The Liar (26 page)

“I hope it’s going to be penne in a spicy tomato sauce with black olives and basil.”

She smiled as he walked back out to her. “And how did you know that’s one of my favorite pasta dishes?”

“I’m psychic?”

“I don’t think so. It was sweet of you to find out what I like and go to the trouble.”

“You can tell me I’m sweet after you eat it, in case it’s terrible.” Which, he could admit, was a genuine concern. “I didn’t make the cannolis, so they’ll be fine.”

“We’re having cannolis?”

“Which I didn’t make, and I didn’t make the loaf of Italian bread. And the salad’s from a bag o’ salad. I hit the wall on the pasta.”

“You’re the first man to make me dinner, and it sounds perfect.”

“What?”

“It sounds just perfect.”

“No, the other.” He circled a finger in the air, signaling a rewind. “I’m the first man to make you dinner?”

“Well, my daddy, of course, and Grandpa’s done some heroic grilling over the years.”

“I . . . If I’d known this was a first, I’d have bought fancy plates or something.”

“I don’t want fancy plates. I’ve had fancy plates. Food tastes the same on them as it does on everyday.”

He considered a moment. “I’ve got two reliables when I want to cook and impress a woman. One’s your basic steak on the grill, massive baked potato and the ever popular bag o’ salad. The other, when I seriously want to impress, is this chicken thing in wine. I’m pretty good at that one.”

“Why aren’t we having a chicken thing in wine?”

“Because I didn’t want to go for the usual with you. And I didn’t do this when you first got here because I wanted to give you time to settle in first.”

He took the wineglass from her, set it down, put his own beside it, then drew her in.

He thought she smelled like the mountain sunset. Fresh, breezy, with shimmering edges. He combed his fingers through the long, luxurious length of her hair, all those tumbling curls.

And reminded himself to go slow, go easy, as he laid his lips on hers.

He drew back. “That was just in case you thought I forgot to kiss you hello.”

“I didn’t think—can’t. Don’t— Oh, damn. Damn.”

The next thing he knew she surged against him. She knocked him back on his heels, kicked every rational thought out of his head, and flashed a wire in his blood in one fell swoop.

He stumbled back two steps before he regained his balance, wrapped around her to keep them both from pitching off the porch. And barely stopped himself from yanking the dress up and over her head.

She was an earthquake, an explosion of reckless heat shooting bolts of fire everywhere. His brain fogged in the ash and smoke.

He whipped her around, slapped her back to the post. Now that his hands were free, he used them, shooting them under the skirt of her dress, running them over her hips, over the heat, down again.

She quivered, moaned against his mouth, then nearly snapped the last thin thread of control by rocking her hips against him.

He had to pull back. “Wait.”

She had a good grip on his hair, and pulled his mouth back to hers. “Why?”

He got lost again, for a moment, for a lifetime. “Wait,” he repeated, then rested his forehead on hers. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“No, me. I meant me.” He took that breath, then another. “Okay.”

She obviously took that as a green light as she pulled him back again.

“No, I mean . . .” He solved his dilemma by gathering her up, holding her close. Jesus, did she have to be so long and soft and slim right this minute? “Okay. We’ll take a breath. We’ll just take a couple breaths.”

He had steady hands, he thought. Rock steady. Freaking surgeon-steady hands. So why were they unsteady now?

He gripped her shoulders with them, drew back an arm’s length. Just look at her, he thought, those big, dazzling eyes, nearly purple in the softening light.

He reminded himself how rough she’d had it, how rough she had it still.

“Maybe we should . . . I don’t want to rush you.”

Something sparked in those twilight eyes, and caused his throat to go dry as dust. “Did it feel like you were rushing me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. The thing is, if we don’t take a minute, a breath, a . . . something, we’re going to end up naked on the porch.”

“All right.”

“Okay, so . . .” He dropped his hands, took a cautious half step back. “We’ll take a minute.”

“I mean it’s all right if we end up naked on the porch.”

He lost his breath again. “You’re killing me, Red.”

“I know I’ve had what we could call a drawn-out dry spell, but I’m pretty clear on the signs and signals when a man wants me. And if I wasn’t, you made it pretty clear you wanted me that one day in my mama’s kitchen over a Coke.”

“If I didn’t want you I’d be an idiot, and my own mother’s proud to say she didn’t raise any.”

“I want you back, so that seems good news all around.”

“That’s . . . yes, incredibly good news—and I got those signs and signals just fine, too. The thing is, considering the circumstances, the plan was to soften you up some with dinner here, and get you to go out with me a couple more times, then get you into bed.”

She leaned back on the post, nodded. Something he recognized as amusement moved into her eyes. “And I’m guessing you like having plans, personally and professionally?”

“Things work better, usually, when you do.”

“You don’t like surprises?”

“I’m fine with them.” Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday. Let’s get naked on the porch. Oh God.

“I’m good with them,” he managed.

“But maybe it takes you a minute to adjust to a surprise.”

“Apparently.”

Now she smiled, slow and easy.

Twilight eyes, magic mermaid hair, a long, long-stemmed rose of a body.

Yeah, she was killing him.

“Would you like to hear my plan?” she asked. “It’s sort of spur of the moment, but I think it’s workable.”

“I’m all ears.”

“My plan is we just skip over all the softening up with dinner and going out a couple more times. We come back around to that if we both want, after we get naked on the porch.”

“You’re nothing but a surprise. But no.”

She sighed. “You’re a hard nut to crack, Griffin.”

“I mean no naked on the porch. We can do better this time.”

“There’s better than naked on the porch?”

“This time.” This first time, he thought. This first surprising time. “I haven’t shown you the second floor.”

She angled her head, and her smile deepened. “No, you haven’t.”

“I’d like to.” He held out a hand. “I’d really like to.”

She put her hand in his. “I’d like to, but I might be a little rusty.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” he said as they walked back into the kitchen. “But don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

She paused, tapped the purse she’d set on the counter. “Isn’t it interesting how my mama gave me a condom to tuck in here before I left tonight?”

“Oh. Man.” He scrubbed his free hand over his face. “I’d thank her for the thought, but it’d be embarrassing. Anyway, I’ve got that covered. Ha.”

“All right, then.”

“We can take the back stairs.”

“I forgot there were back stairs.” Delighted, she turned with him. “Don’t you love a house with back stairs?”

“I love this one. I’m going to update them, but they’re sturdy enough.” He flipped on a light—a single bare bulb. “Update that, too.”

“Won’t that be wonderful, but right now it’s all shadowy and spooky. I like how it angles off here so you can go right or left.”

“We’re going left.”

“How many bedrooms up here?”

“There were seven on the second floor. I’m making it five. It’s down to six now, once I decided to put the master in the front.”

“With that wonderful covered veranda.”

“Right. And the third floor’s more a maze of small rooms and odd angles. Something to deal with later.”

She felt so calm. She hadn’t expected to feel so calm, she realized, as they walked the wide, shadowy hallway. So easy about it all. Excited, yes, God, yes, but not jumpy. And not the least bit shy.

Something about him, she thought, just smoothed away the jitters.

“Oh! Double doors. It’s elegant and still simple enough to fit the rest.”

“It’s not finished,” he began, then opened the doors, flipped on the light.

“Oh, but it’s wonderful. It’s going to be wonderful. Look how the evening light pours in those doors, and the fireplace—the black granite. It’s powerful. It’s a statement.”

“Haven’t decided on the wall color.” He nodded toward a wall where he’d painted wide strips of varying tones. “I found the iron chandelier at a flea market. Refinished it, rewired it. I’m looking for other lighting to complement it, but right now I’m just using some family castoffs. Bed’s new though. Well, the mattress is new. I found the bed a couple weeks ago. Flea market again.”

She ran her hand along the curved footboard. Smooth, she thought, sturdy and simple. “It’s beautiful.”

“Chestnut. Pretty wood. It just needed some work.”

“Almost everything does. What did you use before?”

“Sleeping bag on an air mattress. But with my plan to get you up here, I figured I’d better get an actual bed. Glad I didn’t wait on that.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” She turned to him. “I’m glad we didn’t.”

He moved over, opened the veranda doors to let in the evening air, then flicked a switch to turn on the fire before he turned off the light.

“That work for you?”

“More than works. It’s perfect.”

He went to her, circled her waist. “You’re where you want to be?”

“Exactly.” With a little bit of wonder, she brushed a hand through his hair. “You’re a surprise, too, because I didn’t expect to be here with anyone, not for a long time.” She lifted her arms, circled his neck.

A long kiss this time, slow and long and deep. Like the first time, and like the first time, her body melted like a candle in the sun.

All these feelings, she thought, all these shivery little sensations. She’d forgotten more than she remembered, she realized, about being one of two.

She let herself flow with it, just flow and float like a dandelion puff on a summer breeze. There was a storm coming, oh, she could feel it building in her, but the soft and quiet came first.

She brought her hands to his face when he changed the angle of the kiss. And shivered with anticipation as she felt him lower the zipper on the back of her dress.

He traced a finger up her spine, down. The light touch had her arching toward him, purring in her throat before he brought his hands to the straps of the dress, brushed them off her shoulders.

The dress slid down and away.

“Pretty,” he murmured, and ran that finger, erotically rough with callus, along the lacy edge of her bra.

“My heart’s beating so fast.”

“I can feel it.”

“Yours.” She laid a hand on his heart, relieved when she felt it beat fast and hard under her palm. “Yours, too.”

She started to unbutton his shirt, let out a breathless laugh when her fingers didn’t seem to work right. “I’m shaking inside. Outside, too.”

He lifted his hands to help her, but she brushed them away.

“No, I want to do it. You’ll just have to tolerate some fumbling. I want . . .” She felt him quiver as she finally managed to open his shirt, lay her hands on flesh. And look up into his eyes. “I want everything.”

She broke him, snapped the last link on the chain of control. She gasped when he hefted her up, dropped her back on the bed. Covered her.

She was willow slim, and part of him fretted over hurting her. But even that dropped into the dark when she bowed up, gripping his hips, holding him against her center to center.

The sun bled away to dust, and a whippoorwill began its call for its mate.

The storm broke in her, a hot, whirling tempest. Greed rose with it, for more.

He had muscles like iron despite that rangy, swaggering build. His back rippled with them. Oh God, the feel of them under her hands. The weight of him pressing her down into the bed.

And hard hands, rough, impatient hands, all over her body. Not awakening needs—awakening seemed too tame a word.

It felt more like resurrection.

When his mouth closed over her breast, a scrape of teeth, a flick of tongue, and his hand slid between her legs, the orgasm tore through her, left her shocked and shuddering in its wake.

He didn’t stop, didn’t pause, but drove her up again.

And she was a pebble in a catapult, flying. Helpless and quaking. Her body was his now, open, and he took it, gave her more so sensations tangled together, needs became a single throbbing ache.

Then he was inside her, and pleasure ran through her in a flood.

She rode with him, beat for beat, her heart racing as his raced. Her sunset hair spread wild over the sheets, and her skin glowed in the smoky light of dusk.

“Shelby. Look at me.” His body screamed for release, for that last leap. But he wanted to see her eyes. “Look at me.”

She opened them, dark and dazed, looked into his.

“It’s everything,” he said, and let go.

S
helby’s first coherent thought when the haze cleared from her mind was: So
this
is what it’s like.

She felt heavy and light and limp, hulled out and filled up again all at once. She thought she could run a marathon, or sleep for a week.

Most of all she felt utterly and completely alive.

Griff lay flat-out on top of her, and that was just fine. She liked the weight of him even now, the sensation of his skin against hers, everything still hot and damp like after a strong summer storm.

In pretty contrast, the breeze fluttering through the open doors cooled her cheeks, made her smile. Everything made her smile. If she wasn’t careful, she’d burst into song.

“Gonna move in a minute,” he mumbled.

“You’re fine. It’s fine. Everything’s just really, really fine.”

He turned his head enough to brush his lips over the side of her throat. “I was a little rougher than I meant to be.”

“To my way of thinking you were just rough enough. I can’t figure if I’ve ever felt this used up or if I’ve just forgotten the feeling. You’re sure thorough, Griffin. You sure do good work.”

“Well, anything worth doing.” He levered up to look down at her in the flickering of the fire. “You weren’t rusty, by the way.”

Pleased, languid with it, she touched his cheek. “I forgot to worry about it.”

“I wondered what you’d look like, lying here like this. It’s better, even better, than I imagined.”

“Right this minute, everything’s better than I imagined. That might be due to that long dry spell, but I’m giving you credit for it.”

“I’ll take it. It’s cooling down. You’re going to get cold.”

“I don’t feel cold.”

“Yet. And I haven’t fed you.” He dropped a kiss on her lips. “I need to finish off dinner. But first . . .”

He rolled, and as he did, scooped her up. Her heart did a stuttering roll as he just lifted her right up as he stood.

Muscles like iron, she remembered. He was stronger than he looked.

“We should take a shower.”

“We should?”

“Definitely.” He grinned as he carried her. “You’re going to love the bathroom.”

She did. She loved the generous space, the oversized claw-foot tub, the earthy tones of the tile work. Most of all she loved the enormous shower with its multiple jets—and what could be done in all that heat and steam by two inventive and agile people.

By the time they were in the kitchen again she felt fresh and new and so happy she wished she’d learned to tap-dance.

“I need to let my parents know I’m going to be a little later than I said.”

“Go ahead. Though since your mother gave you a condom on your way out the door, I don’t think they’ll be surprised.”

She sent a quick text, asked if Callie had gone to bed without any trouble. Then as Griff had the heat going under the sauce again, and water on for the pasta, she channeled some of the giddiness into a quick additional text to Emma Kate.

Been at Griff’s for two hours. We haven’t eaten yet. Bet you can guess why. I’m just going to say WOW until I talk to you in person. Make that WOW twice. Shelby.

“What can I do?” she asked Griff.

“You can have that glass of wine we never really got to.”

“All right.” She picked up her phone at the signal. “It’s just Mama saying Callie’s sleeping like an angel and to have a good time. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Callie was a little put out she wasn’t going on a date with you. I said we’d ask you on a date.”

“Oh yeah?” He glanced back as he pulled the salad out of the refrigerator.

“Why don’t I take care of that? Do you have a salad set so I can toss it?”

“Huh?”

“A couple of forks, then.”

“I got those. What kind of date am I going to be asked to go on?”

“A picnic.” She took the forks, the bottled Italian dressing, smiled back at him.

“Is that a cold fried chicken and potato salad picnic or an imaginary tea party picnic? That would determine the dress code.”

“The first. I know a place. It’s not a far drive, and a short hike after that. I was thinking Sunday afternoon, if that’s all right.”

“Two pretty redheads and food? I’m already there.”

“She’s awful fond of you, Griffin.”

“It’s mutual.”

“I know that, it shows. I just want to say, she’s had a lot of adjustments to make in a short time, and—”

“Looking for trouble, Red?”

“It kind of goes with the territory. You’ve got a kindness in you, Griff. That shows, too. I just want to say whatever happens with us, I hope you’ll . . . well, I hope you’ll still take her on a date now and again.”

“I’m lucky to know four generations of Donahue/Pomeroy women. I’m crazy about every one of them, and not looking for that to change. Sass and strength, it runs right through all of you.”

“I’m still hunting up pieces of mine.”

“That’s bullshit.”

He said it so casually it took her a minute to look up, blink.

“Most people I know, and I might be one of them, would’ve been crushed flat finding themselves millions of dollars in debt, and through none of their own doing.”

He’d have heard the details, she thought. That’s how things worked. “I went along with—”

“I’m going to repeat myself. Bullshit. What you did was be young and impulsive and fall for the wrong man. As wrong as it gets, from where I’m standing.”

“I can’t say you’re standing in the wrong place on that.”

“Then instead of staying crushed when you find out fully how wrong, find yourself on your own with a kid and buried under a mountain of debt, you pushed up the weight and started hacking away at it. And that little girl? She’s happy and confident because you made sure of it. I admire the hell out of you.”

Staggered, she stared at him. “Well. Well, I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Plus you’re really hot”—he dumped pasta in the boiling water—“which is no small appeal.”

That made her laugh, go back to tossing the salad.

“You could answer a question for me, though, one that’s bugged me awhile.”

“I can try.”

“Why’d you stick? You weren’t happy, and it doesn’t take much to deduce he wasn’t much of a hands-on father with Callie. Why’d you stick?”

A fair question, she decided, under the circumstances. “I thought about divorce, more than once. And if I’d known all I know now . . . but I didn’t. And I didn’t want to fail. You know my granny was just sixteen when she married my granddaddy?”

“No.” It shocked the sensibilities. “I had to figure young, but that’s a baby.”

“They’ll be married fifty years before much longer. Half a century, and you have to figure they had some rough times in there. Her mama was but fifteen, and she and my great-granddaddy were together for thirty-eight years before he was killed when a semi crashed into his truck and three others one night, the winter of 1971. My own mama was still shy of eighteen when she married Daddy.”

“Women in your family stick.”

“The men, too. Oh, there’s been some divorces, and some of them bitter, cousins and aunts and so on scattered through. But I can trace a direct line back, seven generations of women I know of, and not one of them raised a child in a broken home. I didn’t want to be the first.”

She shrugged, picked up her wine again, determined to lighten the mood. “Now, it’s true enough my great-great-granny on my mama’s side had three husbands. The first died fighting a blood feud with the Nash clan. He was only about eighteen when—so it’s said—Harlan Nash bushwhacked him and shot him in the back, leaving my great-great-granny with three children and another on the way. She married her first husband’s third cousin, and had time to make two children with him before he died of a fever. Then she up and married a big Irishman named Finias O’Riley. She was about twenty-two, and bore him six more children.”

“Wait, I’m doing the math. Twelve kids? She had twelve kids?”

“She did, and unlike a lot of women of her time and place, lived to the age of ninety-one. She outlived five of her children, which must have been a burden, and lost her Finias, who was sheriff around here, so Forrest comes by his tendency natural, when she was eighty-two and he eighty-eight. My great-granny, who lives in Tampa, Florida, with her oldest daughter, would say she— Her name was Loretta, but they called her Bunny always.”

“Prophetic, considering.”

With a snicker, Shelby lifted her glass again. “They say she might’ve married again, as she had a gentleman caller, a widower who’d bring her flowers every week, but he died before she’d made up her mind. I’d like to think I could draw a gentleman caller at that age.”

“I’ll bring you flowers.”

“Then if I don’t see you on my doorstep in sixty years, I’m going to be disappointed.”

•   •   •

I
T RELIEVED HIM
that dinner was not only edible, but actually tasty. She entertained him with the story of Melody’s eviction from the salon. He’d already heard a couple of versions, but hearing it from her, could visualize it perfectly.

“What’s her problem anyway?”

“She’s been a bully since I’ve known her. Spoiled, superior, with that mean streak you mentioned yourself. Her mama doted on her, and does still. Pushed her into all the beauty pageants, even as a little thing. And she won most of them, then sashayed all around being important.”

“Sashayed. Not a word you hear every day.”

“It suits. She almost always got what she wanted whenever she wanted it. Can’t say she’s shown any gratitude for it. She’s hated me for as long as I can remember.”

“Probably because she knew if you’d entered those pageants, you’d have beaten her little beauty-queen ass.”

“I don’t know about that, but I beat her out of some of what she wanted. Simple as that.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, silly things—or they are now. A boy she wanted when we were about fourteen, and he liked me. She got Arlo Kattery to beat him up—I know she did, but Arlo wouldn’t say. I made captain of our cheerleading squad—all through high school—and she wanted that. Grandpa fixed up this old clunker of a Chevy so I didn’t have to walk home after practice. She spray-painted ‘slut’ and worse all over it. I know it was her, because when I called her on it, Jolene looked so damn guilty. Same as she looked guilty the night of the Homecoming dance when I got voted queen and the windshield of that old Chevy was busted up, and the tires slashed.”

“She’s sounding more pathological than annoying now.”

“She’s just mean. I guess some people are, and if they never pay a real price for it, they just get meaner. She doesn’t worry me, especially since she’s banned from the salon and day spa.

“You made a wonderful meal, Griffin. Maybe you are a good catch.”

“I’m telling you.”

“I’m going to help you put this kitchen back to rights, then I need to get on.”

He traced a finger down her arm. “No way you could stay?”

He had those wonderful green eyes, those rough, skilled, thorough hands, and a way of kissing her that just put sparkles into her blood.

“It’s tempting, because that porch is still out there. It’s a lot more tempting than I thought it would be. But I wouldn’t feel right, not going home tonight to Callie.”

“Maybe I could have a pizza date with Callie between now and the picnic.”

“Oh, that’d be nice, but I’ve got such a busy week. I need to rehearse, and—”

“I wasn’t asking you.” Still he leaned over, kissed her. “Any problem with me taking Little Red for pizza?”

“I . . . I guess not. She’d really like it.” She rose, carried the plates to the sink. “Are you sure you want to take this on, Griffin?”

“Callie, or you?”

“We’re a set.”

“Nice set.”

He distracted her with talk of plans for the house while they loaded the dishwasher. He liked running his ideas and plans by someone who understood them, saw the potential.

“The one thing you need, and before much longer, is a porch swing. You can’t have a beautiful front porch like that and not have a front porch swing.”

“Front porch swing, check. Back porch?”

“An old bench, maybe a rocking chair. You could sit and rock and look out at the gardens you worked so hard planting.”

“I’m planting gardens?”

“With a wisteria arbor in my imagination, those pretty weepers.” She dried her hands after wiping up his cooktop. “I had a wonderful time. I don’t just mean . . . well, I wouldn’t want to leave out the tour of the second floor.”

He slid his arms around her waist. “I’ve still got a lot to show you.”

She let herself melt in, just sink into the kiss. And pulled back with real regret. “I really have to go.”

“Okay, but you’re going to come back for the rest of that tour.”

“I don’t think I could resist it.”

She picked up her purse; he plucked keys out of a dish on the counter.

“Oh, are you going out?” she asked as they walked to the front door.

“Sure. I’m following you home.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. I’m following you home. Argue if you want, I’m still doing it. The woman who threatened you was shot less than a week ago right outside where you were working. You’re not driving home alone after dark.”