Chapter 5
The sun lay on
the horizon like a giant orange ball nestled against multicolored
layers of cotton. Rays of twilight sunshine melted into the earth
to the west and sent soft shadows across the waters of Mobile Bay
and to the south. Boats of all sizes lined the docks of the Fair
Harbor Marina.
Mitch drove his Harley up in front of
the Fly Creek Fish Market. Once he’d dismounted, he turned to
Emily, lifted her up and off, then lowered her slowly to her feet.
Their bodies touched intimately as they stood together, alone in
their own little world of sexual awareness. He removed her helmet
and hung it on the Harley, then took off his.
Emily stared at Mitch, into his stark,
ice-blue eyes, and her breath caught in her throat. A tremor of
sexual longing rippled through her. Mitch was so big and tall and
utterly masculine, and his casual attire of jeans and cotton knit
shirt enhanced his rugged, blond good looks.
Mitch dressed like the man he was—a
laborer, a blue-collar worker, who drove a motorcycle and drank
beer straight from the bottle. But Emily didn’t mind that his
social position didn’t equal hers. His athletic, tanned body and
ruggedly handsome face couldn’t be bought at any price. He was the
most fascinating man she’d ever met.
“I’m glad you weren’t in the mood for
steaks,” Mitch said, nodding at the naturally aged wood structure
behind them. “I’ve been told that this fish market sells some of
the best seafood in Alabama.”
“I make a wonderful clam linguine.”
Emily stepped back away from Mitch, deliberately putting some
distance between them. “Would you be insulted if I offer to pay for
the groceries?”
Mitch glared at her, realizing she
suspected he had just enough money in his wallet to cover the cost
of their dinner, which would mean he’d be eating bologna sandwiches
the rest of the week. Paying rent for the cottage next to Emily
took a hefty chunk out of his paycheck.
“Call me old-fashioned, pretty lady,
but on a first date, I consider it my privilege to pay for dinner.
I’ll buy the fixings and clean up afterward if you’ll prepare our
feast. I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook.”
“I’d say that’s a fair
deal.”
Mitch couldn’t keep himself from
inspecting the elegantly slender woman standing so close to him.
Emily had pulled her dark hair away from her face and secured it
with a pale-yellow ribbon that perfectly matched her long-sleeved
yellow blouse and skirt. The soft fabric clung to her curves in a
flattering yet seductive way. The golden locket lay atop the middle
of her chest, dipping into the hollow between her
breasts.
Emily eyed him suspiciously, then took
a tentative step toward him. “You make me wonder what you’re
thinking when you look at me that way.”
“What way?” Mitch slipped his arm
around her waist, and smiled when she didn’t try to pull away from
him.
“Like you’re wondering...well, you
know...about—”
“You’re a very suspicious woman, Emily.
I agreed to be your friend. If you think I have an ulterior motive
for asking you for a date, why did you say yes?”
“Because I’m very attracted to you.”
The warm flush of embarrassment crept into her cheeks.
He knew Emily’s honesty shouldn’t have
surprised him, but it did. His past experiences had left him
skeptical about the entire female sex. Loni’s betrayal had taught
him not only that he shouldn’t trust a woman’s pledge of undying
love and devotion, but that he didn’t dare trust his own emotions.
Mitch couldn’t help wondering if he had the guts to be as honest
with Emily.
“I’m very attracted to you, too.” He
guided her toward the market. “You’re different from any woman I’ve
ever known.”
They entered the seafood market, the
odor of the ocean’s bounty ripe in the air.
“I’m quite old-fashioned, aren’t I?”
Emily asked. “I suppose it comes from having been raised by my
grandmother.”
“You’re an old-fashioned lady who’s
attracted to me, yet wants only friendship,” he whispered into her
ear. “I’m a guy down on his luck who hasn’t wanted anything from a
woman but a good time in a long while.”
Feeling the touch of his hand on her
back in every nerve ending of her body, Emily swallowed. Her cheeks
flared crimson. “They say that opposites attract.”
“In our case that old idiom seems
true.” Mitch took a deep breath, aware that the conversation was
getting a bit too heavy. At this rate, he’d be telling her that he
wanted to make love to her tonight. “Come on, let’s get our clams
and head for home.”
The last fading rays of sunlight spread
a soft riot of color across the horizon just as they turned off
Scenic 98 and drove up Emily’s long, tree-lined driveway. Mitch
parked his Harley, helped Emily off, removed their helmets and
carried the groceries inside through the back door. He had wondered
what the interior of her house looked like. Now he knew. The inside
of Emily’s beachfront cottage was every bit as classy, as elegant,
as feminine as the woman herself.
Emily lifted the items from the small
sacks Mitch had set on the kitchen counter. “I can handle things
from here if you want to run home and shower.”
“Yeah, thanks. I won’t be long.” He
reached out and touched her face, running his knuckles across her
cheek, brushing his fingertips under her chin.
The corners of her mouth quivered. Her
lips parted on a sigh. She simply couldn’t believe the heady effect
the mere touch of his hand against her face had on
her.
“Take your time, Mitch. I need to
freshen up, too.”
Circling the back of her neck with his
big hand, he pulled her gently toward him, burying his face in the
soft dark tendrils of hair that the wind had freed from their
confinement. “Don’t freshen up too much.” He breathed in her
sweetness. “You smell like the wind and the sea and
woman.”
Emily’s heart fluttered inside her
chest like a trapped bird trying to escape. His lips grazed her
ear. She sucked in her breath.
“I’ll be back.” Mitch stepped away from
her, smiled, turned around and walked out of the
kitchen.
Emily tried to return his smile, but
all she could manage was a weak nod. This isn’t going to work, she
told herself. No matter what he said, Mitch wanted more than
friendship from her. His every look, his every word, his every
touch was a form of seduction.
If only she weren’t so afraid. But how
could she not be? No man would want to make love to a woman whose
body was hideously scarred. How could he run his hands over her
damaged flesh and not cringe?
After dinner tonight, she would have to
end their relationship before it went any further, but she
wanted—no, she needed—the pleasure of one beautiful evening with
Mitch.
Emily had set the table with her
best—Royal Doulton china, sterling silver flatware and Swedish
crystal. She had arranged the centerpiece hurriedly, using the
spring flowers from her small flower bed in the yard. The tapering
candles, four all together, in their crystal double holders,
flickered like twinkling stars, casting a warm glow over the room.
Nervously, Emily patted the sides of the pastel-green cushion in
the antique French cane-back chair on which she sat.
The last man for whom she’d prepared
dinner had been her husband. The night before he died. The night
before her whole world had been destroyed.
Emily looked across the table at Mitch,
smiled when he smiled at her, then forced her gaze away from his.
Glancing around the room, she absorbed the atmosphere she had
created. The romantic, intimate mood she had set. Her dining room
was small, but she had redecorated it during the past year, using
many of Hannah McLain’s treasures. Uncle Fowler had encouraged her
in every way possible to renew her interest in the world, to
embrace life again. This house, this summer cottage on the eastern
shore of Mobile Bay, had come to mean more to Emily than a home.
Each room was a precious part of the sanctuary she had created for
herself. Each picture on the wall, each lamp, each piece of
furniture, had been selected and installed as therapy for a woman
who hadn’t cared whether she lived or died.
A stylized draped fabric wallpaper
wrapped the dining room. A room-size needlepoint rug covered the
floor. And an antique Country French hutch held her collection of
trompe l’oeil plates. The pewter chandelier
was an antique and matched the one in her living room.
“I’m afraid I’m not dressed
appropriately.” Mitch cast an apologetic glance at his clean but
faded jeans and his best shirt, the long-sleeved cream cotton shirt
he’d bought with his first paycheck.
“Don’t be silly. You look fine.” Emily
couldn’t imagine a man more handsome than Mitch. Certainly not one
more masculine.
“I look out of place at your dinner
table. You’re wearing silk and I’m in old denim.”
“I think silk and denim make an
interesting combination, don’t you?” Sadness and longing combined
with the sympathy Emily felt for Mitch. “I didn’t dress this way or
serve our meal in the dining room to make you feel uncomfortable. I
did it to impress you, to present myself and my home in the best
light. I wanted tonight to be special.”
Mitch uttered a rather unpleasant oath
under his breath, then made a sound halfway between a grunt and a
laugh. Hell, he didn’t know what to believe. Had she said that
because she felt sorry for him or had she really wanted to impress
him? He didn’t want her pity. He hadn’t allowed anyone to pity him
since...since he’d been a kid and his parents had often taken
charity from the church in the small Mississippi town where they’d
lived.
“You didn’t have to wear that expensive
pink silk dress or lay the table with your finest to impress me,
pretty lady.” Reaching across the table, he laid his palm open,
extending her an invitation. “You’re impressive enough all by
yourself.”
Emily stared at his hand for several
seconds, listening to the drumming of her heartbeat. She laid her
hand in his. “And you’re impressive enough all by yourself,
too.”
“I don’t ever want your pity, Emily. I
grew up on pity and charity. The two always seem to go together,
and believe me, they have a way of eroding a person’s
self-worth.”
Emily understood all too well what he
meant. She’d been given enough pity in the past five years to last
her a lifetime. Pity did erode a person’s self-worth. She was a
prime example.
“Let’s promise each other that, no
matter what, pity for each other will never play a part in our
friendship,” Emily said.
Damn, why hadn’t he thought before he’d
spoken? He’d been touchy all his life about being pitied and often
his first reaction to anyone’s kindness was to suspect that they
felt sorry for him. But Emily, who, no doubt, had been smothered
with pity after the Ocean Breeze tragedy, would understand the
damaging effects of pity on a person’s pride.
“You have my promise,” Mitch told
her.
The intoxicatingly bluesy warmth of
Stan Getz’s “Who Would Care?” permeated the house, the saxophone’s
mellow tone weaving a sexy magic spell. Mitch had brought over a
couple of his favorite jazz CDs, borrowed from Zed Banning’s
collection. He’d told Emily that they were mood music.
Mitch gazed into her warm brown eyes
and saw the gentle softening of her expression, the easing of the
tension he sensed had dominated her from the moment he’d returned
to her cottage tonight.
Was the emotion in her eyes concern or
something more? Dear God, he had no right to want it to be
something more. But he did.
He held her hand securely, his gaze
focused on her beautiful face. She didn’t try to remove her hand
from his, where it rested on the pristine white
tablecloth.
Emily felt a nervous excitement spiral
through her body when he continued staring at her with such
absolute intensity. “Perhaps we should enjoy our dinner.” She
pulled her hand away from his, then removed the silver covers from
one chafing dish and then another. “You said you liked clam
linguine.”
“I do.”
He watched while she spooned the
linguine onto their plates, then covered it with the cheesy clam
sauce. She was very adept with her hands, every move deliberate,
practiced.
“Should I pour the wine?” he asked, and
when she nodded affirmatively, he uncorked the bottle and tilted it
over her crystal glass. “I wasn’t sure whether or not an
old-fashioned lady like you would drink.”
Emily couldn’t stop herself from
laughing at his comment. “On the contrary, old-fashioned ladies
greatly enjoy wine with their meals. My grandmother even preferred
a shot of straight whiskey from time to time.”
“Then she was nothing like the
God-fearing, churchgoing ladies in Sutra, Mississippi, where I grew
up. Ladies there never drank anything stronger than
coffee.”
“So that’s where you got all your
strange notions about old-fashioned ladies, huh? Sutra,
Mississippi?”
“And you got all of your old-fashioned
notions from your grandmother. Obviously a very different
source.”
Emily tasted the clam linguine.
“Delicious, if I do say so myself.” She sipped the wine. “Quite
good.”
During the course of their meal, Mitch
and Emily’s conversation turned mundane, each intently aware of the
other in a disturbing way.
Mitch wasn’t sure where this evening
would lead.
Emily tried to convince herself that
she shouldn’t see Mitch again.
He couldn’t seem to think of anything
except what it would be like to make love to her.
She prayed that her common sense would
overrule the sensual emotions warming inside her, heated by every
look he gave her.
“Do you want some of that pecan pie we
picked up at the bakery?” Mitch asked.
“I couldn’t possibly eat another bite
right now,” Emily said. “But you go right ahead and indulge, if you
want.”
Mitch stood up quickly, tossed his
linen napkin on the table and waved his hand toward the living
room. “I’d rather take you outside on the porch and look at the
stars.”
Emily’s heart raced wildly. Her breath
caught in her throat. Hesitantly, she allowed Mitch to assist her
to her feet. When she felt his hard, strong arm circle her waist,
she shivered, a combination of fear and desire rippling over her
nerve endings.
Without a word, she followed him out of
the dining room, through the living room and onto the front porch.
Overhead the night sky shimmered with a bevy of twinkling stars and
a threequarter moon spread a golden glow over the bay. From inside
the cottage, the soft strains of the George Shearing Quartet’s
rendition of “Isn’t It Romantic?” drifted out and mingled with the
spring breeze and the lulling melody of the Gulf waters caressing
the shore.
They stood on the porch, gazing at the
bay, while the warm night wind stroked their bodies. Mitch let his
hand drop from Emily’s waist to her hip. She leaned into his side,
cuddling her head against his shoulder.
“You’re very beautiful in the
moonlight.” Mitch reached out, fingering a strand of her dark hair
where the gentle breeze had curled it about her face.
Emily wondered how many times he’d used
that same line, and how many women had believed him. She
desperately wanted to believe him, to believe that she was special
to him. But she didn’t dare. He might think she was beautiful right
now, but what would he think if he could see her
scars?
But neither fear nor common sense could
stop Emily from responding. It had been such a long time since she
had allowed herself to get this close to a man, and it felt good.
It felt like sheer heaven to be held, to be told she was
beautiful.
“Tell me about yourself,” Emily said,
glancing up at him.
He looked down at her uplifted face and
wanted nothing more at that precise moment than to kiss her. “What
do you want to know?”
“Tell me about your life, about who Ray
Mitchell is.”
He hesitated, gazing longingly at her.
God, how he wanted this woman! “Dance with me.” The words were a
command, not a request.
Before she could reply, he turned her
against him and pulled her into his embrace. The music from inside
enveloped them in its sultry, sweet cry, the mellow expertise of
Shearing at the piano. “None but the Lonely Heart” filled the two
listeners with an intensity of emotions neither could
deny.
Loneliness had become a way of life for
Mitch. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been lonely. Even
when Loni had lived with him. And even as a child in a full house,
he had felt a sense of loneliness so great at times that he had
choked on the tears his youthful masculinity never would have
allowed him to shed.
“My father was a drunk and a gambler.”
Mitch’s tone was so steady and unemotional that its very calmness
made the words a declaration. “He tried to farm, but he failed at
that, the way he had everything else in his life. He kept waiting
for his luck to change, but he never did a damn thing to help
himself.”
Emily sighed. “My memories of my father
are of a big, handsome man who was always smiling, laughing,
enjoying life. My mother was a great deal younger and I think she
married him mostly for his money.”
Emily knew for a fact that her mother
hadn’t had any qualms about allowing her only child to live with
her grandmother once she herself had received her share of Burke
McLain’s legacy.
Mitch ran his hand up and down Emily’s
back, then rested it just below her waist. With his other hand, he
held her fragile fingers in a gentle grasp.
“My mother didn’t give a damn about
money,” he said. “She believed that the best things in life were
free, that money wasn’t necessary for happiness.”
“Then how on earth did she raise such a
cynical son?” Emily could smell the faint fragrance of Mitch’s
spicy aftershave, a scent so subtle that it blended perfectly with
the raw, powerful scent of manliness that emanated from
him.
“You know the old saying about actions
speaking louder than words. Well, my mother’s unconcern about
material things kept me and my two brothers and two sisters in
ragged clothes and with hungry bellies most of our
childhoods.”
A cold shiver sliced through Emily at
the thought of Mitch as a boy, perhaps hungry and cold and
lonely...so lonely. Somehow she felt that little boy’s loneliness
as strongly as she could feel the man who held her in his
arms.
“Mitch—”
Placing the tip of his index finger
over her lips, he stilled their swaying bodies. “Hush. We made a
bargain. Remember? No pity. So, don’t feel sorry for me. That isn’t
why I told you about my childhood. I just... I don’t usually bore
my dates with stories about my white-trash
upbringing.”
“You didn’t bore me.” Tears gathered in
Emily’s eyes. She wished them away, but they stayed.
Mitch saw her tears. His body tensed.
“Dammit, Emily, don’t cry for me!”
But Emily couldn’t help feeling for
him. She had been raised in the lap of luxury, with every material
possession at her fingertips. Yet she had been a lonely little girl
after her father died and her mother deserted her. If it hadn’t
been for her grandmother, she might be as bitter as Mitch
was.
“What do you want from me,
Mitch?”
“I want to make love to you,” he said
truthfully.
“Oh.”
When he pulled her tightly against him,
she could feel the evidence of his desire. Flushed and trembling,
she succumbed to the temptation of his nearness when he lowered his
head and claimed her lips, tentatively at first, and then with a
wild abandon that took her breath away.
He held her close. She lifted her arms
to circle his neck, her fingers threading through his thick, blond
hair. With unerring accuracy, his tongue delved into her mouth,
seeking and finding every soft, vulnerable spot. His exploration of
her mouth continued while he caressed her, allowing his hands to
roam up and down her arms, then her back and finally her hips. He
clutched her buttocks, drawing her hard against his arousal,
rubbing her seductively into the pulsating warmth of his
body.
“I ache with wanting you.” His
ragged-edged voice proclaimed the precarious hold he had over his
emotions. “Since we first met on the beach, I’ve thought of little
else but easing your clothes from your body and running my hands
over every beautiful inch of you.”
Emily froze in his arms. “Please,
Mitch, you mustn’t say such things to me.”
His whispered seduction claimed her
heart, but her rational mind reminded her that this man would be
repulsed by the sight of her not-so-beautiful body. He had no way
of knowing that ugly scars covered her back. She tried to pull away
from him, but he restrained her.
“Why shouldn’t I say such things to
you? I want you to know how I feel. You make me crazy, pretty
lady.” Crazy to be inside you.
“Please let me go.” Emily tried again
to free herself of his hold, but he refused to release
her.
“Give me a chance. Give us a chance.”
He brought her hand to his lips, kissing the top of her fingers.
“Don’t try to deny that you feel what’s happening between us just
as strongly as I do.”
Emily submitted momentarily, laying her
head on his chest. Loving the hard, hot comfort of his big body,
she listened to the savage beat of his heart. “I feel the
attraction between us, but I can’t... I’m not going to give in to
what I feel. I thought you understood that all I can offer you is
my friendship.”
Mitch dropped his hands from her body.
He hated himself when he looked into her bourbon-brown eyes and saw
the truth staring back at him. Emily was scared.
“I’m sorry.” He cupped her chin in his
hand. “Don’t be afraid of me, Emily. I would never hurt you. I
pushed a little too hard tonight, went a little too fast. I’ll slow
down. We’ll move at your pace.”
Dear God, he was an idiot. He hadn’t
meant to confess how much he wanted her, how desperately he longed
to make love to her. Their first date should have been less
intense.
“Mitch, I... Please don’t
expect—”
“I expect you to forgive me for wanting
more than you’re ready to give.” Leaning down, he kissed her on the
forehead. “There hasn’t been anyone, has there, since your husband
died?”
“No. There hasn’t been anyone.”
And there never will be. The tears that fell
from her eyes came from self-pity, from the depths of her soul,
which had endured so much to survive despite her heart’s desire to
die.
Mitch couldn’t bear to see her upset,
to know that she still felt her husband’s loss so intensely. “Don’t
cry, Emily. Smile for me. Tell me that you forgive me. Tell me
you’ll be my friend.”
Emily swallowed hard. Mitch wiped away
her tears with his fingertips. She looked at him and
smiled.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” More than
anything she wanted to tell him the truth, to explain why she’d
turned away from him, why she was afraid to become his lover. “I
want us to be friends, Mitch. I want that very much.”