Unsuitable (8 page)

Carrie started awake suddenly, wondering what had disturbed her. She had a strong sense that she had heard a noise, but what? She listened carefully but there was only the sound of the rain, which seemed to have abated somewhat. She was about to dismiss the feeling and turn over when the sound came again—a hoarse, terrified cry.

Her first thought was of Johnny. Maybe something had happened with his traction or his cast. She got up hurriedly and ran out of the room, not even stopping for her robe.

Carrie paused outside Johnny’s room and opened the door softly. She could see his outline, and in the unusual lighting he looked as though he were strapped to a medieval instrument of torture. He appeared to be sleeping normally, though, and she was about to leave again when he stirred and turned his head.

“Dad?” he asked.

“No, John. It’s Miss Maxwell. Are you all right?”

He craned his neck to see her. “Yeah, I’m okay. Why? Is anything wrong?”

“No, I’m sure not. I just thought I heard a noise, that’s all.”

“Like what?”

Carrie was sorry she had started this. Now the child was alarmed. “I don’t know, like a shout, or something. I probably dreamed it.”

He struggled to a sitting position. “No, no, you’d better check. Maybe it’s my father.” His voice wafted out of the semidarkness, sounding young and very concerned.

“Your father?” Carrie responded cautiously.

“He has bad dreams, Miss Maxwell. A lot. Please look in on him. You have to wake him up to stop it. He just tosses and moans if you don’t. Please, Miss Maxwell.”

“Settle down, John. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”

“You promise?” the boy said anxiously.

“I promise.”

Johnny relaxed under his covers and Carrie closed his door quietly. She walked to Jason’s room and hesitated with her hand on the knob. She bit her lip.

Was it right to invade the man’s privacy this way? But on the other hand, if he was in trouble wasn’t she bound to help him? And she had given Johnny her word. Carrie took a deep breath and entered the room.

Jason had left a kerosene lamp burning on his dresser, and she could see his prone figure on the bed. He was tossing and fighting the sheets, obviously in the grip of a nightmare. She could hear harsh, agitated breathing, augmented by low, whimpering sounds. Carrie approached slowly and stood next to the bed, looking down at him.

His torso was bare, the scarring clearly visible even in the dim light. He was covered with a slick film of sweat, which beaded on his chest and in the valley leading to his navel. The sheet was gathered around his waist and it too was damp with perspiration. His face gleamed wetly, his features knotted with pain, and his thick hair was matted and darkened with moisture, tousled by his struggling. He was murmuring under his breath, aborted snatches of words and phrases. As Carrie watched he gripped the light blanket he had thrown aside, twisting it in his hands. Even in this condition he was beautiful, and the knowledge that he suffered this way often made the scene all the more poignant.

Carrie took a step forward. She couldn’t let this continue; the man was in anguish. She put out her hand tentatively and touched his upper arm. His flesh was hot, as if fevered, and the large muscle tensed under her fingers as soon as he felt them. He pulled away roughly, still muttering.

Carrie prepared for a battle. This was going to be more difficult than she had thought. He was very strong and completely in thrall to his own private terrors. He might injure her before he realized what he was doing, but she simply could not walk away and leave him at the mercy of the demons that tormented him in the dark.

She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and gripped both of his shoulders hard, shaking him.

“Wake up,” she said in the authoritative tone she used to discipline her students. “It’s all right; it’s just a dream.”

He sat bolt upright, throwing off her hands with such force that she almost fell to the floor. His eyes opened but it was clear that he didn’t see her.

“Trapped,” he said hoarsely. “They’re trapped! Got to get them out.”

Carrie grabbed him again, wrestling against his far superior strength, hoping that he would snap out of it. But he continued to struggle, nearly hauling them both off the bed. Finally in desperation she threw her arms around his neck, squeezing her eyes shut and holding him close.

“Jason, it’s Carrie. Carrie Maxwell. Look at me. The accident is over; you’re having a nightmare.”

She felt the exact second that he realized what she was saying. His body, which had been as rigid as wood, relaxed suddenly. He held her off, his eyes sweeping over her face.

“Carrie,” he whispered huskily, then pulled her back into his arms, holding her tightly as if to reassure himself of her presence. “Oh, Carrie, I’ve wanted to call you that since I met you.”

Carrie clung to him, painfully aware of his muscular back under her hands, the silken feel of his skin. He pressed her face into his shoulder and she tasted the salt of his fear on her lips.

“I thought...” he began, “I thought I saw the car with them in it.” He became inarticulate, unable to continue.

“I know,” Carrie murmured soothingly. She rubbed her cheek on his chest, unconsciously taking advantage of his momentary weakness to satisfy her longing for his closeness. “I know. Don’t talk about it.”

As Jason absorbed what had happened the quality of his embrace changed. His big hands roamed up from her waist, over her bare arms to her shoulders, and she felt their heat through the thin silk as if she were wearing nothing. He gathered her hair into his hand, lifting it from her neck, and she shuddered as his deft fingers traced the sensitive hollow at her nape. She felt him urge her backward, tilting her face up to his. As his mouth came down on hers she was parting her lips involuntarily to receive it.

“Kiss me,” he whispered, even as she did so. There was nothing tentative in his approach; he kissed her hungrily, overwhelming her with a passion as intense as his reaction to the nightmare. His mouth seemed to be everywhere, leaving hers to scorch her cheek, her brow, her throat, and then return to her lips. Carrie responded, gasping and a little frightened, but so in love with him that his eagerness was welcome.

Jason lifted her into his lap, cradling her like a child. He seemed to need her presence, nuzzling her hair, molding her to him as if trying to memorize her shape and texture. Then he began kissing her again, wildly, with an abandonment that carried her along on its rushing tide. Carrie lay back in his arms, unable to believe that she was in his room, in his bed.

He switched positions suddenly, pressing her back into the mattress as his kisses became even more frantic. Carrie tasted his tongue as his seeking hands found her breasts, stroking the nipples to rigid peaks through the slight barrier of her gown. He lowered his weight on top of her and she whimpered as she felt his readiness. He enfolded her bodily, his breathing harsh and ragged. Then he ran his hands up her thighs, pushing aside the folds of her gown impatiently.

“Help me,” he commanded, turning to lift the hem and pull it free. His fingers skimmed up to the neckline and then his face changed. Even in the insubstantial reddish light she could see that his expression went from sexual urgency to complete revulsion in an instant.

“Why are you wearing this?” he demanded sharply.

Carrie stared up at him dazedly, unable to reply.

“Why are you wearing her gown?” he rasped.

Carrie looked down at the nightdress, the lace yoke of which he held crushed in his hand.

“You gave it to me,” she whispered.

“Are you trying to torment me?” he said, agonized. He released her with such force that she fell back on the bed, stunned.

“You gave it to me!” Carrie repeated, louder, beginning to gather her wits. She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him as he passed a hand over his forehead. Then he slumped forward, his shoulders sagging. He was trembling visibly, a result of their interrupted lovemaking and a welter of emotions Carrie could only surmise.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said shakily. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Carrie said nothing, touched. Even in extremis his first instinct was to reassure her.

Jason got up slowly, throwing back the sheet, and stood barefoot next to the bed. A silent streak of lightning illuminated the room briefly.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice approaching its normal timbre. “Please forgive me. Of course I gave you the gown.”

“I don’t understand,” Carrie said tentatively.

He held up his hand, forestalling any questions. “I know you don’t. But I can’t explain now. Just believe that it has nothing to do with you. The problem is with me, only with me.” He rubbed his forearm across his mouth, where her taste still lingered.

“Can’t I help you?” Carrie asked, desperate to do something for him.

“You have helped me,” he said gently and she took a step toward him. He moved back. She stopped. Silence filled the room, broken only by the murmur of the departing storm.

“You’d better go,” he finally said, his voice heavy with resignation.

“Are you all right?” Carrie asked worriedly, unsure if she should leave him.

“I’ll be fine. What about you?”

She nodded and then realized that he might not be able to see her. “I’m okay,” she said softly.

“Are you sure?” he persisted. “I’m aware that I’ve given you...quite a time.” He turned toward the window, and his profile was outlined against the light from the lamp. His eyes were closed.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I’ll walk you back to your room.”

“That isn’t necessary,” she said quickly. His discomfort was painful to witness and she wanted to end it. “I can find my way back. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Carrie glanced back at him once as she went through the door. He was bent from the waist, his hands on his knees, like a runner in oxygen debt. He looked drained of every vestige of strength and she almost turned around and went back to him. But she restrained herself, shut the door and leaned against the corridor wall outside the master bedroom. She felt pretty weak as well and put her head back, pushing her hair away from her flushed face with unsteady hands.

She was in love with a man whose problems she couldn’t even begin to understand. What could she do? After tonight she would never be able to put him out of her mind. Just the memory of that brief time in his arms would be enough to keep her hoping for more.

Carrie straightened and headed for the guest room. Sleep first, and then she would think about all of it in the morning.

* * * *

Morning came too soon. Carrie was up with the dawn and showered in the guest room’s adjacent bathroom. She donned her clothes from the previous day with distaste, feeling like a Girl Scout who had run out of laundry at the end of the Jamboree. She glanced at herself in the mirror and frowned. Jason had commented on her customary neatness, and it made her a little uncomfortable to realize that his observation had been accurate. The wrinkles in her skirt and creases in her blouse made her feel like an unmade bed. She sighed and combed her hair, noting the blue shadows of fatigue under her eyes. It had not exactly been a restful night.

As she got her things together she looked out the window at the freshly swept, washed clean day. The storm had left a litter of leaves and small branches lying about, but the sky was clear and blue. The sun was out, dappling the trees and reflecting from the still pools of rainwater which remained after the wet night. Carrie glanced at the battery operated clock on the wall. Not quite seven. She would have plenty of time to get home and change before work. Maybe Jason wouldn’t even be up yet.

She opened the door cautiously and surveyed the hall. No one was around but she could smell coffee brewing. She walked into the kitchen, wondering what time Rose would arrive. There was a used cup and half empty glass of orange juice on the table. The remains of Jason’s breakfast? It looked as though he hadn’t eaten much.

Carrie was considering what to do about her car when the front door opened and Jason stomped through it, calling something over his shoulder. When he turned back he saw Carrie standing in the hall and said, “Oh, you’re up. Bill and I dug your car out first thing and it’s parked outside. Would you like something to eat?”

Carrie shook her head. “Just coffee would be fine.”

He was wearing a cable knit pullover in eggshell wool with tan cord jeans and lace up Wellingtons. The boots were caked with mud. He paused to remove them and then brushed past Carrie into the kitchen, not meeting her eyes.

I see, Carrie thought. We’re going to pretend nothing happened. Okay, two could play that game.

“The car was mired; it must have been quite a job getting it out,” she said easily, following him and leaning against the counter.

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” he answered. “I was up early so I figured I’d get it done.” In fact, he looked as though he hadn’t slept at all after she’d left him.

Jason poured Carrie a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Bill used the tow on the jeep,” he went on, obviously glad that she wasn’t going to broach the subject of the previous night. “That made the whole project a lot easier. The lawn’s a bog though, the stone walkway flooded right out.”