fifty years.”
It made no sense, but then, it didn’t need to. Again her image wavered and shifted in the lamplight And he gave up being patient.
He crossed the garage floor, but she held her ground, not running. When he reached her she looked up at him, her green eyes wary. Waiting.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“I suppose I’m afraid you’ll abandon me,” she said carefully. “People do. They leave all the time, and the only way to protect yourself is never to care in the first place. I don’t think I could stand it if I were abandoned one more time. By someone who mattered.”
“It doesn’t work,” he said grimly. “You can’t stop feeling.”
“You’re right,” she said. “And besides, it’s too late. I already care.”
“You’re going to marry me,” he said. He had no idea where those words had come from, he only knew they were right.
“Yes,” she said, utterly without hesitation.
He slid his fingers through her short-cropped hair, tilting her face up to his. And then he kissed her, taking his time—a slow, languorous touch of mouth against mouth, tongue against tongue, building in increments of heat and desire until he found she was trembling and he was, too.
He didn’t ask. He simply pulled her up tight against his body and took her to the bed. And she let him.
She was passive, almost childlike as he stripped the clothes from her.
She said nothing when he tossed her T-shirt and bra across the room, nothing when he shoved her jeans and underwear down her slender hips so she could step out of them.
Nothing when he put his hands on her waist and drew her toward him.
Nothing until he slid his hand between her legs, through her tangle of hair, and touched her.
She made a soft, gulping noise, and her hands came up to clutch his shoulders, tightly. He pushed her back on the bed, following her down, and she closed her eyes, averting her face as he touched her.
He let her get away with it She was tight, barely damp, but he slid his fingers inside her, bringing her to orgasm with calm, almost mechanical efficiency. In one moment she. was lying beside him, shutting him out, in the next she had arched off the bed with a strangled cry of shock.
He knew how to prolong it, almost past endurance, testing the waves of reaction that shuddered through her body, teasing and pushing at just the right moment to set off a new convulsion.
“Stop!” she whispered in a choked voice. “Please. Wait.” He froze, but she continued to climax, her body out of control, waves of release racking her body until they finally subsided, leaving her limp, almost fragile looking in the tumbled bed.
He was more than ready to explode himself, but she looked so worn-out that he didn’t touch her. He simply sat back, watching her, his body iron hard with tension and desire.
He could control it, he told himself, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He could give her time, even if it killed him, he could wait until she was ready for more, even if it took all night...
Her face was wet with tears, but guilt had no effect on him. He sat there, frozen, when she suddenly opened her eyes.
“Whew!” she said in a weak voice. And then, to his amazement, a soft, lascivious smile curved her mouth. “I needed that.” And she reached for the waistband of his cutoffs, tugging him toward her as she slipped her hand inside to touch him.