Confessions: He's The Rich Boy / He's My Soldier Boy. Lisa Jackson
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women set out platters of corn on the cob, green beans, salads, Jell-O molds and every imaginable cake and pie. Men, sweating and laughing, stood barbecuing chicken and ribs.
There was a festive feel in the atmosphere, and even Nadine, glum because she’d agreed to meet Sam, was caught in the good mood. There was a chance that she would see Hayden at the picnic. She helped her mother serve desserts and watched as children ran in gunnysack and three-legged races. Some adults were caught up in a softball game and most of the teenagers were playing volleyball or sunbathing.
Nadine couldn’t help scanning the crowd, searching for Hayden. Though she’d agreed to help pour soda into paper cups, her gaze strayed from her task so often that her hands were sticky near the end of her shift.
Sam showed up in the late afternoon. With a group of boys from school, he approached the soda station and suggested that Nadine find someone to take over her job.
“Can’t. I promised that I’d work until seven,” she said. “Unless you want to finish my shift and spend the next couple of hours pouring soda.”
“Very funny,” Sam replied, though he didn’t smile.
“This is important to Mom. The proceeds go to the library book fund.”
“Big deal.”
She felt more than slightly irritated by his attitude. “It is if you’re the part-time librarian.”
“I suppose.” Sam ordered a Coke, then hung around the booth’s window while she continued to work. He even helped out when the dinner crowd showed up, but still she resented him. Ever since she’d been with Hayden, her interest in Sam had waned. She still liked him; he’d been her friend for years, but she knew she’d never tingle in anticipation when she saw him, would never feel the powerful surge of emotions that seemed to explode in her every time she looked into Hayden’s eyes.
At seven o’clock, she was finally relieved by Thelma Surrett and her fifteen-year-old daughter, Carlie. Thelma worked as a waitress at the ice-cream counter of the Rexall Drugstore and Carlie was a couple of years behind Nadine in school. With raven black hair, round blue eyes and high cheekbones, Carlie was drop-dead gorgeous and had already attracted a lot of male attention. Even Kevin, who was twenty-two, had noticed her.
Nadine quickly showed them the cash box, how to change soda canisters and the portable cupboard in which the extra paper cups were stashed. She offered to work longer and help out, but Thelma waved her aside. “I’ve spent half my life serving these folks down at the store. I figure Carlie and I can handle a few cups of root beer. You two go on along.” She shooed Nadine out of the booth. “Have some fun. Dance.”
Sam didn’t need any encouragement. Grabbing Nadine’s hand, he headed toward the stage where a group of local musicians were tuning up and one of the technicians was trying to eliminate the feedback that screeched from the microphone.
She had no choice but to dance with Sam. She had promised that she’d be with him for all of the celebration, yet she wasn’t comfortable in his arms, had trouble laughing at his jokes, avoided his lips when he tried to kiss her.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked as he held her close and swayed to the band’s rendition of “Yesterday.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she lied, knowing that Hayden Monroe was at the heart of her discontent.
“Sure.” He tried to pull her closer and rather than argue, she let him fold her into a tight embrace. How could she explain that she was falling for another boy—a boy she barely knew, a boy who would probably never look her way again? She closed her eyes and remembered the kisses she and Hayden had shared, the feel of his skin, the way his touch could turn her bones to water....
“That’s more like it,” Sam whispered against her ear. He kissed her temple and Nadine tensed. She felt like a Judas, dancing with him, holding him when her heart was far away with Hayden Monroe.
As the song ended, she disentangled herself and made an excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. Sam found his friends and she hurried off toward the restrooms, intending to splash cold water on her face and find a way to tell Sam that she wasn’t interested in him romantically.
“Having a good time?”
Hayden’s voice stopped her short. She whirled, hardly daring to breathe and found him in the thickening shadows, lounging against the rough trunk of a massive cedar tree.
“I’m trying to.”
“That your boyfriend?” He cocked his head in Sam’s direction, where, along with a few of his friends, Sam was adding to his soda from a bottle hidden in a brown paper bag.
“He’s...he’s just a friend.”
“Looked like more than that to me.”
“You were spying on me?”
His teeth showed white in the coming darkness. “Just happened to see you.” He stepped out of the shadows, and Nadine’s heart lurched at the sight of him—his smooth, disjointed walk, his thick dark hair and blade-thin mouth. His eyes, midnight blue in the gloaming, held hers and the night seemed to close around them. Laughter, music and conversation grew suddenly distant, and the air, still and muggy, became thick. When his gaze shifted to her neck, she knew he could see the tempo of her heartbeat at the base of her throat.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” she said.
“Command performance.”
“Who commanded?”
“The king.” When she didn’t smile, he explained, “You called me the prince. That would make my father—”
“The king,” she said.
“So now I’ve done my duty.”
Her heart dropped. “And now you’re leaving.”
Smoldering blue eyes held hers. “Want to come along?”
“And go where?”
“Does it matter?”
No! her heart silently screamed, but she knew she couldn’t just take off. Not without an explanation to her parents and to Sam. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” He cocked his head toward the group of boys huddled in the parking lot. “Your boyfriend disapprove?”
“I already told you he’s not—” He took hold of her shoulders, pulled her impatiently against him and cut off her explanation with a kiss. Hot and supple, hungry and anxious, his lips molded firmly over hers.
She didn’t protest, but sagged against him, her arms encircling his neck. She drank in the smell and taste of him, felt the sweet wet pressure of his tongue as it insistently prodded her teeth apart and explored the dark inner reaches of her mouth.
When he dragged her deeper into the foliage, she followed willingly, her lips still pressed to his, her body beginning to respond in wanton, lusty abandon. His hands spanned her waist, and his lips claimed hers with such passion that her head spun and her body began to ache.
When one hand moved upward to cup her breast, she sighed into his mouth. His thumb brushed in eager circles over her nipples and her bra was suddenly far too tight. He slipped his fingers beneath the hem of her blouse, upward until he touched the webbing of lace that covered her breasts. Groaning, he pushed her back against a tree and she sagged as his fingers probed and plundered, massaged and sculpted the shape of her breast until she felt as if she were on fire. The ache between her thighs began to pulse.
“Why do you do this to me?” he whispered hoarsely, as if he were angry with the world. He still held her breast, but now his body was pressed against hers and he was breathing in deep, trembling gulps of air.
“Do...do what?”
“Torture me.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh,