Moonlight and Shadows (15 page)

But she was hungry.

With a groan, he levered himself up on one
elbow and reached over to the nightstand closest to him, patting
around in the drawer until he found what he wanted.

Lila laughed when she saw what he offered.
“You keep a box of cookies in your bedroom?”

“For emergencies,” he said, kissing her
cheek before opening the gold box and checking the contents. “This
is the variety pack. Chocolate-covered mint, chocolate fudge
without mint, chocolate-chocolate chip, regular chocolate chip with
pecans, and chocolate-peanut butter swirls.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a variety.”

“I’m a consistent kind of guy.”

“Justine’s?” she guessed correctly.

“I harbor an undying love for the woman and
her cookie sheets.”

“And her cake pans,” Lila added, teasing
him.

“And her cake pans,” he agreed, grinning.
“So what’s it going to be? Fudge, chips, nuts, mint, peanut butter
. . . or me?” His eyes met hers, his smile slowly faded, and his
last words came out so wistfully she couldn’t resist.

Minutes later she was wonderfully glad she
hadn’t resisted. Loving Jack was sheer decadence, an indulgence of
the senses. Maybe she had been alone too long. Or maybe the man in
her arms was everything her heart had been telling her he was,
while her mind had been searching for problems and running from the
possibility of love.

When he touched her, she came alive. When he
gave himself to her, she felt fulfilled. What he took in return,
she didn’t miss. Hope grew where only denial had been before. Maybe
it was time to trust herself again. She certainly trusted Jack.

* * *

“Fudge, please.”

“We’re out of fudge. How about a
chocolate-peanut butter swirl?”

Lila rolled over onto her side to face him,
staring at him in disbelief. “You ate the last fudge cookie?”

“No, darlin’,” he drawled. “You did.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he repeated, not bothering to hide his
grin. “Are you having fun yet?”

She nodded with only the barest hint of a
blush. She couldn’t have imagined more fun if she’d had a year to
think it all up. Making love with Jack and sharing a whole box of
Justine’s cookies in bed had hit the top of her all-time-most-fun
list. He made everything natural, carefree. His lack of
self-consciousness was catching. He loved her.

Could it really be that easy? she asked
herself. To make love and find love in a morning? The nice, thick
barrier of skepticism she’d been carrying around for a year had
melted under his touch, leaving her wondering. But even the serious
nature of her musings didn’t dim her fancy for another cookie. She
peeked into the box resting on his abdomen.

“You can tell me about him now,” he said,
“if you want.”

She paused with her fingers hovering over
the last chocolate-chocolate chip. “Who?”

“You didn’t mention him by name, but you
said something about pretty terrible and not very good or
admirable.”

“Oh . . . him.” She withdrew her hand and
made a move to put some distance between her and Jack.

He stopped her by gently grasping her wrist.
“I can wait until you’re ready.”

She glanced up. “I’m not sure why I spoke of
him at all.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “He shocked me,
humiliated me, and in the end disgusted me, but no, he didn’t hurt
me.” She paused for a moment, then whispered the truth. “He hurt
his wife.”

Jack quietly absorbed the information,
watching her and feeling the sense of betrayal in her words.

“I—I didn’t know,” she said softly. “It was
a real mess. We were at the Washington Center last Christmas. She
came looking for him, found us instead, and went berserk. I never
blamed her, except for ripping my dress and almost costing me my
job. The whole sordid affair lasted less than three weeks and left
me feeling horrible until . . .” Her eyes slowly met his. “. . .
until this morning. Jack, I—”

Gazing at him, feeling the warmth of his arm
around her, she wanted to tell him what she’d learned while making
love. She wanted to tell him she loved him. But she’d used those
words once by mistake, and had thereby cheapened them. She’d had
some cockamamie idea that those three words would salve her
conscience. She’d thought saying I love you would vanquish all the
doubts she’d felt about going to bed with Robert. In short, she’d
been a fool.

Now she looked at herself, lounging in bed
with a man she’d been making love with all morning, not a shred of
guilt in sight, and no false claims of love. Maybe she shouldn’t
rock the boat.

Jack kept himself from pushing her to finish
her thoughts out loud, sensing her need for caution. He knew what
they had between them. He was willing to wait for her to come to
her own realizations in her own time. He had what he wanted. She
was with him, and he wasn’t letting her go.

“It won’t happen again, Lila,” he said,
turning her into his arms and cradling her love-warmed, naked body
against his. He brushed a kiss across her brow. When she lifted her
face, he covered her mouth with his own, more than willing to love
her yet again, to love any remnants of her doubts and pain
away.

* * *

Starvation woke her, manifested as a great
rumbling sound from the vicinity of her stomach. Woman, she
decided, could not live on love and cookies forever. She needed
sustenance, while Jack, it seemed, needed sleep.

Late afternoon sunshine bathed him in a
golden glow, burnishing his skin to a soft copper against the pure
whiteness of the sheets. He stretched the length of the bed, six
feet of delectable maleness. An unsolicited sigh escaped her lips,
and she had to remind herself what she was about.

Her gaze drifted over his still form once
more, taking in the sun-weathered lines feathering from the corners
of his eyes, the sweep of brown hair brushed away from his
forehead, the curve of the muscles in his arm, and she knew he was
the man she loved. When he awakened, she vowed to tell him.

She slipped from his side, making sure the
quilt covered him and resisting the urge to tuck the blanket around
him, to smooth his hair, maybe bestow a loving kiss on his cheek.
He’d be there when she returned from the kitchen.

Her slacks were crumpled on the floor next
to his jeans, but her blouse was nowhere to be found. She settled
for a sweatshirt she saw lying on his dresser. The heavy black
cotton shirt had big silver letters spread across the chest.
RAIDERS
. Lila grinned. He was a renegade
all right. Few people in Bronco territory had the guts to sport the
logo of the Denver team’s arch rival.

She found her shoes where she’d left them in
front of the aquatic bathroom. As she continued down the hall, she
expected at any moment to see her bra and blouse. But she made it
to the kitchen without finding them, and once she got there, she
forgot all about her clothes.

She stopped stock still in the doorway, her
eyes wide with mortification, and let the world crash down around
her for a good fifteen seconds before she whirled around and raced
away. She grabbed her coat and purse by the front door. She
stumbled across the porch and jumped down to the ground. Her car
earned her everlasting gratitude by starting on the first try, and
she tore down the driveway, leaving a plume of frozen snow in her
wake.

When she hit the county road, she lurched to
a stop and squeezed her eyes shut. She shouldn’t have run away. It
was childish, ridiculous, stupid—but she’d be damned if she was
going back.

“Mermaids,” she hissed, slamming her hand
against the steering wheel.

* * *

The banging of the front door startled Jack
awake. Who in the world? he wondered, pushing himself upright. His
first intention was to assure Lila everything was okay. But one
glance at the bed made it all too obvious what had happened.

He flopped back down on the pillows, biting
out a sharp expletive. A moment later he threw one arm over his
face, let out a deep sigh, and muttered the word again. If she
wasn’t the most confusing woman he’d ever met, she ran a damn close
second.

Hadn’t they just spent an incredible morning
together? He’d certainly never had another one even remotely
similar. He was about ready to nominate himself into the
Guinness Book of World Records.
Lord, but the lady did crazy
things to him.

Hadn’t he bided his time, been patient,
wooed and courted her? Yes. But hadn’t he also bulldozed her into
his bed that morning? Maybe.

Yet hadn’t she looked at him with those,
you-could-drown-in-them brown eyes of hers and all but told him she
loved him?

The last question hung in his mind for a
long time, unanswered. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything
anymore. He didn’t believe for a minute he was capable of falling
in love all by himself, or that he could have misinterpreted
everything they’d done and shared in the last few hours, let alone
the last month.

So now what? he asked himself. Get up? Get
dressed? Go after her? Or would that really make a fool of him?

Yes, the answer came to him. That would
really make a fool of him. The lady had run out on him. He had to
respect her decision, no matter how totally incomprehensible it
was. Totally. Incomprehensible.

He swore again.

“Goodness, Jack. I haven’t heard that kind
of language out of you in years.”

For a split second the feminine voice
paralyzed him. Then he groaned and swore again, repeatedly, under
his breath. He lowered his forearm an inch and peered over his
wrist, and his swearing gained some volume.

She stood there, tall and willowy and built,
silky blond hair flowing like a sheet of satin to her waist, her
only makeup a California tan, her blue eyes wide and innocent. “I
didn’t mean to scare your paramour off, honest. I just dropped by
to see you and do a few things, pick up a few things. I barely
caught her out of the corner of my eye before she disappeared. The
next thing I knew, the front door slammed. Didn’t you tell her
about me, Jack?”

She had Lila’s bra and blouse in one hand,
and Jack didn’t trust himself to speak. Women were funny about
things like that. Lila had probably hit the ceiling just before
she’d hit the front door.

“Don’t worry, Jack. I’m sure she’ll be back.
You were always the best catch around. She’ll be back.”

In silent fury he whipped the sheets back
and got out of bed.

“You’re looking good, Jack . . . real
good.”

He maintained his silence and his fury until
he had his jeans on and buttoned. Then he turned to his
ex-wife.

“Everybody looks good to you, Christina.
That was one of our problems.”

It had taken three days, but the shock was
finally wearing off. She’d seen his wife, or rather his ex-wife,
standing in his kitchen, holding up her, Lila’s, silk and lace
blouse and giving an odd look to the brassiere nestled over the
grapes, apples, and oranges in the fruit bowl. She’d recognized the
woman instantly from the sculpture in the bathroom, though when
she’d seen the sculpture she hadn’t believed anyone had hair that
flowed to her waist in unbroken perfection, or that anyone so
slender in the hips could be so abundantly endowed in the
chest.

She couldn’t believe he’d been married to a
blond goddess, or that after having had such a woman he’d be
content settling for a slighter model—a much slighter model. She
couldn’t believe she’d gotten herself in trouble over Christmas
break again, and she couldn’t believe where her bra had ended
up.

She felt shameless.

Thank the Lord she still had her job and no
explaining to do to anyone except herself. Fortunately, she was
barely on speaking terms with herself, so no explanations had been
required thus far.

Lila paused in her lecture for a second to
gather her thoughts. She looked over the sea of expectant faces in
the classroom, or maybe scattered ponds of expectant faces was a
truer description. Typically, a fair portion of her students were
busy doing something other than listening to her expound on
Wuthering Heights
, and a small but determined group were
equally busy doing absolutely nothing, unless playing Lost in Space
was the new rage on campus.

A hand went up in the front row, where most
of the hand raising went on, and Lila nodded to the young
woman.

“I don’t see the connection between Greek
mythology and
Wuthering Heights
,” the student began in an
authoritative tone, “unless you’ve skipped ahead in the syllabus to
the Bible portion of the semester and are trying to make a case for
Heathcliff as a tortured Messiah figure, which, quite frankly, Dr.
Singer, you’re going to have a hard time doing.”

Lila stared at the young woman in silence,
noting her very pale makeup, her carmine red lipstick, and the
seriously black dye job on her short cropped hair. The young woman
was “in,” an updated version of a beatnik, and she was right about
Heathcliff.

“Of course,” Lila agreed, sneaking a glance
at her watch. The big hand was on the twelve and the little hand
was on the eleven, exactly where they’d been when she’d gone for
lunch quite a while ago. So what time was it now, she wondered, and
what class was she supposed to be teaching?

“Greek mythology, of course,” she reminded
herself aloud, then quickly covered her mistake. “Greek mythology,
of course, has no direct relation to the theme of
Wuthering
Heights
, but an astute critical analysis of any piece of
classical literature will turn up recurring threads of meaning
referring to the human condition which have their base in ancient
mythologies and religions.”

“Of course,” the young woman replied, as if
she’d finally heard something worthwhile. “Is this what you’ll be
looking for on the essay portion of our exams?”