Confessions: He's The Rich Boy / He's My Soldier Boy. Lisa Jackson
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could barely breathe. Her diaphragm pressed hard against her lungs. His hips were snug against hers and his hardness was forced deep against her midriff. “You’re all I’ve thought about for days,” he admitted. “I want you, Nadine,” he said simply. “And I can’t have you.”
She wanted to ask why, but knew the answer deep in her heart. He was the rich kid, the boy who was used to taking anything he wanted, and she was a poor girl whose father worked for his, a nobody, and therefore off-limits.
“Nadine?”
“Oh, God, that’s Ben,” Nadine said with a gasp as she pushed herself away from him.
“What is it with your brother? Doesn’t he trust you?”
She glanced back at Hayden and flipped her hair away from her shoulders. “I think it’s you he doesn’t trust.”
Hayden’s eyes narrowed. “He’s smarter than I gave him credit for.”
She looked back to the dance, the torchlights being lit, the streamers and balloons and Sam, standing a little less steadily, laughing with a group of his friends. Ben was walking crisply along the path leading toward them and if it weren’t for the fact that Patty Osgood called out to him, he would have surely discovered his sister with Hayden.
“I want to come with you,” Nadine said impulsively, and for a second, the ghost of a smile played upon his lips. He reached for her hand, then dropped it quickly.
“Forget it.”
“But you invited me—”
Hayden stared at her so hard, she didn’t dare say a word. “I want nothing more in the world than for you to climb into that car and go home with me,” he said, shoving a handful of dark hair from his eyes. “But it would only get you into trouble again.”
“I don’t care.”
“Your brother—”
“It’s none of his business what I do!” she said indignantly.
“But your parents?”
“They’ll never know if we come back quickly.”
He hesitated, then let out his breath in a whistle. “You’re not making this any easier, you know. Besides, what about your...‘friend’?”
“I don’t owe him anything.”
“You came with him.”
“I came with my folks.”
“You know what I mean.”
She did, of course. But she’d risk hurting Sam’s feelings to be with Hayden. “It’s okay.”
He shook his head, though reluctance shone in his eyes.
“Hayden,” she said, her voice throaty, “I want to be with you. Maybe it’s a mistake, but if you want to be with me, then—” Impulsively she wound her arms around his neck and he groaned.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Tell me.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if closing out her image would push her from his mind, as well. “Nadine, don’t—” He started to untangle her arms. Startled, she looked into his eyes and he moaned loudly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she said. “I won’t let you.”
“Promise?” His face was so close she saw the tiny lines at the crinkle of his eyelids and inhaled the very essence of him.
“Promise.”
His mouth captured hers and he gently tugged, pulling her lower lip into his mouth and touching it with his tongue. Liquid warmth rippled through her blood and her joints suddenly seemed to melt.
Hayden’s tongue plundered and explored; his hands were hard and anxious, and she felt him tremble as he finally lifted his head and buried his face in her hair.
“What the hell am I going to do with you?” he ground out, his breath ragged and torn. “Just what the hell am I going to do with you?”
“Trust me.”
The smile he flashed her was positively wicked. “I don’t think either one of us should trust the other. And I know you shouldn’t trust me. God, Nadine, I— This isn’t going to work.”
“I want to be with you,” she said desperately.
His eyes searched her face and he smiled a little, though reluctance still shone in his gaze. “Meet me later.”
“Nadine?”
Ben’s voice again!
She froze. “Later?” she asked Hayden, desperate to see him again. Curse her brother for interrupting them. “But how—”
When he didn’t answer, she stepped closer, surprised at her own boldness. She touched him lightly on the shoulder and he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Where?”
“Don’t—”
“Where?” she demanded.
He held her close and kissed her, appearing to accept their fate. “At the lake. Tomorrow night,” he finally said, then turned and disappeared into the darkness. “In the lagoon where we were before.”
Nadine shivered as he left. She rubbed her arms and wondered if she’d have the nerve to meet him again. What did she know about him? He was rich. He’d never known the meaning of want. He didn’t have much respect for his father. And she lost all sense of reason when he kissed her.
She was acting like a ninny. She was no better than Patty Osgood or Trish London. But she couldn’t help herself. Hell could freeze over and Nadine knew that tomorrow night she’d be waiting for him. At the lake.
* * *
THE AIR WAS thick and heavy, the sky hazy for the Monroe Sawmill Company picnic. Unlike the day before, all the food and beverages were catered and served by a firm from Coleville. Compliments of Garreth Monroe.
A whole pig roasted upon a spit, and cloth-covered tables were arranged under a huge tent, where salads cooled in trays of crushed ice, and a huge electric freezer was churning homemade ice cream to top fresh strawberry shortcake.
Despite the threat of thunderstorms, the mood of the employees of the sawmill company was carefree. Laughter and conversation floated on the air tinged with the acrid scents of cigarette smoke and sizzling pork slathered in barbecue sauce.
Blankets were spread upon the grass and sunbathers soaked up rays while children splashed in the roped-off area of the lake and older kids swam farther out.
Nadine’s entire family attended. Her mother, sipping iced tea, sat at a table and gossiped with other wives of the mill employees. George Powell threw horseshoes with some of his friends. They talked and laughed and sipped from cups of beer drawn from a large keg.
Kevin swam with the younger men he worked with and Ben linked up with Patty Osgood, who had come as a guest of one of the foreman’s daughters.
The muggy air was cloying, and sweat collected on Nadine’s skin as she sat on a blanket next to Sam. Her eyes, hidden behind dark glasses, continually scanned the crowd for Hayden. She knew she was being foolish, but she couldn’t stop herself from searching the groups of people. Surely he would attend. His father was here, glad-handing and acting just like one of the men who worked for him. He pitched horseshoes, downed beer and told off-color jokes with his employees. Dressed in crisp jeans and a polo shirt, he squired his wife, Sylvia Fitzgerald Monroe, through the tents and games. Hayden’s mother managed to smile, though no light of laughter lit her cool blue eyes. Her silver-blond hair was coiled into a French braid at the back of her head and the nails of her fingers were painted a dusty shade of rose, the same color as her jumpsuit. A delicate scarf was