WAGERED WOMAN Read online

  And yet—Heaven help her—captivating, too.

  She stared at him, feeling suddenly bewildered by her own forbidden thoughts.

  He smiled, knowing as men have always known, what her dazed look meant. She was softening, giving ground.

  "Lilah." His voice was a caress. His gaze spoke of things she knew she shouldn't let herself imagine. He took a step toward her.

  "No…" She stepped back and came up short against the sink.

  "Lilah…"

  "Stay away. I mean it." He took another step.

  She had to stop him. Frantic, she fumbled behind her in the dish rack, and felt the handle of a heavy frying pan. She grabbed it and held it up. "Get back."

  He smiled. "God, Lilah. You are something."

  His eyes were sea blue mirrors in which she saw herself. Oh, foolish, foolish, she thought vaguely. Never before, in all their years of battles and armed truces, had she let herself be alone with him. Alone in her kitchen after dark.

  She should never have let him in. She should have grabbed her groceries from him on the front porch, and refused to let him cross her threshold into her personal space. At the least, she should never have allowed him to tell her why he came. She should have ordered him out the minute he set her groceries on the counter.

  Yes, order him out. That was the thing to do. She was going to order him out. Now…

  But he took the final step. And she said nothing. Her weapon, the frying pan, grew too heavy to hold high. She let it sink to her side.

  He whispered her name again, and she felt the warmth of him, radiating out, enveloping her. His big hand, rough and tender, was on her cheek, stroking, guiding her chin up so her mouth would be ready.

  Oh, my gracious, he was going to kiss her. His mouth was going to cover hers, and she was going to know the taste of her enemy on her lips. And she wanted it, wanted it, couldn't wait for it. She felt her head droop back on the stem of her neck. His mouth descended—

  And the forgotten frying pan in her nerveless hand clattered to the floor.

  The jarring sound saved her. With a choked cry, she shoved at his chest. He grabbed her arms. She struggled, briefly, and then she just glared at him, into those seductive blue mirrors that now looked hard, and hungry as well.

  Slowly, so she would know he did it by his own will, he released her and stepped back. There was a long silence, which she broke at last by retrieving the frying pan and setting it on the counter beside the remaining grocery bags.

  Then he tried that voice on her again—that soft, tempting voice that soothed her and beguiled her into forgetting who he was.

  "Lilah…"

  "No."

  "Lilah."

  "I want you to go. Now."

  He shook his head, his expression bemused. "I know what you want, Lilah. I saw it in your eyes. Felt it, in the way your body—"

  She put up a hand. "No more."

  "Aw, Lilah. Why run from it? You can't get away anyway. Believe me. I know." They looked at each other, and she wondered if her own face mirrored the barely restrained longing she saw in his. "Come out with me. Tonight," he said. "We'll drive down to Nevada City. I know this nice, quiet little restaurant there, where we could—"

  She couldn't let him continue, it sounded too lovely. "No. Please leave. Now."

  "Lilah…"

  She looked him level in the eye and spoke with some force. "Get out of my house."

  "Come on. It's only dinner."

  "No. I mean it, Sam Fletcher. No dates, no nothing—ever—between you and me." He went on looking at her tenderly, and her frustration at his unwillingness to leave loosened her tongue. "I've spent thirty-four years proving that being a Jones doesn't necessarily mean I'm a person who likes to brawl over things that make no difference, and shoot out the lights rather than walk across the room to reach the switch. Do you actually imagine that I'm going to let myself become involved with a man who's more of a Jones than the Joneses?"

  "You want me."

  "There has to be more than that for me."

  "Give it a chance. We can find more."

  "No way. Find yourself some other woman."

  His eyes glittered at her, the way moonlight reflects on a night pond, in gleaming ribbons. Then he reached in his pocket and took out the willow raccoon she'd refused on the front step. He set it on the table.

  "I made it for you. Sitting there, nervous as hell, waiting."

  "I don't want it."

  He was already on his way to the door. "Fine. Throw it away."

  She gave a little gasp at the thought. She didn't want it; to take it would somehow speak of intimacies between them. But beauty like that was rare, however unrefined. She could never toss it away.

  She heard the front door close. He was gone. She listened as his booted feet retreated down the porch steps. Then she looked again at the figure on the table. The tiny animal gazed back at her, too appealing to bear, through its roughly etched raccoon mask.

  Quickly, Delilah turned away from the tiny creature and finished putting her groceries away. After that, she made herself a simple dinner and sat down to eat.

  The raccoon, which she hadn't touched since he set it down, watched her every bite. When she could tolerate its fetching glance no longer, she grabbed it up, rushed into the living room and, balanced on a stool, stuck the thing on top of a high bookcase, all the way against the wall, where she wouldn't be able to see it from anywhere in the room unless she stood on a chair. Then she returned to her solitary dinner and enjoyed it very much.

  The phone rang at eight, while Delilah was getting a head start on the papers she had to have graded by Monday. It was Nellie Anderson.

  Nellie hardly gave Delilah time to say hello before she was off and chattering. "I just spoke with Loulah Bends, and, of course, I had to call right away and let you know."

  "What is it, Nellie?"

  "Loulah says that Janie Fashland says that Billie Rae Naylor claims she drove by your house before dark and saw that crazy Sam Fletcher sitting on your porch, bold as brass."

  "Oh?" Delilah set her papers aside. She'd been expecting Nellie's call—or one just like it from Linda Lou Beardsly. Not a lot went on in North Magdalene that everyone didn't find out about sooner or later. As a child, Delilah had been hurt more than once when the gossip turned on some insane thing that her father or her brothers had done. But when she decided, after college, that she missed her hometown and wanted to return here to live, she also decided how she would handle rumor-mongering when it came her way. She would listen quietly while it played itself out, and not contribute to it in the least.

  "Well…" Nellie had temporarily run out of steam. Delilah's noncommittal Oh? had given her pause—just as it always did. But then she got herself going again. "I thought you should know that he was hanging around there earlier."

  "Yes. I know."

  Nellie's breath caught, a little eager gasp. "You saw him then?"

  "Yes. He was here when I drove up."

  "And?"

  "He helped me with my groceries."

  "And?"

  She bent the truth just a smidgen, by not telling all. "He left."

  "But what was he doing there in the first place?"

  Delilah considered. She hated to lie. But Nellie would be burning up the phone lines, calling everyone in town with the news, if she admitted Sam Fletcher had asked her for a date.

  "Well?" Nellie prompted.

  Delilah removed her reading glasses and rubbed the ache at the bridge of her nose. "Nellie, I'm just not at liberty to say. It was a private matter, and now it's settled. And that's all there is to it."

  Nellie said nothing for a moment, her disappointment palpable. Then, "Delilah, honey. You know you can trust me."

  "Of course I do. But it's all over now."

  "What's all over?"

  "Nellie." Delilah's voice was kind and firm. "It's over. Let it be."

  Nellie sighed. "Oh, all right. But if you need a listening ear…
"

  "Thanks. I'll remember that."

  They talked for a few more minutes, but Delilah knew her friend was eager to hang up and burn the wires a little with the small amount of information she'd been able to glean from their conversation. Delilah didn't hold this against Nellie. That would be a little like blaming the wind for blowing.

  After Nellie said goodbye, it was a few minutes before Delilah put her reading glasses back on and resumed correcting the stack of papers she'd set aside. She did feel a bit uncomfortable, knowing that tongues would be wagging for a day or so, hypothesizing what might have gone on between her and Sam Fletcher.

  But then she told herself the talk would die down soon enough. She kept a very clean profile in North Magdalene. She led a sober, quiet life. She'd been born into a family whose antics gave all the local gossips one thrill after another. And she'd made sure, as soon as she could choose her own way, that she lived the kind of life that put scandalmongers right to sleep.

  Yes, give it a day or two, and the gossip would die out. She was sure of this because she intended to give them nothing more to go on. And because she knew that Sam Fletcher would never say a word.

  Delilah put her glasses back on and reached for her papers and her red felt pen. She returned to her work, not letting herself think about Sam Fletcher anymore. Or about how she could be so certain that the man she'd always despised had too much integrity to tell a soul what had passed between them in her kitchen earlier that evening.

  She worked diligently for half an hour. Then the phone rang again. She almost let it ring. And then, with a sigh, she answered.

  "How about next Saturday, then?" Sam Fletcher asked in her ear.

  "Never," she quietly replied. "Goodbye." She hung up, but not before soft laughter, deep and beguiling, tormented her from the other end of the line.

  After that, he called nightly. She learned to have the phone back in its cradle before he'd even finished saying hello.

  And that wasn't all. Every morning, a new and charming wooden figure would greet her from an outside windowsill—an owl, a squirrel, a dove. She resolutely ignored them.

  Moreover, she discovered that she could no longer walk on Main Street

  without seeing him. He popped out of his store and lounged against the wall by the door the moment she set foot in town.

  He never tried to speak to her, either. And somehow that made it worse. He just stayed there by his store, not even looking at her, managing maddeningly to respect her privacy at the same time that his very presence telegraphed his unspoken message:

  He was not giving up.

  So she ended up scurrying for the post office every day, promising herself that she would keep her eyes completely averted as she passed Sam Fletcher's store. She was doing just that on Tuesday, making a dash for the post office door, when a loud diesel honk caught her up short.

  She whirled around. It was her brother, Brendan, up behind the wheel of the like-new Long Nose Peterbilt he and his wife Amy had put themselves in hock to buy. Brendan signaled that he'd pull over down the street.

  Delilah, still hoping to get her mail and get away before Sam Fletcher appeared, almost shook her head. But then she reconsidered.

  Truth was, in recent years, she didn't see much of her brothers. She avoided them because they'd driven her insane during the years she was growing up. But now, in the few seconds before Brendan drove by, she felt a little guilty. Maybe she wasn't really being fair. Almost two decades had passed since they'd all lived at home. Maybe Brendan—and Patrick and Jared as well—had changed.

  Unbidden, she recalled a seductive voice suggesting, Past tense, Lilah. Give right now a chance…

  "Oh, shut up," she muttered under her breath, as if the voice in her head had been real.

  Then she nodded at Brendan and waved. After all, she'd never even seen the Peterbilt, Brendan's pride and joy, up close. It seemed only right that she stop and take a look. That seductive remembered voice had nothing to do with her decision—nothing at all…

  Just then, Brendan's truck rolled by, its spotless chrome gleaming. Delilah caught a glimpse of her own face in the deep maroon gloss of the flawless paintwork. Her expression was a beleaguered one.

  And why shouldn't she look beleaguered? Sam Fletcher was driving her crazy, after all. Every single thought she had seemed to lead right back to him.

  Down the street, Brendan had found a space long enough for the big truck. Delilah hurried to meet him. Brendan jumped down to greet her, explaining how he was off on a run from Sacramento to Phoenix before dawn the next morning.

  They talked for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries. Delilah found herself charmed by Brendan's eagerness—as well as heartened by his obvious happiness. Could this be the sullen baby brother who took up smoking at the age of eleven and displayed an astonishing command of imaginative profanity whenever she asked him to pick up his room?

  He and Amy expected their first child in a little over a month. He'd given up smoking, he told Delilah, when he learned about the baby. He spoke with a grateful kind of pride, and said softly that he fell more in love with his wife with each passing day.

  And Brendan's adoration for Amy shone on more than his face. The big truck was a rolling personification of his unabashed love. On either side of the matching trailer, Brendan had talked a talented friend into painting portraits of Amy—very vivid portraits, five times life-sized, from which Amy's wide doelike eyes regarded the world with shy allure and her long blonde hair flowed away behind, as if blown by the wind. Beyond that, both the gleaming front grill and the sleeper declared the truck to be the Sweet Amy in fanciful, flowing script.

  Brendan insisted Delilah climb into the sleeper to see what a home-away-from-home it was. He gave her a hand up. Inside, there was actually a small section of flooring to stand on as well as a double bed—and a microwave. The colors were a soothing silver-gray. Quite comfortable, Delilah decided, for a man who lived so much of his life on the road.

  Brendan, still outside on the sidewalk, explained that once the baby was a few months old, Amy would be riding with him at least part of the time again. He mentioned how difficult it was for her now, with him gone so much and the baby almost due. Then he insisted on shutting the sleeper door, so Delilah could get a feel for how comfy and private it was.

  After a moment, Delilah pushed open the door to step down—and found Sam Fletcher grinning up at her. "Let me help you, Lilah—"

  Nonplussed, Delilah gaped at him. His red-gold hair, pulled back as always lately, gleamed in the sun. He wore a pale blue ski sweater that hugged the massive contours of his shoulders and emphasized his trim waist. The sweater matched his eyes, which looked at her with humor and understanding and carefully restrained desire.

  Something hot and forbidden bloomed in her stomach. He grinned wider, as if he knew just what she felt. She had to resist the ridiculous urge to shrink back into the sleeper and slam the door, to cower there, hiding from her own taboo reactions as much as anything else, until he finally went away—which, of course, he wouldn't do.

  Seeking a more viable escape, she looked beyond him. She spotted Brendan a few feet away. Brendan shrugged—as if there was nothing he could do about it if Sam Fletcher had a sudden urge to pop up out of nowhere and assist his sister to the ground.

  But Brendan's shrug didn't fool Delilah. She recognized the wayward gleam in his eye. He hadn't changed completely, after all. He might have cleaned up his act for sweet Amy's sake, but he still had enough hell-raiser in him to want to see what would happen when his sis was offered a helping hand by the man she most despised in all the world.

  Nothing, Delilah thought. Absolutely nothing is going to happen, baby brother. So there.

  She composed her face into cordial lines and said sweetly, "Why, thank you, Sam. How kind of you."

  She must have sounded convincing, because she saw out of the corner of her eye that Brendan's jaw dropped. Quite pleased with herself, she held out a hand. Sa
m's huge paw engulfed it. Tempting heat, like that in her stomach, shivered up her arm. With an effort of will, she kept her expression tranquil.

  She stepped down, figuring she could handle it since the only contact between them was their clasped hands. But Sam Fletcher knew how to exploit a situation. Just as she stepped free of the sleeper, he released her hand and caught her about the waist. The heat of his touch seemed to spin and close around her as he swung her to the ground.

  She came up against his broad chest. He looked down at her, pale eyes alight. "There you go."

  Somehow, she smiled. "Yes." She delicately placed her palms on his chest, felt the deep thudding of his heart for an instant, and gave a light shove. "Thanks again."

  His hands fell away. She resisted the mad urge to sway back into his arms, to feel her breasts brush against his chest one more time.

  He said softly, "I'll talk to you tonight."

  She murmured so only he could hear, "Get smart. Give up."

  "Never."

  "Hey!" Brendan interjected. "What gives between you two?"

  Delilah turned her back on Sam. "Nothing," she told her brother calmly. "Nothing at all."

  That night when Sam called, Delilah hung up even more swiftly than usual.

  The next morning, a wooden rabbit looked at her hopefully from beyond the window over the kitchen sink. She closed the curtains on it.

  In town that afternoon, as usual, Sam lurked by the door to his store. She ignored him.

  He called that night. She hung up.

  Thursday, a doe, poised in the moment of scenting possible threat, stood on one of the sills of the windows around the kitchen table.

  The doe astonished her. She stood looking out the window at it for a long time. What skill he must have, to shave the wood away from those delicate legs without cutting too deep and destroying the whole.

  That night, when he called, she stayed on the line too long, long enough to hear him ask, rather sadly, when she was going to stop being so stubborn. Then she made herself hang up.