What the Heart Wants (5 page)

Suddenly the ignominy of it all crashed in on her, and she burst into tears.

Holding the sheet around himself, Jase reached for her arm and pulled her down beside him on the bed. “Don't cry,” he crooned, patting her back awkwardly and putting an arm around her so she sobbed on his bare shoulder. He dropped a light kiss onto the top of her head and patted her as if she were a child. “I can't stand to see you cry.”

But she was not a child, and delicious new feelings were creeping into her consciousness—a longing she'd never experienced before, impelling her to prolong her sobbing as a means of squirming closer to the wonderful warmth of Jase's bare skin.

He gave her a quick peck on the side of her face, his morning beard rasping against her sensitive cheek.

“Oh Jase, I love you so much,” she whispered, turning her face up to him.

“I love you too, Laurel.”

That was all the encouragement she needed, Shivering, she turned and caught his lips with her own, and sucked at them shamelessly.

It was like he caught fire. “Laurel…Laurel…”

Half rising on the bed, he pulled her closer, kissed her tears, then moved his mouth across her lips and throat. A blazing heat raced through her as he nuzzled the shells of her ears and stroked her arms and shoulders.

She could hardly bear it—the touch of his hands, the sliding of skin against skin. She'd never felt like this before—so happy, so alive. Sensuality might have been new to her, but she was ripe for it.

“I love you, I love you,” she repeated, kissing him, moving against him.

He pulled away for a second and looked at her. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

His voice was rough and his words so thick and slurred that it was hard to understand him, but she didn't care. The black glaze of his eyes and the flush on his cheeks were all that mattered. She moaned and swayed back into his arms, pushing against him so they sank down sideways, face-to-face, the upper half of his body covering hers.

She was in utter bliss, reveling in the feel of him—his lips, his arms, his hard body.

Her palms and the insides of her arms were prickling beyond bearing, so she rubbed them against his back, and when his hand caressed her hips through her skirt, she couldn't help but move her legs together for relief. Arching her neck backward, she rolled her head from side to side, making strange mewing sounds she couldn't suppress.

His mouth traveled down to the tops of her breasts, sensitizing her skin every inch along the way. On the return trip, he reclaimed her lips, while his hand went inside her blouse, touching and caressing.

Laurel's eyes closed, her cheeks burned, and she let her head roll back again, offering him her throat. This should never end. She wanted more.

The bed creaked as Jase shifted his weight so he was on top of her all the way down, with one of his legs between hers.

“Laurel, sweetheart,” he whispered, first circling the outer edge of her lips with the tip of his tongue, then coaxing them open and tracing the inside rim of her mouth. She shuddered and moaned again, which seemed to excite him even more. His breathing was loud and ragged.

He slipped his fingers under the band of her old-fashioned cotton bra, releasing it to tease her sensitized nipples with his tongue and teeth and hand. His other hand moved up under her skirt, bunching it and her half-slip up around her waist. When his hand moved back down, her panties ended up below her knees.

Her panties!
Laurel's eyes snapped open. An alarm bell rang in her brain.

“Jase—”

Immediately his tongue plunged in and out of her mouth in a sharp, swift movement that frightened her, then thrilled her. The alarm turned itself off.

Her blouse and bra disappeared, and one of his hands was at her breasts again, kneading them and manipulating the sensitive nipples. His other hand was below, stroking her stomach and the outside of her legs.

He circled and teased, approaching the juncture of her legs, then moving away, then returning—touching, teasing, exploring, and, finally, finding.

She whimpered and rotated her head in frustration. Her entire body had become a strange new creature, a wonderful new creature of sensation and delight. She moved tentatively against his hand, and he rewarded her with a low-voiced growl.

The alarm bell rang again as he moved his weight onto her more fully, and his hard erection rested against her stomach, with only the knit fabric of his briefs between them. She looked up at him. His eyes were glassy, his face flushed, barely unrecognizable. His hot hand reached down to free himself from his underwear, and she knew what would come next. He wanted to do the thing to her that her mother had warned her against, the thing that would ruin her forever in the eyes of God and her parents and all of Bosque Bend.

One of his hands continued to work her as the other eased down his briefs. She could feel him now, his maleness, against the flesh of her body. She didn't want to do this, but she didn't know how to get out of it either. Had she promised something that he would hate her for if she didn't follow through on? Maybe it wouldn't matter, because he could tell everyone he'd done it to her anyway.

He tried to wrap her hand around himself.

“Touch me, Laurel. Feel how much I want you.”

She froze in horror, and all her fine madness fled. She wasn't Juliet Capulet or Joan of Arc after all. She wasn't even a sexy heroine from one of Mrs. Bridges's paperbacks. She was plain, simple Laurel Elizabeth Harlow, the preacher's daughter, a good girl, and she wasn't ready for all this. Pulling her hand back, she tried to roll away from him.

At first he didn't seem to realize what was going on and grabbed at her hand again.

“No, Jase! Let me go!”

“I love you, Laurel. I adore you,” he crooned, returning to her breasts and face, but she twisted her head to avoid his lips and willed herself not to respond to his touch.

Her voice dropped to a soft plea. “Jase, we can't don't do this. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a long second, then released her hands and rolled off her to sit on the edge of the bed. His loud breath rasped in the quiet room as he stared at the far wall. “Get dressed. I'll take you home.”

Then, like a naked young Hercules, he strode down the hall toward the bathroom.

Laurel didn't need a second invitation. With a wary eye on the door, she pulled her skirt and slip down to cover her naked thighs, scurried about the room to retrieve her panties, bra, and blouse, and dressed faster than she ever had before in her life. Standing on tiptoe, she checked herself out in the small mirror over the bureau next to the door. Her hair was a mess, and her face looked like she had a fever.

After running her fingers through her hair to smooth it, she pressed her cheeks with her hands to bring down their color. Her lips were swollen and her eyes were dark and hollow, but there was nothing she could do about that. She'd have to sneak in the side door and stay in her room for an hour or so before facing Mama and Daddy.

There were probably marks on her body too, maybe bruises, but she was the only one who would see them.

Jase emerged from the bathroom. He'd pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt that he hadn't bothered to button. “You ready?” His voice was gruff and curt.

“Yes.”

“I have to get some shoes.”

She backed up as he entered the room, her eyes following his every move as he reached under the bed for his sneakers, but he didn't even glance at her. She might have been in Ethiopia for all he seemed to care.

She looked at the room one last time and felt sick to her stomach. It was all so sordid—the tuna tin of cigarette butts, the football posters and lurid pinups, the unmade bed.

“Let's go,” he said, standing beside the doorway, his face expressionless, the color high in his cheeks.

She walked slowly toward the doorway, nervous about passing so close to him, then scuttled through it quickly, ready to fight him off at any moment. Outside the weather had turned bright and sunshiny, a beautiful, uncaring morning full of promise and delight. What irony. How could the day be so lovely when, in less than half an hour, her whole life had turned upside down?

Jase held the passenger door to the pickup open with mock courtesy, and she slid gingerly onto the torn vinyl seat, remaining as close to the door as possible. Walking around to the driver's side, he lit a defiant cigarette before he got in, and started the engine.

They rode in silence for a few minutes until he spoke.

“Everything they say about me is true.” He sucked at the cigarette and floated the white smoke out through his mouth and nostrils. “I've been doing Ms. Shelton since before Christmas, and I'll do you too if you give me half a chance. You've had your warning. I'm bad news. Stay clear of me from now on.”

And she had stayed clear of him, which wasn't hard since he left Bosque Bend within a week.

When Sarah asked what had happened the next day at church, she'd said Jase had thanked her for her concern, asked her to pray for him, and driven her home.

But for days after that, her nipples tingled when her breasts moved against her starched cotton bra. And in her virgin bed at night, when the whole world was dark and anything was possible, she relived that morning at Jase's house again and again. The awkward ride home was a forgotten footnote as she reveled in the memory of his passionate kisses and the touch of his body.

What would it have been like if she hadn't made him stop?

J
ase took a couple of deep breaths, then punched in Maxie's number.

“Lolly's safe. Laurel Harlow's taking care of her, but I'm getting the idea Girl Child's being difficult.”

He could hear the exasperation mixed into Maxie's sigh of relief and knew exactly how she felt.

“You'd better come down here tomorrow morning. Call me as soon as you have a flight number and I'll pick you up at the Waco airport.”

“What about Lolly? Do you need me to bring anything for her?” That was Maxie—always on top of things. God knows what he would have done sixteen years ago if she hadn't already made plans to move to Dallas for a full-time job with an insurance company when the school board got him kicked out of town.

“Why don't you bring her a change of clothes, just to be sure, and I'd appreciate you packing a suitcase for me too. I'll probably stay here a while to scout out the local scene. It looks like Bosque Bend might have some business possibilities.”

“Will do. See you tomorrow.”

Jase replaced the mobile on the floor beside the bed and laid his head back on the pillow.

He'd check around to see what properties were available. If Walmart had a new store here, the town must be on the upswing.

Who was he kidding? He didn't need any small-town properties. What he wanted to do was keep busy so he wouldn't make an ass out of himself knocking at Laurel's front door and demanding to see his daughter before she was ready for him.

Damn, he and Girl Child were at loggerheads all the time now, and he loved her so much. She was his life. Thank God that Laurel had taken her in last night.

Laurel…

Something must be wrong with ol' Dave. Back in high school, he'd been a lazy sonuvabitch, always looking for the main chance, and in Bosque Bend, with her mother's money and her father's reputation, Laurel Harlow would've been it.

So—what was the divorce all about? Jase himself would never have let go of Laurel, and not just because of her father. He shifted uncomfortably as he remembered the curve of her breasts against the thin fabric of her shirt when she answered the door this evening, her moist red lips opening in surprise at the sight of him, the sway of her hips as she led him to the front room.

Taking in a deep breath of air and exhaling strongly, he tried to make himself relax.

Cut it out, Redlander. You don't stand a chance.

Laurel woke up happy and lay in bed for a few minutes longer just to savor the new day. Jase Redlander had visited her yesterday, and he would visit her again today. That smile, his voice, those dark eyes that seemed to absorb her into their depths—dear God, had she ever gotten over her a crush on him? How did he feel about her? Was there…a possibility?

But why was she lying around? She shouldn't let one precious moment of this precious day go to waste. Humming a kindergarten tune about sunshiny faces, she made up her bed and laid out her clothes, tan chinos and a blue-checked shirt—simple, comfortable, and practical—one of her favorite teaching outfits. Chalk smudges, stray ballpoint marks, playground dirt, you name it—this shirt had swallowed them all and washed clean.

She stared at it for a moment. As happy as she was, she wanted to put on something new, something different, something she'd never worn before, and she knew just where to find it. Kneeling on the floor, she opened the bottom drawer of her bureau, where she stored all the tees her students had given her that Dave had considered inappropriate for the wife of a banker to wear.

Yes, there it was, right on top—an orange shirt decorated with a fat, yellow happy face. She pulled it over her head, swiped on some lipstick, inserted tiny gold hoops through her earlobes, and tied her hair up in a scraggly ponytail, then checked herself out in the long cheval mirror in the corner of the room.

Now she looked the way she should.

Stepping across the hall, she opened the door carefully and peeked into the room. Sometime during the night, Lolly had straightened herself out and pushed the sheet to the foot of the bed, but she was still sound asleep. Let her rest, poor baby. She'd had quite an adventure yesterday.

Humming again, Laurel walked downstairs and went outside to search for the
Retriever
—for once, without first making sure no one was around. Lord help her, she was downright giddy. Would Lolly want to read the paper? Probably not. She was a teenager. All she'd be interested in was food.

Food.
Laurel froze in her tracks. She'd need to fix some kind of breakfast for Lolly.

“Miss Harlow? Are you okay?”

She whirled around, half expecting to get something thrown in her face, but it was Bosque Bend's least favorite author, Pendleton Swaim. Every now and then, he left his Spanish-style stucco castle on the corner and took a turn up and down the block.

Laurel stiffened.

The Kinkaids had not escaped their neighbor's sharp pen. Pen had portrayed Great-Grampa Erasmus—“Benjamin Franklin Chapman”—as the disinherited son of Quakers, who never looked back once he hit Texas. Instead, he married the daughter of a wealthy family in Waco and bought land up cheap from cotton farmers who couldn't pay labor costs for newly freed slaves. And when the first wife died, he married into an even wealthier family in “Garner's Crossing,” the whole time enjoying a string of mistresses, even financing the brothel one of them set up down near the tracks of the K-T Railroad he'd helped bring through town.

Mama was indignant, but Daddy shrugged it off, saying who knew what was research, what was rumor, and what Pen Swaim had made up out of the back of his head to titillate readers. Besides, having a colorful ancestor gave Mama bragging rights.

Laurel was embarrassed. She'd learned far too much about her heritage.

“Yes, thank you. I was—was just thinking about something.”

He gave her an understanding nod. “I was coming to see you anyway. I have a visitor, and I wonder if you would be kind enough to receive him.”

“Receive him?”

“Allow him to come in and soak up the atmosphere in Kinkaid House.”

“This has to do with the movie that's going to be made of
Garner's Crossing
, doesn't it? The one with the all-star cast?”

Art Sawyer had ballyhooed the news more than a month ago, and the town still hadn't decided whether to be thrilled or horrified. Sure, all the “fictional” characters being portrayed were long dead, but a lot of the dirty laundry that the town had rinsed out white as snow over the past hundred or so years would be hung out for everyone to see.

Swaim nodded. “Yes. And I do so want them to get it right.”

“I don't know—”

“I'll send him over and you can decide at the door.”

“Well, I—”

But Pendleton had moved on, leaving her talking to air.

It didn't matter. She returned to the house. Right now she had to come up with a nice breakfast for Lolly. And Pendleton's pal might never show up.

Hurrying to the kitchen, she laid the newspaper on the tile counter and went from cupboard to refrigerator to the pantry. Lolly deserved something special. But what sort of breakfast did she have the ingredients for—and know how to make?

How about French toast? On Sunday mornings, Mama would take over the kitchen and prepare it as a special treat for the family. Laurel was pretty sure she remembered the process. All it took was bread, eggs, milk, and—and cinnamon. Did she have cinnamon? She checked the far reaches of the pantry. Yes, back in the corner.

Channeling Rachael Ray, she gathered the ingredients together on the counter next to the stove and greased a pan. Then, to complete the scene, she tied on Mama's old apron, a frilly affair designed more for looks than utility. The second Lolly appeared, she'd turn on the burner.

This is what it would be like if Dave had stuck around and she were making breakfast for her own family. She turned on her coffee machine.

Easygoing, good-natured Dave. He'd been popular with Bosque Bend's social set and she'd thought he was the perfect fit. She'd have adored any children they would have had. Of course, parenthood would have complicated matters when he left her, because she had a good idea he would have abandoned the children too. Dave always was one to minimize his losses.

Shrugging off what might have been, she poured herself a cup of coffee and opened up the
Retriever
to catch up on what was happening in Bosque Bend, then paused. Why was she so excited about Lolly being here? Did she miss her parents so much? It had been two years since Daddy died and not quite a year since Mama found her own escape, but she felt like she'd been alone forever.

Today's issue was mostly ads, and, for once, Arthur Sawyer didn't have anything controversial to editorialize about.
Rats.
Just when she needed something to help pass the time.

She glanced up at the kitchen clock. When would Lolly wake up?

Laying her apron across the back of a chair, she wandered into the den and paused in front of the big teak bookcase to pull out her favorite high school annual, the one from her sophomore year. She cradled it against herself and traipsed upstairs to her room. Curling up on her bed, she went through it page by page.

First came the photos of the school administrators, each one with a separate page. Principal Nyquist's picture, which led the pack, was the same one he'd used for years. He couldn't help the way the camera angle emphasized his broken nose, a souvenir of his coaching days, but there was something about his squinchy eyes and the grim set of his mouth that had always put her off.

She turned to the pictures of the faculty members. Marguerite Chalmers Shelton, MA, English, smiled seductively out of a cunningly lit headshot from a three-quarters angle.

Laurel tilted the book to get it in a better light. Ms. Shelton wasn't really
that
pretty, once you looked at her feature by feature. Her eyes were sort of an odd color, a light hazel, although that could just be the fading photo, while her nose was short and snubby and her mouth a bit overwide. She had gorgeous hair, though: reddish blonde, curly, and thick.

Laurel remembered that hair. Sometimes Ms. Shelton wore it up, but more often she let it flow to midway down her back. Saundra Schlossnagel had said she looked like a fashion model, but Laurel knew Saundra was way off base, because she and Sarah had made an in-depth study of models when Sarah was considering becoming the next Heidi Klum—in addition to playing softball in the Olympics, getting a law degree, and running for governor.

Anyway, Laurel knew Ms. Shelton was just too short to walk the fashion runway. Not that she didn't try to make up for it by teetering along on stilettos while every other female teacher in the school wore Keds. Sarah said she did it to make her boobs and butt stick out. Whatever, the guys liked it, and apparently Mr. Nyquist did too, judging by the expression Laurel had seen on his face when Ms. Shelton was talking to him in his office one day. He was smiling down at her like a loon, acting as infatuated as any of the boys.

Laurel looked up from the page, considering. Had it gone any further? Hadn't there been a rumor Ms. Shelton and Mr. Nyquist were having an affair? The whole school had buzzed with the thrill of it, but then Ms. Shelton's secret lover turned out to be Jase Redlander. And later that summer, Bert Nyquist created his own scandal by running out on his wife and children in the middle of the night, leaving behind a rambling note about what a total bastard he was.

Laurel leafed quickly through the book to the sports section and her own favorite page. She was surprised the book hadn't fallen open to it. Through the years, she'd made quite a study of all Jase's photographs, but this was the one she liked best.

The varsity team was pictured in a group photo on the left page, with Jase seated next to his fellow linebackers, Ray Espinoza and Ahmed Quisenberry. But on the right-hand page, the players were featured in small individual photos. Most of the guys looked like human bulldogs, no doubt as instructed by Coach Gifford. But by some quirk of fate, Jase had been caught smiling, not the full-blown Redlander dazzler, but a soft, warm, almost wistful smile. Laurel could never look at that picture without smiling back at him, without her heart turning over, without thinking of that morning in the house on the edge of town and what had almost happened.

Laurel allowed herself a cynical sniff. It may not have happened with her, but Lolly was living proof that it had certainly happened with some other girl.

She flipped back to the individual class pictures, barely skimming the seniors to concentrate on the juniors, Jase's class. Which one was Lolly's mother? Running her finger down the photos, she stopped at each fair-haired girl, trying to remember which blondes were natural. Betty Jean Powell? She stared at the picture of a towheaded girl with five earrings in one ear and eight in the other. Sarah had told her that Betty Jean had a butterfly tattoo on her behind and would do anything with anyone.

Remnants of freshman biology began to permeate Laurel's brain. It could be that Lolly had been the result of recessive genes of both sides, that her mother was just as dark as Jase.

But her finger continued its trek.

Tammy Spivak? Sarah had said she was doing it too, and her family did move out of town right after Jase left.

“Laurel?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. The annual toppled to the floor. Lolly stood in the doorway, her hair hanging loose and her clothes rumpled, but her face bright and blooming from a full night's sleep.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you, but I wanted to take a bath and couldn't figure out how to make the stopper work right.”

Laurel stood up. “Of course. That one's kind of tricky. Just a minute.”

She picked up the album from the floor and laid it on her bed, hoping that Lolly hadn't realized whose picture she was studying so intently. “Would you like some fresh clothes? I'm taller than you are, but you could wear some of my stuff if you'd like.”