Something To Talk About. Laurie Paige
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a rock and tried to cover the row of lettuce. The wind whipped the material from her fingers.
“I’ll get it.” Jess reached across her and grabbed the flailing cloth and put it into place. “Get one of those big rocks,” he told his son.
Between the three of them, they got the most vulnerable vegetables covered. As they ran for the house, the rain started, lashing across the land in long, shimmering curtains.
“Wow, I don’t think the weatherman predicted that,” Kate said with a laugh once they were safely inside the kitchen. She tossed towels to her helpers, then dried herself off.
She checked her clothing to make sure she was decent. When she glanced up, Jess was watching her. The quickly hidden flare in his eyes told her he remembered their first meeting. His words of the night before leaped into her mind.
Desire flamed in her, echoing her restless night. She missed the heat, the pleasure of sex, the deep satisfaction and closeness afterward. In those early years of marriage, when hope still reigned, she had sought it eagerly. Later she had tried to use it as a bond to help her husband live in the present, but he had retreated more and more into the past, to places where she had never been and couldn’t go.
“I have coffee,” she said rather abruptly, turning from her guest’s steady perusal. “This feels like a pancake-and-sausage morning to me. How about you?”
“Yeah,” Jeremy said enthusiastically, pulling the towel over his hair as if he were polishing a shoe. He glanced at his father. “Uh, if we have time.”
Only a curmudgeon could have denied the youngster’s eager hunger. Kate looked at Jess. The corners of his mouth tightened, but he nodded.
She threw her towel on top of the washing machine in the adjoining room, then started preparing the meal. Jess and Jeremy followed her example but took seats at the table. She served coffee to the older male and cocoa to the younger one.
After they ate, Jeremy asked to be excused. He wanted to check on his e-mail. Kate grinned as he thanked her, then bounded out and across the wet yard, jumping puddles. As soon as he was inside, the rain came pouring down again.
“This might last all day,” she informed Jess. “The roads won’t be passable at low spots.”
“So I shouldn’t go to town?”
“I’d give it an hour or so after the rain has stopped for the roads to drain.”
“I will. Today seems a good day for staying in and reading, anyway. You have any books?”
“In the study. First door on the right down the hall. Choose anything you like. I’ll bring fresh coffee.”
When she brought in their mugs, she found Jess standing in front of the bookshelves. He continued to read over the titles. “You have quite a collection of Western lore here.”
“My family has collected first editions for generations.”
“Some of these might be valuable.”
“The ones behind the glass doors are. The others aren’t. Except to me.”
He moved over to the glass-fronted bookcases. “Mark Twain. Bret Hart. What’s this? Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book?
“Household hints from 1865,” Kate explained. “The author was English.”
He glanced through the volume. “It says here that all the household belongs to the husband, and the wife must look after his interests well. Sounds like a sensible female.”
Kate frowned in annoyance that he would happen upon that advice out of the whole book. He turned and she saw his smile widen as he took in her expression. She realized he was teasing her. Well, the tough cop had a sense of humor.
“Yes. My father pointed that out to my mother one time,” she admitted.
“What did she do?”
“Hit him with the dust mop.”
When Jess chuckled, Kate laughed, too. While he selected a couple of police procedural mysteries, she mused on their moment of laughter. It had been a long time since this house had heard the shared laughter of a man and woman.
And longer before it would happen again. She wanted no part of Jess Fargo. She left him in the den and returned to the kitchen, continuing her silent lecture on men and women and the whole absurd misery of it all.
Sitting at the kitchen table, watching the storm worsen, she tried to push the memories back into the past and lock the door. She had always been moody around the time of her wedding anniversary, but this year the hurt seemed nearer the surface.
Because of Jess?
Because somehow he and his son reminded her of all the bright hope she had once held dear to her heart. But she had learned that love wasn’t enough. It couldn’t change fate.
Touching her abdomen briefly, she experienced the pain of shattered youth and dreams, of accepting the reality, the nightmare, that her life had become…and yet, with the stubbornness of the young, she had dared hope….
Until that terrible, final day.
Needing to be busy, she set about rinsing the plates and putting them in the dishwasher. Her tenant limped into the kitchen, bringing three books tucked under his arm. She said nothing while he refilled his cup and laid the books on the table. He offered to help clean up.
“There’s nothing to do.” While he sat at the table, she wiped the skillet and grill with a paper towel and put them away. Restless, she made two cherry pies. With them in the oven, she, too, sat and stared morosely at the rain.
“You’re quiet,” he mentioned after a long silence. “And introspective. Are you thinking about your marriage?”
“About love.”
His face hardened.
“Yeah, I don’t think much of the emotion, either. It’s a trap for women—”
“You think it isn’t for men?” he said in a near snarl.
She shrugged. Their eyes met and held. Behind the smoldering animosity, she saw something else—the hunger, raw and naked, all male, but beyond that—the pure lonely need of one person for another.
She turned her head, refusing to acknowledge the mutual emotion. But it impinged on the mind just the same. It was the same need that gnawed at her.
A hand touched her chin, bringing her back to face him. “It’s there. We can deny it, but it’s there.”
His tone was harsh, and he didn’t look at all pleased.
“What?” she asked, lifting her chin defiantly.
“You know.”
The silence loomed between them again, silence that screamed with a thousand denials. Then, to her shock, he leaned forward and, light as a dewdrop, he touched his lips to hers.
Hot puffs of desire blew in and out of her. She pressed her lips together to stop the flow. He kissed her again.
She opened her mouth to protest. A mistake. He opened his lips at the same moment. Whether by design or accident, their tongues touched, lightly, hardly more than the flutter of an eyelash. But it hurt. Way down deep somewhere.
They each drew back, startled, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. A gasp, then a shaky sigh escaped her.
“Damn,” he said. “This isn’t… It isn’t enough.”
“I know,” she admitted weakly, hating herself for it.
His broad hand cupped the back of her head. He held her close, then his mouth was on hers, fierce, demanding, wanting, needing…and she was kissing him back the same way.
She entwined a hand into the thick, dark strands and took the kiss farther, deeper. He groaned and lifted