Lovers and Strangers (18 page)

His single-minded concentration on getting the story, no matter what it took, earned him the respect of Saigon's international press corps and when his tour of duty was up, he mustered out of the Army and returned to Vietnam as a member of the civilian press. He reported on the action in Laos and Cambodia and was there when the U.S. finally pulled its troops out of Southeast Asia.

He'd been in most of the hellholes of the world since then, seen most of the world's ugly skirmishes firsthand. Nicaragua. The West Bank. Belfast. Iran. South Africa. Somalia. The Persian Gulf. Bosnia. Rwanda. Death and destruction were his beat and he was good at it. He was good because he didn't let it get to him. Didn't let it get under his skin like some guys did. He recorded the facts and nothing but the facts, and went on to the next story.

And then one day, standing on a street in Haiti, gathering material for what was supposed to be a simple background story on how the U.N. embargo was affecting the terrorized and poverty-stricken population of the island country, it had all gotten to be too much. The pain, the suffering, the death and destruction, the utter
wastefulness
of it all. The next thing he knew, he was back in Los Angeles, in the apartment where his brother had died, looking for a way to put everything back together.

And then Faith McCray had walked into his life with her innocent sweetness, her trusting nature, her open heart, and made him suddenly start to feel things again. Things like hope. And love. And need. And those feelings
hurt,
dammit. They burned into his soul, making him want things he couldn't have.

Things like a normal life. A family. A wife.
Her.

But the Faith McCrays of the world weren't for the likes of Jack Shannon. And he knew it. He was a washed-up has-been, nearly twenty years her senior. A dirty old man as of that afternoon, taking advantage of a naive young woman's unselfish offer of warmth and sweetness. She had her whole life ahead of her, brimming with plans and goals for the future. Most of his life was behind him and he had no plans at all, beyond getting from one day to the next as best he could. She had broken free of her past. He was mired in his.

And yet, despite everything, just the thought of her made him feel almost... happy. Worse, she made him feel he had a right to feel that way when he knew, full well, that he didn't. He knew he had to do something about it—about
her
—soon, before it all blew up in his face.

* * *

Faith showed up at his door later that night, after her shift at Flynn's, with a foil-covered platter in her hand. "I took a chance that you hadn't fixed yourself any dinner," she said, her smile both hopeful and hesitant, her eyes sweet and shy as she gazed up at him. "I've got potato skins, chicken wings and nachos, ready to be warmed up. And there are two Coronas in my bag," she added, touching the tan canvas-and-leather tote dangling from her shoulder. "I thought we might have a late supper and then, ah..." Uneasiness crept through her as he just stood there, looking at her as if he didn't quite know who she was. "But if you've already eaten, that's all right," she added quickly, beginning to feel foolish and stupid. "You can just put these in the refrigerator and heat them up again later. When you're hungry. I can, ah... I can stop by tomorrow and pick up the plate, or you can drop it off at Flynn's the next time you're there."

Oh, God, why hadn't she stopped to think? He hadn't asked her to come back tonight. He hadn't said one word about seeing her again. Sammie-Jo was right, she was reading way more into his attentions to her than was actually there. It had just been sex, after all. A one-night stand, just like she'd said.

"I'm sorry. It's late," she said, taking a step back. "You were probably already in bed." He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and nothing else. "Asleep," she amended hastily, embarrassed. "I shouldn't have bothered you."

Jack shook his head slightly, as if coming out of a trance. "No. No, you aren't bothering me."
Driving me crazy, but not bothering me.
"I was just working." He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "Trying to work, anyway." If he was honest, he'd tell her he hadn't put a usable word down on paper in months.

"Oh, I'm sorry."
Working,
she thought with relief,
of course.
He'd told her he worked at night. "I didn't mean to interrupt your writing schedule. I'll go."

"No." Jack reached out and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. "You're not interrupting anything, Angel." She could hardly interrupt a schedule he didn't have. "In fact, I was just thinking about heating up a can of soup. Maybe throwing together a sandwich." He drew her across the threshold of his apartment as he spoke. "This is much better, believe me."

"I could just leave these here with you and go," Faith protested as she let herself be drawn in. "That way you could eat quickly and get back to work. Or eat while you work. Really, I'll go. I don't mind."

"I'd
mind," Jack said and closed the door behind her.

Thus proving, he thought, what a weak-willed sleaze he really was. He had the perfect opportunity to send her packing, to put an end to an impossible relationship that should have never gotten started in the first place. A word or two, that's all it would have taken, and she would think him a cruel, heartless monster. A user. She would be hurt, but she would get over it, more quickly now than later. And that, eventually, would be that. She would be safely out of his life. And he would be safe.

But he hadn't. He couldn't. Just one look at her, standing there at his door, smiling up at him like an angel sent straight from heaven, and he'd forgotten every one of the hard lessons he'd ever learned about caring for anything but his own hide. All he could think about was peeling her out of the pretty little dress she had on and making love to her again. Repeatedly.

"You're a hopeless degenerate, Shannon," he muttered, disgusted with himself.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm starving." He waved her toward the kitchen. "And the microwave's that way."

"It'll only take a minute," Faith promised, and hurried into the kitchen ahead of him. She was almost giddy with delight, reveling in the chance to "do for her man." Although, she reminded herself as she peeled the foil from the plate, he wasn't her man. Not really. Not yet. And maybe—most likely—not ever. But a girl could dream, couldn't she?

"I hope you don't mind," she said when she heard him come into the kitchen behind her. "The chicken wings are extra spicy." She stabbed the On button with the tip of her finger and turned around. "I've discovered lately that I really like spicy food."

Jack couldn't help but smile back at her. She seemed to find such joy in the small pleasures, such delight in new experiences. "Is that all you've discovered you like?" His eyebrow rose. "Lately?"

Faith felt her insides melt like sweet butter on a baked potato. "I like coffee, too," she said with a shy smile. "Well, as long as it has lots of milk and sugar in it. And dim sum. And dancing. And..."

"And?" Jack prompted, staring at her lips.

Faith's courage failed her. "I have two Coronas in my bag." She turned away, reaching out to drag the tote across the counter toward her. "I remembered you had a Corona at Flynn's, so I thought that would be a safe choice." She pulled the two beers, cushioned in a bar towel, out of her bag and set them side by side on the counter. "Maybe I'll discover I like beer, too."

"Maybe," Jack agreed. He picked up one of the bottles by the neck and twisted the top off. Lifting it to his lips, he took a long, lazy swallow, downing nearly a quarter of the contents. Then he reached out, snagging Faith around the waist, and drew her to him. "Let's find out, shall we?" he said, and kissed her.

Faith went utterly still for a moment, and then she opened her mouth the way he'd taught her and kissed him back. She tasted the beer first—sharp, yeasty and not entirely unpleasant—and then the flavor of man came through, of Jack, obliterating everything else. His mouth was hot and heady, the flavor dark and wild. Untamed. Tempestuous. Demanding. Needy.

Faith wrapped her arms around his neck, her body going pliant against the hardness of his, and gave. Everything she had. Everything she was. It was his for the asking. For the taking. Unconditionally.

He took, ravenously, devouring her soft, willing mouth with a seemingly insatiable hunger. His arms were tight around her, like a vise, holding her to him as if he were afraid she might try to escape or disappear into thin air. She could feel the beer bottle in his hand, cold against her back through the thin material of her dress, and his erection, rock hard against her stomach. She went up on tiptoe, tilting her hips into his, pressing her breasts into his bare chest, trying to get closer, trying to give him whatever it was he needed so desperately.

I'm here. I'm here,
she thought, curling her hands into his hair to anchor him even more tightly to her.
I'm right here,
she telegraphed silently.

And then the buzzer on the microwave sounded, three sharp beeps that seemed to echo like cannon fire through the tiny kitchen. Jack dropped his arms and stepped back.

"So," he said, lifting the bottle to his lips. "Do you think you might like beer?"

Faith stood just as she was for a moment, struggling to understand. Had she imagined the desperate need? Was she so needy herself that she had somehow transferred her feelings to him, conjuring up the emotions she wanted him to feel?

And then she realized that the hand holding the beer bottle wasn't quite steady. And his breath was coming just a bit too fast. She could see the pulse beating at the base of his neck, hammering against his skin. The small dark nipples hidden in his chest hair were as rigid as hers were beneath the fabric of .her simple rayon challis dress. The fly of his jeans was stretched as tight as the skin of a drum.

He wasn't nearly as unaffected as he wanted her to believe. The knowledge comforted her in some way she couldn't even begin to explain, making it easier for her to follow his lead. If he wanted to pretend the kiss hadn't affected him, then so be it.

"Looks like dinner's ready," she said, reaching up to open the microwave. "Why don't you get a couple of plates down while I find some silverware and napkins."

"Silverware's in the drawer next to the sink," he said gruffly, embarrassed by the fervor of his passion. He'd acted like an untried boy, desperate for his first taste of a woman. "Paper towels will have to do for napkins," he said, indicating the roll of paper by the sink.

Faith nodded, silently accepting the plates he handed her. They were cheap plastic, the kind people bought to make do until they got real ones. For some reason, they made her want to cry. "Do you want to clear off the dining room table or should we eat right here?"

"Here's fine." It was where he usually ate, unless he was sitting in front of the television set watching two teams—any two teams—compete against each other.

Faith dished up a plate for him, giving him the lion's share of what she'd brought from Flynn's.

"That's all you're going to eat?" Jack indicated the two small chicken wings and single baked potato skin on her plate.

"I'm not very hungry."

Neither was he, but he picked up a potato skin and bit off the end. It tasted like sawdust. Jack chewed and swallowed, reaching for the beer he'd set down on the counter. He tipped it to his mouth, watching Faith as she pretended to nibble on a spicy chicken wing. Her fingers were slender and white against the fried poultry. Her lips were soft and red, bee-stung from his rough kiss of a moment before. Her tongue, darting out to catch an errant shred of meat, was small and pink and driving him crazy.

Jack slammed his beer down on the counter, making her jump. "The hell with this," he growled, and reached for her again.

Faith dropped her chicken on the floor as he grabbed her, but she didn't care. He was kissing her again, holding her as if he never wanted to let her go. She wrapped her arms around him and held on just as tightly.

"I want you." His voice was guttural with need. "Right here. Right now."

And this time, it seemed, he meant it literally.

Faith felt him lift her onto the kitchen counter, felt his hands slide up under her dress, skimming along her thighs to grasp her panties. He pulled them off in one continuous motion, dragging them down her legs, taking one of her leather thong sandals with them as he yanked them off over her feet. And then he was between her legs, spreading her thighs with his narrow hips, working frantically to free himself from his jeans. Faith held on to his bare shoulders and tried not to lose her balance.

"I want to be inside you," he whispered raggedly, his hands trembling as he unrolled a condom onto his turgid length. "I
need
to be inside you. I can't wait," he apologized as he took her hips between his hands. "I just can't wait a second longer."

She felt his penis between her legs, probing, and her own body became instantly moist in response. He slid his hands under her bare buttocks, positioning her for his entry. It was swift and hard. And, oh, so satisfying.

Faith arched like a tautly strung bow and let her hands slide off of his shoulders, reaching behind her to brace them on the counter. His thrusts were heavy, deep and grinding, and she met them, motion for motion, thrust for thrust. She'd never imagined making love could be like this. So basic. So primal. So glorious. She began to whimper softly, completely natural and un-selfconscious in her need. Jack answered that need, using his hands to lift her hips into each slow thrust, rubbing the swollen, sensitive flesh of her vulva against his pubic bone. Faith's whimpers grew louder and quicker, until she was panting, her breath pumping in and out of her lungs like a bellows, her body lifting to meet his, silently begging for release.