One Magic Night (8 page)

She parked the car and took the keys from the ignition.  When she unlocked the trunk, he walked up and scooped the bundle into his arms from under her nose.

"Lead the way," he said,   He held the awkward bundle and gazed at her.

When she unlocked the door to the school house and Ty entered behind her, the ends of his corn brushing the walls, he said, "Wow.  I remember that smell. Chalk dust and pencils and industrial cleaner, and old sneakers moldering away in a locker."

A smile tugged at her lips. She began to climb the stairs, and Ty followed, his feet making solid sounds on the steps, the rustle of the corn leaves reminding her how close he was behind her.

She unlocked her door. The sun-warmed room was close, stifling, the smell of chalk dust even more pronounced. She gestured toward the far corner of the window wall behind the rows of desks. "You can put them there."

She went to open a window, and Ty knelt and laid his burden on the floor with as little jarring as possible. When she turned, he had straightened and was brushing the clinging bits from his arms. "What are you going to do with these?" His tone was mildly curious.

"Make a corn shock," she told him crisply.

"You’ll need help with that."

“I’m surprised you know what that is.”

“I’m a ranch hand, remember?  But corn shocks are a
little
before my time.”  He smiled that devastating smile at her.  Then he bent his head, his eyes searching out more unwanted seeds and leaves.  The sunlight from the windows gleamed on his black hair and highlighted its sheen. A dried leaf, its edges jagged, lay just at the top of his crown.  She reached up to brush it away.

“Thanks.”  The dark head lifted, turned, his eyes sweeping the room. They lingered briefly on the elaborate bulletin board display, swept over the washed, green chalk board, and swung to the table where the things she had bought Friday lay, the coiled hemp rope to tie the shock, the paper cutouts of zany Halloween creatures to decorate it.

He nodded toward the rope. "Looks like you're all ready. Might as well get this started." He nodded at the pile.  "I'll hold, you stack."

He leaned over the stalks and picked them up one by one, holding them upright until he was almost hidden and the bundle in his arms was so big that he couldn't bend over it. "Hand me some more, will you?"

Standing behind that bundle of dried corn, he looked very human. She felt her mouth curving at the sight of the glossy hair being showered once more by dry leaves. His utterly unselfconscious attitude about his appearance disarmed her.  It didn't matter to him that he looked more like a farmer every minute. The sophisticated Hollywood producer had vanished. She had a feeling she was glimpsing a warm, deeply intelligent personality, a man who had not lost his perspective.  He was completely lacking in a sense of self-importance.

He flicked an impatient, bright-eyed look at her. "Well, come on, lady, lend a hand. I'm not your private scarecrow."

She laughed, the wry words increasing her liking for him. "I'm sure every girl in junior high would discover a new enthusiasm for social studies if you were.”

He grimaced. "Thanks for adding cradle-robbing to my sins."

His self-deprecation made her guard drop even more.  "You wouldn't have to rob a thing. By fifth period girls would be dropping into your arms like flies seeking honey."

"Great, just what I wanted to hear, that I'd be a real heartthrob for the teeny-bopper set." He frowned, was quiet for a moment. "What are your kids like?"

She was startled by the question. What did he care what kind of students she had? She almost gave him a noncommittal answer and then reconsidered. It was a safe topic. "They come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of talent and need."

"Need?"

"Yes, need," she repeated thoughtfully. "If they don't get adult attention at home, they crave it at school. And of course, they need to be accepted by their peers, to be one of the crowd. Junior high kids are restless, driven. My adviser in college used to tell me there are only two kinds of people in junior high, the quick and the dead. The kids are the quick, and the teachers are the dead-tired from trying to keep up with them.”

He laughed, his Adam's apple moving in his darkly tanned throat. Then he controlled himself and said, "Check the bottom of this mess, will you? If we don't keep it even, we won't have a chance of getting the thing to stand up by itself."

She gave him the last stalk to hold, made a quick perusal of the stack, and walked to the table to pick up the rope. He looked at her sleek body clad in the well-fitting jeans, the supple way she moved as she bent over the table, and said in a faintly smooth tone, "What about the boys?  “Don't they enjoy having a young, attractive, unattached woman teacher to look at every day?"

She stood in front of him clutching the rope.  “If I’m going to be honest, I have to tell you, most of them call me Mom.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shook her head.  “One of the boys started it and the rest just fell in.  I don’t mind.  Mom is a lot better then other names boys can call their teachers.” 

"I’m sure that’s true.  Thread the rope through in front of me while I've got a good hold on the shock."

Every one of her senses clamored as she stepped in close, took an end of the rope, and nudged it between his waist and the stalks. The back of her hand registered the feel of smooth cotton over the hard flatness of his stomach. Warmed from his exertion, he exuded a faintly male smell that mingled with the dry leaves and tantalized her nose.  Her fingers were clumsy. At last, she got the rope around the stalks and pulled it tight. He came from behind the stack to help her, taking the rope to pull it taut while she tied the knot. When it was secure, he said, "How is this thing supposed to stand up?"

"You flare the bottoms like this." She leaned over and tugged at several, making them bow outward. The stack lurched crazily to one side. Ty caught it and gave her a bland look.  "Got any other suggestions?"

"Hang on to it for a minute while I do the other side."

"Are you sure the Pilgrims went through all this?"

She smiled. "They didn't shock the corn, at least not the first year. They ate what the Indians gave them."

He looked down at the honey-blond of her hair, a flow of molten gold over the shoulder of the blue T-shirt she wore. The ends of satiny hair lay just above the jutting curves that pressed against the thin cotton. She seemed all of a piece with the earth colors of the corn shock they had made, all tones of cream and gold, her skin lightly tanned. What had she done this summer? Who had she spent her time with? That sweet-uncle type she was seeing? Something kicked deep in his gut.

She finished tugging at the stalks. "Let go of it. Let’s see if it will stand up by itself."

He stepped back and thrust his hands in his pockets. The shock stayed upright, and she looked pleased. He said, "You need a few pumpkins scattered around.''

A faint pink color tinged her cheeks. What had he said to make her color up like that?

"I forgot to get them from Stan."

He kept his face noncommittal, trying to ignore the graceful way she came up from the floor with her back straight and her chin high. He remembered how that slim, womanly body had yielded against his for just a moment.  "Why did you forget them?"

Her eyes flickered away. "You distracted me."

He tightened his muscles, forcing himself to maintain his lazy stance. He had sworn he wasn't going to scare her off this time. This time, he was going to let her set the pace, especially after she admitted being attracted to him. But his hands ached to touch her.  But he couldn't; he knew that. She would hate him. He tried a delicate probe. "I could apologize for distracting you,"
he saw the betraying flicker of her eyelashes, and steeled himself to go on, "but I'm not going to. I'm not sorry." He leaned back against a desk, doing his best to look relaxed, but underneath he was taut as a string. "I'd like to disturb you a lot more."

"Don't." Her voice came out low and husky.

He curbed his impatience. She was feeling something; she’d said so. She was breathing faster than normal, and her cheeks were still pink, but she hadn't moved from where she stood, a foot in front of him, her rear pressed against the table. If he took a step forward and she didn't move, he could trap her there.

He didn't want her that way. He wanted her to come freely into his arms, her face filled with joyous delight. Was that pure fantasy? It must be. But that image of her smiling, her eyes sparkling, spun inside his head like a looped film.

She gripped the table with her hands, and every part of her rational mind screamed to her to move, get out. But the other part of her, the part that longed for the brush of those long, lean fingers, the press of that well-shaped mouth on hers, whispered to her to stay, stay and find out what he was going to do.

His face and his body were cool, unreadable. Then his low voice said softly, "You took a step toward the truth just now.  Take another.  Come here."

The soft promise of sensuality in his words made shivers prickle up and down her spine.  "Not a good idea.”

Not a muscle moved; not an eyelash flickered. "Why not?"

She turned away and walked to the window, stood there with her back to him, staring out at-what? What was she seeing? He'd bet it wasn't the school yard.

"This isn’t the time, or the place, and…I’m empty."

The bleak words tore at his soul. If she had cried and screamed, she couldn't have affected him more. Those words told of grief and pain.  He went and stood behind her, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze caressing that beautiful head. He ached to know what was going on underneath that heavy, silky hair. "Why are you empty?"

She whirled around. "Because someone took it all away.  Someone very like you." Her brows squeezed together in anguish, her eyes tortured. He stared at her, wondering how much longer he could keep from pulling her into his arms. The room vibrated with a humming silence.

Afterwards, he couldn't have said whether she moved or he moved. It was a simultaneous coming together, a movement by two parts of one mind. His arms went around her and he pulled her close and stroked her back. "Leigh," he murmured huskily, "I'm very sorry.  More sorry than I can say.

She shook her head and tensed her body, creating a space between them. "Why should you be? You don't even know me," she said, raising her head to look at him.

"Don't I?" he said softly, his voice huskily disturbed as he bent to let his lips brush hers. The words came into her mouth on his warm breath. "I know you. You've been inside my head, living with me for years. I just couldn't find you."

He took her in his arms and brought her up against a strong, rock-hard body. A delicious sense of relief exploded inside her. Here was a man she could lean on, depend on, trust. She tilted her head to receive his kiss, savoring his warm protection. She had never felt such gentleness emanate from a man before, and she was drowning in it. Then, subtly, the tenderness changed and became passionate demand. His lips nudged hers, and as her mouth softened, his tongue slid inside. The warm, wet flesh caressed and probed in an erotic dance. A driving urge to respond made her answer with provocative thrusts of her own. He moaned, a half-agonized, half ecstatic moan. The soft male sound scaled her hidden barriers, and desire fountained upward.  For a long, heady moment, she received all his lovely intimacies and returned them with a hungry eagerness…until his hand moved just under the curve of her rounded breast. At the touch of his fingers on her flesh, she shuddered, broke off the kiss and thrust him away.

She didn't succeed. His grip was unyielding. She was locked against him at waist and hips. For a long moment he held her in his firm grip, his blue eyes dark. Then his mouth quirked, regaining its normal, mocking slant.  "And that from a lady who says she has nothing to give."

She put her palms against his chest to push him away, but on her first tentative push, his fingers tightened their grip on her hips, and the heat of his chest under her hands weakened her resolve. "There’s not enough left," she said coolly

He gave her a long, considering look. "By whose standards?  Yours, or mine?"

Memories came rushing in, and her blood cooled. "Let go of me," she said. Instantly, his hands fell away, but somehow she didn't feel the relief she should have felt. "This is a waste of my time and yours," she said, trying to maintain control of her voice. He moved slightly, and she felt the leap of her pulses.
Oh, no. I'm falling for this man, and what I feared has already happened.  There's nothing I can do except send him away.

She braced herself, curling her fingers into her palm. "Let's be honest with each other. You claim to care how I feel, to want to know me, to feel sorry for me. Yet you're perfectly willing," she hesitated, cleared her throat, "that is, if I read the signs right," She faltered, looked at him, gathered herself to go on.  Bluntness was always best and turned any man off, “to amuse yourself by taking me to bed for a one-night stand. Actually," her voice remained steady, by what miracle she didn't know, "you don't give a damn about me."

He didn't move a muscle. "Taking you to bed wouldn't be amusing."

Stung, she cried, "What do you think it would be?"