A Loving Man (2 page)

She was thirty-seven now, and twelve years ago her mother had passed away in a flaming truck wreck on the Interstate. Her trucker-lover had sent Rose what little was left of Maxine Granger’s life. The shoe box of trinkets
included a picture of six-year-old Rose, just missing her front tooth.

Rose had little illusions about her chances for a one-and-only love. Back in the days when she believed in romance and happily-ever-after, Rose had thought her future husband and children would fill her father’s aching heart. But love hadn’t come to her, and she’d settled into the routine of living with her father, tending him, in the house she’d grown up in.

She rubbed the bruise on her thigh, the result of swinging a paint can from the counter to the floor. Ned’s cousin had been working for an hour in the back room, straightening the gallon and pint cans on the floor. Now he was hefting the odd remnants of carpeting to stand along one side of the wall. He’d towered over her five-foot ten, looking all dark and scowling. There was an arrogance she couldn’t place, just that tilt of his head, that black waving hair gleaming and neatly combed. His deep brown eyes were the color of her father’s whiskey, narrowing and darkening as she talked to him. That line between his black brows and the grooves beside his mouth had deepened as if he didn’t like taking orders—or smiling. His jaw had tensed, the muscle running along it contracting.

She frowned, glancing at him as he easily lifted a box of old carpet samples up to his shoulder—a very broad shoulder. Ned was right; his cousin was “strong as an ox and a bit moody.” He seemed to bristle each time she gave him a task, those whiskey-brown eyes narrowing on her, his jaw tensing.

Then Rose saw Henry, who she had held down and kissed when they were both in the fourth grade. When she’d shared her faerie whimsy with him, he’d laughed, later apologized. He understood Rose’s pain and through the years had become a good friend.

She hurried toward the adult Henry, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. In turn, he reached to turn her ball cap around, tugging it down on her head. She grinned up at him, a longtime friend and an ex-fiancé, now married to Shirley MacNeil. Rose could always depend on Henry to make her feel better—good old dependable Henry. “New man?” Henry asked as he handed her Shirley’s paint list.

“Bruce. Ned’s cousin. He’s only helping out during the spring decorating season. He’s got a surly attitude and if that doesn’t stop, he’s out of here.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like bossy women. Try a little patience,” Henry offered with a warm, familiar smile.

“No time. Dad didn’t place the orders or check the invoices and now I’ve got to do it.”

“Is he feeling poorly?” Henry asked in his kind way. Everyone in Waterville knew that Maury Granger’s visits to the liquor store were becoming more frequent.

“Sure,” Rose returned curtly. Instead of the usual truck delivery of paints and orders, she’d had to borrow a truck and drive one hundred miles to a manufacturer, pay over price and drive home, unloading the truck herself last Sunday. This Sunday she intended to pamper herself and firmly deal with Maury. He was a good man, but he was sinking deeper into darkness.

By noon, the new handyman had fixed the back door and was straightening the front of the store. He seemed happy until she called him into the back room for lunch, takeout food from Danny’s Café, hot dogs and potato salad. With her feet propped up on the gallons of uncolored paint, and balancing her food on her stomach, she frowned as he prodded the wiener with his finger and sniffed at the bun. He scowled at the food, which nettled Rose, but then she badly needed his help and couldn’t risk offending him over hot dogs. He frowned when he sipped
at the coffee she’d brewed early that morning. Rose inhaled slowly and pushed her temper down; maybe Henry was right, maybe she needed to try a little kindness. “So, Bruce, do you think you might want to move up to mixing paint? It’s a matter of checking the color number chart, measuring the pigment and mixing it into the uncolored gallons.”

He nodded slowly, considering her with those unreadable brown eyes. Just then Larry Hershall strolled into the store, peered over a carpet display and sighted her in the back room. She waved him toward her. “How’s it going, Larry?” she asked her former fiancé.

Larry nodded and grinned. “Mary Lou wants me to see that wallpaper sample she picked out for the nursery.”

“Sure. Meet Bruce. He’s helping me out today. He’s about to move up to mixing paint.”

Larry reached to shake the workman’s hand and nodded. “Glad to meet you.”

Ned’s cousin nodded, his dark eyes following Rose and Larry as they moved to the front of the store. As comfortable with Larry as she would be with the brother she never had, Rose showed him the wallpaper sample. Standing beside him, she placed her arm on his shoulder, leaning slightly against his strength for just one moment in a hectic, tiring day.

When she returned to the back room, Ned’s cousin was pouring the rest of the coffee down the paint-stained sink. His food remained untouched on the rough plank picnic table. Rose was starved, and disliking waste, asked, “Going to eat this?”

When he shook his head, she slathered mustard, relish and ketchup onto the hot dog. Rose had balanced a household budget from an early age and did not waste food.
“Yummy,” she said when he watched her devour the hot dog.

She didn’t want to ask about his disdainful expression. He was a good workman and she desperately needed him. If she could manage to establish a basic relationship with him, he might stay to help her. “So, Bruce. Let’s put in a hard day here—I’ll move you up to mixing paint—and then if you’d like, you can come fishing with my dad and me. Crappie start biting at the lake just after supper. You might even catch a bass. What do you say?”

He nodded slowly just as the bell over the front door jingled. The delightful Frenchwoman who had come in the previous day smiled warmly over the displays. Rose, followed closely by her new handyman, went to help the customer.

“Ma chérie,”
Yvette Donatien said smoothly with that enticing accent. Her blond-and-gray hair softly framed an exquisite face, shaded by a floppy straw hat. A simple cotton dress swirled around Yvette’s rounded body, emphasizing her femininity just like the spring daisies tucked into her hat ribbon. She carried a shopping basket made of oak strips. The basket had been made locally by Linda Brooks and fit perfectly into the metal one on Yvette’s bicycle. Rose had instantly liked the charming Frenchwoman with her ready smile and humor.

Yvette smiled warmly at the man behind Rose, and then momentarily a puzzled expression crossed her face. Tracing Yvette’s stare, Rose looked up swiftly to see the handyman stroking his index finger across his raised brows. His expression was bland and innocent. “Oh, that’s Bruce,” Rose said. “He’s new. He’s a good worker and he’s about to graduate to paint mixing.”

“I see,” Yvette said, glancing at the man again and then back at Rose. Her blue eyes twinkled as she smiled
warmly. “I stopped by to say how much I enjoyed our visit yesterday. My son will be stopping by soon. I hope you like him. He can be very formal and arrogant at times, perhaps a little old-world in his ways—stuffy, if you will. But he is a good boy. He tries very hard to be a good
papa,
though he sometimes does not understand women. I’ll be going now. I’m so enjoying your delightful community.”

Yvette frowned slightly at the man behind Rose, who sensed the restlessness in him. She hoped that he wouldn’t show his poor manners to a potentially good customer and a woman she liked immediately. After Yvette exited the store, Rose shot an elbow back into her employee’s hard stomach. He grunted and when she turned, his scowl was fierce upon her. “Listen, you,” she said. “You’re going to have to put on a nice face for customers. It may be hard, but try. I could almost feel you bristling behind me. I’ve already heard that Stefan Donatien is a hard case, but his mother is very nice and I like her.”

She ignored the flaring of his nostrils, the tightening of his mouth. A woman who related easily to men, she wasn’t intimidated. Perhaps the handyman had been bruised by life, or had a serious health problem. She was very good at getting men to relate to her; once she understood his problem, perhaps they could develop a smooth working relationship. She decided to push right past his bad mood before she fired a man she badly needed. “Are you going fishing with us tonight, or not?”

He nodded grimly, his big body rigid. Waves of temper poured off him, and she had no time for dealing with that. “Well, let’s start you on paint mixing then. It’s all done by formula. Here’s the chart of the amounts of dry powder that you mix into the basic formula. You use this—” she held up a rubber mallet “—to close it and shake—” She
indicated a machine. “Make certain you seal it and clamp it good, because it’s a big mess for you to clean up, if you don’t. Oh, stop sulking and scowling. You’ll scare away my customers. You really need to lighten up, Bruce.”

By three o’clock, Rose craved a refreshing nap that she wasn’t going to get. Business was really good, and her new handyman was efficient at mixing paint. Though he didn’t speak, he seemed to be making an effort to be charming, smiling at the customers. He wasn’t that hard looking when he smiled and the women seemed to like him, discussing their decorator plans with him and considering his pointing finger on the samples. In fact, he had made several good sales, selling the carpet remnants from past years. He carried purchases out for customers and Rose decided to trust him with making a delivery to Ella Parsons. “Hey, Bruce. Here’s the map to Ella Parsons. She lives a distance out in the country, so try to help her with whatever she needs doing and get back here to help me close up, okay?”

He took the map she had drawn, folded it neatly and slid it into his back pocket. He crossed his arms and considered her intently. His dark gaze roamed her face, her throat and slowly moved down her body. That close examination caused Rose to shiver. Ned’s cousin didn’t need words to express a male attraction to her. She flipped over the thought; perhaps he was just shy and looking for a friend. She knew how to be a man’s friend, if not his love.

In the next minute, a rush of customers consumed her. Her new employee efficiently mixed paint and when the rush slowed, loaded Granger’s delivery truck. Alone and tending the customers, Rose worked furiously. During spring and fall seasonal rushes, every minute counted.

Just minutes from closing time, a thin, clean, but poorly dressed young man entered the store. When she went to
help him, he signed with his hands. Not understanding his meaning, Rose offered him a pad and pencil.

“I’m Bruce Long, Ned’s cousin,” he wrote. “Woke up feeling bad. Had car trouble. Sorry to be late.”

Rose stood absolutely still, her mind replaying the day’s scenarios. Whoever the stranger was who had worked all day, he wasn’t Bruce. “Come back early Monday, okay?” she asked, hurriedly pushing him out of the door.

She rushed to the telephone beside the cash register and dialed Ella Parsons. The man she had mistaken for Bruce Long could be a murderer, a thief, and she’d sent him directly to a dear elderly woman. Fear tore through Rose as she worried about Ella’s safety. “Ella? Did you get your delivery?”

“I did, dear. Everything is in perfect order, and so is that nice Mr. Donatien. We had the nicest chat. He cooked a lovely dinner for Edward and me, and we dined together. He’s coming back with his mother in the morning for fresh eggs and milk. She wants some good cream cows and my Edward is going to help find someone with cows to spare. I love a man who treats his mother well like Mr. Donatien. He clearly loves her and his daughter. Not every man would give up a fancy business office and a secretary waiting on his every command to give his family the country life they want. He’s on his way back to your store now, I think. Lovely man, Mr. Donatien.”

“Oh, he is, is he?” Rose asked very slowly and gripped the counter until her fingers ached. She had a few things to say to Stefan Donatien, and none of them were sweet.

S
tefan parked the delivery truck in the lot beside Granger’s store. He carefully retrieved the two pink plastic flamingos from the passenger side of the truck. He held the yard ornaments carefully, a welcome gift from Ella Parsons, who said that everyone who was anyone in Waterville had pink flamingos in their yards. At five o’clock, the store would soon be closing, and he had had an interesting, stress-relieving day. He’d put the blistering argument with Estelle back into perspective—she was becoming her own person and it was normal girl-to-woman development to test herself against life—and her father. He loved her and she loved him, and once they were through this Louie-phase, life would be much simpler.

His mother was delighted with Waterville. The small town reminded her of her youth in France. The farm was as quaint as the town, the milk cows perfect for the cheese and butter Yvette longed to make. She loved feeding her
baby chicks and planning her vegetable garden. In the pasture next to his farm, Estelle was already riding horses with a girl her age.

His women also loved the contents of the old farmhouse. It was filled with ordinary, mismatched furniture, far from that of Stefan’s penthouse. The Smiths were ready to travel full-time in their camper and didn’t want the old furniture that so enchanted Stefan’s mother and daughter.

He smiled, cruising along in the mellow and happy lane, certain the Donatiens’ lives would settle happily.

Sunlight filtered through the trees lining the street and danced along the flower beds resting on the sidewalk in front of the stores. Next door, the barber was just locking his front door. Waterville was quiet and peaceful and perfect, the spit and whittle men’s bench vacated until Monday.

Stefan entered the front of the store with a sense of well-being. Around the towering stack of gallon paint cans, he spotted an angry Rose. She stalked right toward him, and on her way, reached for a softball from the counter and hurled it at him. He caught it in one hand, while protectively cradling the pink flamingos with the other arm. She came to stand in front of him, her hands braced on her waist, her legs apart as if readying for a fight. Her blue eyes lasered at him, and her freckles seemed to shift on her face as if waiting to attack him. In his good mood, Stefan smiled slightly at the thought of a “Rose” freckle attack. He realized instantly that humor had not been a part of his life for some time.

“You’re grinning. Some big joke, huh?
You are not Bruce Long,
” Rose stated tightly.

Stefan turned the Open sign to Closed. He wanted this conversation to be private. Rose looked as if she might erupt. “I did not say that I was.”

“You cooked for Ella…put wine in her spaghetti sauce. You gave her tips on the presentation of green beans, not snapped, but whole…. Everyone here snaps green beans. They usually cook green beans with bacon, and maybe onion instead of steaming them…sometimes with new potatoes. You’ll have everyone canning their June beans upright in the jars…and every once in a while, I get to sit on someone’s front porch and snap beans. I enjoy that—
and you’re messing with Waterville tradition.
”

“The presentation of the meal is ultimate. We dined together. The Parsons are quite charming, and I was quite hungry—my stomach could not bear your infamous hot dogs,” Stefan returned, watching in fascination as Rose tore the rubber band confining her ponytail away. A sleek curtain of burnished reddish brown hair fell to her shoulders. He longed to crush it in his hands, to lift it to the sunlight and to study the fascinating color and texture. It would feel like silk, alive with warmth from Rose. He breathed unsteadily as an image flashed through his mind—that of Rose’s hair dragging along his bare skin, the sensual sweep of the rich reddish-brown strands across his cheek.

Stefan held still, shocked by the turn of his thoughts; he had not been so susceptible since he was in his teens. Perhaps it was spring, the flowers, the lack of Louie— “Hello, Rose,” he said gently, loving the sound on his tongue.

She reminded him of a flower, as fresh as dewdrops glistening in the dawn.

“You’ve got an accent. That’s why you didn’t talk. And I fell for it,” Rose-the-flower stated darkly. “Very funny.”

He looked down at the check she’d thrust into his hand. “Get out,” she said tightly. “I know you own a chain of French restaurants and that check isn’t even the price of a
meal in one of them. But I owe you for the work and I’m paying up.”

For an instant, Stefan tensed. No one spoke to him in that tone. He focused on Rose and said slowly, “Does that mean that the invitation to go fishing with you at the lake is off?”

“You knew that at the time—” she began hotly.

“So you are a woman who takes back what she has offered,” he said, watching her closely. Ella had briefly informed him of Rose’s unfortunate love life—engaged three times and never married—and of her dedication to a father who was slowly drinking more. Stefan wanted to hold Rose close and protect her, this bit of a woman, all sleek and soft and exciting. His verbal nudge was intended to seal his time with her at the lake. He wanted to know more about her, this woman who fought so valiantly against odds, who loved so deeply. He wanted to see her eat one wholesome meal and relax. He wanted to place his hands on those taut, overworked, feminine muscles and give them ease. He wanted to capture that capable feminine hand, turn it and press a kiss into her palm. He wanted to cup that curved bottom in both hands. He wanted to taste the flavor of her breasts, those perfect, applelike breasts.

She seemed so natural and totally unaware of her appeal, unlike the women in his experience. Women who seemed interested in him usually wanted his checkbook, not himself. He’d watched Rose tend her customers. She did not hide her emotions. She genuinely liked most of them, that brilliant smile flashing at them, or she touched them. Once she’d waited on a customer, her face taut and grim, all her walls were up and Stefan knew she did not like the man.

Now, the sunlight shafted through the store’s windows
and tipped her dark brown eyelashes in fire. An answering flame danced in his heart, in his loins.

Ten years of abstinence was far too long,
he decided instantly, and wondered if the flush upon her face would be the same after they made love. He longed to see her soft and drowsy beneath him. Somehow, his instincts told him that he had found a woman to enjoy and treasure; with her, he could find peace.

“I don’t like being made a fool of,” Rose shot at him angrily, shredding his vision of peace and pleasure.

“Ah, so then, you retreat from the battle,” he nudged again. “You fear you might like me. You fear that I might catch more fish than you. You fear that your father will like me, too.”

Her lips parted and she blinked up at him, her expression blank. “You haven’t talked all day and now you’re saying too much. Don’t you get it? I’m mad at you.”

He shrugged, determined to have his way. “So you do retreat. I have won.”

Those blue eyes widened and blinked again. “Won what?”

“The game. You are afraid. You retreat. I win. Simple.”

She shook her head and the reddish hues in her hair caught the overhead light. “You wouldn’t like fishing at the lake. Chiggers, mosquitoes, every biting insect possible,” she explained. “When the flies bite here, it hurts. The johnboat isn’t a yacht—it’s a chopped-off metal boat—and the crappie are sporting, but they aren’t swordfish, Mr. Donatien.”

“It sounds delightful,” he said, watching that faint sunlight stroke her cheek and wondering if the freckle pattern continued over her body. He went a little light-headed thinking about those long, athletic limbs, those perfect apple-shaped breasts, the way she took fire. Rose Granger
was a passionate woman for certain, and just watching her move provoked an excitement in his body that he hadn’t expected.

She inhaled slowly, balled her fists at her sides, and frowned up at him. “Be at the north end of the lake at six-thirty. You’ll have to find the johnboat tied to the dock. I’ve got to pick up Dad.”

“I must get the paint my mother wishes.”

“Take care of your own order. Just leave the cash on the counter, or leave your check and I’ll send the change to you,” Rose said, moving restlessly behind the counter and avoiding his gaze.

She was sweet and shy of him, Stefan realized as she hurried out the back door. He enjoyed that little jiggle of soft flesh below her shorts’ ragged hem; he traced her long legs down to the back of her knees. He closed his eyes, riveted by the need to kiss her there, where she seemed most vulnerable and virginal.

In a good mood, because he would spend time with an enchanting woman later, Stefan kissed one of the flamingos’ plastic beaks. He frowned into the bird’s vacant yellow eyes. Was he nervous? His first attraction to a woman, since his wife? But, of course, and he was so hungry for the taste of that lush, sassy mouth—

Carrying her tackle box and fishing pole, Rose tromped from her pickup, across the lush grass of the lake’s bank. She’d tried desperately to rouse her sleeping father and had failed. She’d debated leaving Stefan—the wealthy, continental businessman she’d ordered around all day—to the mosquitoes and biting red chiggers. But her competitive streak, which allowed her to be captain of the mixed softball team, was revved. Nothing could have kept her
from watching him itch—payback for deceiving her all day.

Her thoughts slapped against her in rhythm to the sound of her plastic thongs. She glanced at the slash of scarlet, a male cardinal bird in the oak trees.
If he had only spoken just one word, she would have known who he was—his deep enchanting accent would have marked him as the newcomer…though he didn’t seem as cold as Harry at the gas station had inferred.

She pushed away the memory of Stefan’s smile at the pink flamingos. It was excited, almost as if he were a boy, excited at winning trophies.

Stefan was sitting on the dock, his pole already in the water, the shadows and sunlight flowing over his body, the water sparkling beyond him. At around six-feet four inches he could intimidate with that dark scowl, but not her. Her thongs clumped as she walked out onto the dock, studied the metal johnboat and decided she didn’t want to baby the worn motor into life. She slung her backpack—filled with cola, a peanut butter sandwich and insect repellent—down to the worn boards of the dock. Out in the glimmering still water, a big mouth bass surged up for a juicy water bug, reminding Rose of how she had taken Stefan’s challenge. She glanced at the expert way Stefan cast into the lake’s dead timber, the perfect place for a “crappie bed.” It was her private place. “Dad couldn’t come. We can fish here,” she said. “You stay on your side of the dock, and I’ll stay on mine. You’d better have your fishing license. I like your mother. I don’t like you.”

His hair was damp, curling at his nape and that all-man soap smell curled erotically around her. The clean T-shirt tightened across his shoulders as he patted the billfold in his back pocket. “I have a license…. So you have had a
bad day, and you wish to take it out on me, right?” he asked.

Rose slipped off her thongs, plopped down on the dock and dangled her legs over the side as Stefan was doing. She wouldn’t be waylaid by that sexy, intimate accent. She opened her tackle box and selected just the right fishing “jig,” a plastic lure to entice crappie. Only meeting Stefan’s challenge had kept her from falling facedown on her bed and sleeping through Sunday. She was
not
a woman who offered and then took back her invitation. She cast, propped the handle of her pole into the slot between the boards and took out her insect repellent, rubbing it on her arms and legs. She sniffed lightly and recognized the slight tang of citronella, also an insect deterrent, coming from Stefan. He would not be leaving her dock soon. “Can we just be quiet?” she asked. “I’ve looked forward to this all week.”

For the next half hour, she felt the old dock tremble slightly as Stefan cast into her favorite fishing hole. The crappie responded to his lure, flip-flopping in the water as he reeled them in and released them. She refused to ask what he was using for bait, because nothing was nibbling at her line. He held up one and asked, “How do you prepare crappie?”

She looked over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. The fish was Old George, a legendary giant of a crappie, who had escaped her hook. “You wait until you get a ‘mess’ and then fillet, score, bread in flour and cornmeal and fry. Or you might dip them in egg or beer batter…serve with wilted lettuce…But I’d throw that one back, he’s too small,” she lied, because she wanted Old George on her dinner table. “Did you enjoy yourself today, your little masquerade?”

He unhooked Old George and tossed him back into the
lake. Stefan dipped his hands in the lake and washed them as would an experienced fisherman. He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. It was a devastating, boyish grin that took her breath away. “I learned so much.”

Rose turned back and promptly missed the dip of her red bobber in the water as a fish nibbled on her lure. It was difficult to concentrate when Stefan spread his blanket, sat upon it and began opening the basket he had brought. “My mother likes you, too. She was excited that I had a date with you and packed this meal for us.”

Rose pivoted to him, temper flashing. “This isn’t a date, Mr. Donatien.” She leveled her words at him, not wanting him to get any flashy, upscale ideas about a country girl.

“But I am with a very fascinating woman and I am enjoying myself. Surely that is a date.” He began unpacking, carefully placing a wine bottle that looked very costly, onto the blanket. He opened the bottle with a flourish and poured the wine into two very expensive-looking stemmed glasses. He unwrapped cheese and studied it. “My mother thinks she will make cheese here. She is happy and reliving her young life on a French farm, I think. My daughter is…happy in one way, not so in another.”

Rose watched as he sliced the cheese and a very-hard looking sausage, placing crusty bread rolls beside it. She couldn’t resist the temptation to ask, “Why isn’t your daughter happy?”