One Of A Kind. Diana Palmer
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lifted his head, slowly, and looked down into a face he didn’t recognize. Janie’s green eyes were like wet emeralds in her flushed face. Her lips were swollen, soft, sensual. Her body was clinging to his. He had her off the floor in his hungry embrace, and his body was throbbing with desire.
He knew that she could feel him, that she knew he was aroused. It was a secret thing, that only the two of them knew. It had to stay that way. He had to stop. This was wrong…!
He let go of her slowly, easing her back, while he sucked in a long, hard breath and shivered with a hunger he couldn’t satisfy. He became aware of the rough grip he had on her upper arms and he relaxed it at once. He’d never meant to hurt her.
He fought for control, reciting multiplication tables silently in his mind until he felt his body unclench and relax.
It troubled him that he’d lost control so abruptly, and with a woman he should never have touched. He hadn’t meant to touch her in the first place. He couldn’t understand why he’d gone headfirst at her like that. He was usually cool with women, especially with Janie.
The way she was looking at him was disturbing. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do, and he didn’t know how to begin. Janie was years too young for him, only his body didn’t think so. Now he had to make his mind get himself out of this predicament.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he said through his teeth.
She was hanging on every word, deaf to meanings, deaf to denials. Her body throbbed. “It’s like the flu,” she said, dazed, staring up at him. “It makes you… ache.”
He shook her gently. “You’re too young to have aches,” he said flatly. “And I’m old enough to know better than to do something this stupid. Are you listening to me? This shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”
Belatedly, she realized that he was backtracking. Of course he hadn’t meant to kiss her. He’d made his opinion of her clear for years, and even if he liked kissing her, it didn’t mean that he was ready to rush out and buy a ring. Quite the opposite.
She stepped away from him, her face still flushed, her eyes full of dreams she had to hide from him.
“I… I’m sorry, too,” she stammered.
“Hell,” he growled, ramming his hands into his pockets. “It was my fault. I started it.”
She moved one shoulder. “No harm done.” She cleared her throat and fought for inspiration. It came unexpectedly. Her eyes began to twinkle wickedly. “I have to take lessons when they’re offered.”
His eyebrows shot up. Had he heard her say that, or was he delusional?
“I’m not the prom queen,” she pointed out. “Men aren’t thick on the ground around here, except old bachelors who chew tobacco and don’t bathe.”
“I call that prejudice,” he said, relaxing into humor.
“I’ll bet you don’t hang out with women who smell like dirty horses,” she said.
He pursed his lips. Like hers, they were faintly swollen. “I don’t know about that. The last time I saw you, I recall, you were neck-deep in mud and sh—”
“You can stop right there!” she interrupted, flushing.
His dark eyes studied her long hair, liking its thick waves and its light brown color. “Pity your name isn’t Jeanie,” he murmured. “Stephen Foster wrote a song about her hair.”
She smiled. He liked her hair, at least. Maybe he liked her a little, too.
She was pretty when she smiled like that, he thought, observing her. “Do I get invited to supper?” he drawled, lost in that soft, hungry look she was giving him. “If you say yes, I might consider giving you a few more lessons. Beginner class only, of course,” he added with a grin.
Chapter Two
Janie was sure she hadn’t heard him say that, but he was still smiling. She smiled back. She felt pretty. No makeup, no shoes, disheveled—and Leo had kissed her anyway. She beamed. At least, she beamed until she remembered the Hart bread mania. Any of them would do anything for a biscuit. Did that extend to homemade rolls?
“You’re looking suspicious,” he pointed out.
“A man who would kidnap a poor little pastry chef might do anything for a homemade roll,” she reminded him.
He sighed. “Hettie makes wonderful rolls,” he had to admit.
“Oh, you!” She hit him gently and then laughed. He was impossible. “Okay, you can come to supper.”
He beamed. “You’re a nice girl.”
Nice. Well, at least he liked her. It was a start. It didn’t occur to her, then, that a man who was seriously interested in her wouldn’t think of her as just “nice.”
Hettie came back into the room, still oblivious to the undercurrents, and got out a plastic bowl. She filled it with English peas from the crisper. “All right, my girl, sit down here and shell these. You staying?” she asked Leo.
“She said I could,” he told Hettie.
“Then you can go away while we get it cooked.”
“I’ll visit my bull. Fred’s got him in the pasture.”
Leo didn’t say another word. But the look he gave Janie before he left the kitchen was positively wicked.
But if she thought the little interlude had made any permanent difference in her relationship with Leo, Janie was doomed to disappointment. He came to supper, but he spent the whole time talking genetic breeding with Fred, and although he was polite to Janie, she might as well have been on the moon.
He didn’t stay long after supper, either, making his excuses and praising Hettie for her wonderful cooking. He smiled at Janie, but not the way he had when they were alone in the kitchen. It was as if he’d put the kisses out of his mind forever, and expected her to act as if he’d never touched her. It was disheartening. It was heartbreaking. It was just like old times, except that now Leo had kissed her and she wanted him to do it again. Judging by his attitude over supper, she had a better chance of landing a movie role.
She spent the next few weeks remembering Leo’s hungry kisses and aching for more of them. When she wasn’t daydreaming, she was practicing biscuit-making. Hettie muttered about the amount of flour she was going through.
“Janie, you’re going to bankrupt us in the kitchen!” the older woman moaned when Janie’s fifth batch of biscuits came out looking like skeet pigeons. “That’s your second bag of flour today!”
Janie was glowering at her latest effort on the baking sheet. “Something’s wrong, and I can’t decide what. I mean, I put in salt and baking powder, just like the recipe said…”
Hettie picked up the empty flour bag and read the label. Her eyes twinkled. “Janie, darlin’, you bought self-rising flour.”
“Yes. So?” she asked obliviously.
“If it’s self-rising, it already has the salt and baking powder in it, doesn’t it?”
Janie burst out laughing. “So that’s what I’m doing wrong! Hand me another bag of flour, could you?”
“This is the last one,” Hettie said mournfully.
“No problem. I’ll just drive to the store and get some more. Need anything?”
“Milk and eggs,” Hettie said at once.
“We’ve got four chickens,” Janie exclaimed, turning, “and you have to buy eggs?”
“The chickens are molting.”
Janie smiled. “And when they molt, they don’t lay. Sorry. I forgot. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she added, peeling off her apron.
She