Beverly Barton - Grace Under Fire

Without responding verbally, Ronnie turned off into the driveway and killed the BMW's motor. He sat beside her, stiff as a poker, not speaking, not even glancing her way. She knew he was scared-scared of her. He realized she intended to try again today to seduce him, and he wasn't sure whether he could resist her again.

She sat there for a couple of minutes, basking in the fiery Louisiana sunshine. Maybe she was as crazy as Jaron said she was for even contemplating an affair with Ronnie. Hell, with any man. She understood all too well the penalty they'd both pay if Booth ever found out. But after all these years of enduring Booth's cruelty, death might be a blessing. One thing she knew for sure-she couldn't go on the way she had. Without love and tenderness. Without mutual passion. She hadn't cared for a man the way she did Ronnie since she'd been in love with Jed. Seventeen years ago. She wanted that again-that sweet, glorious feeling; she needed it as desperately as she needed air to breathe. If loving Ronnie cost her her life, she didn't care.

But what about him? an inner voice asked. Does he want YOU enough to risk his life to be with you?

"I'm going inside," she said as she flung open the car door. "You can stay here and wait on me… if that's what you want. Or you can come inside with me. Your choice."

She waited a minute, hoping he would respond, praying that he'd get out with her and follow her inside. But he sat there, looking straight ahead, silent and unmoving.

So be it, she thought, and jumped out of her BMW and raced across the knee-high grass and weed-infested yard. She maneuvered the rickety front steps and carefully made her way across the sagging wooden porch to the front door, which stood partially open. Instead of touching the rusty doorknob, she punched the center of the old wooden door. The hinges creaked as the door opened fully to reveal the shadowy interior of the living room. Charmaine stepped inside carefully, uncertain if the floor beneath her feet was sturdy, and wondering if any animals were using the place as a home.

When she glanced around, her heart sank. Things looked even worse than she'd imagined they would. The room was bare of furniture, which had probably been stolen years ago. Dirty, tattered wallpaper covered the walls, but the once colorful pattern was now indistinguishable. She remembered the day she and Jaron had put up the wallpaper-a print of stripes and flowers in sunny yellows and vivid greens, with a white background. She'd been fourteen. And life had still been filled with possibilities. At that age she'd still possessed the ability to dream.

With each cautious step she took as she explored her old home, more and more memories of the past assailed her. Flashes of sights and sounds, powerful emotions ranging from girlish happiness to abject misery. But God in heaven, what she would give to go back to those days, to know the freedom of choice, to live a life without fear. Why was hindsight always twenty-twenty? she wondered. If only…

She entered her old bedroom, the one she'd shared with her mother before she died. Often as not, Ma would pass out drunk and sleep for hours, snoring like a freight train. Luckily Ma hadn't been a mean drunk, just a sad, pathetic one. And on the nights when she'd brought home a man, Ma had sent her scurrying into Jaron's room. Time and again, he'd given her his bed and made himself a pallet on the floor. Even as a kid, he'd been reliable and responsible, always trying his best to look out for her.

After Ma died, she and Jaron had spruced up this room with money he was earning working for Booth Fortier, back when they both thought Booth had hung the moon.

They'd painted the walls a pale pink and put up frilly white curtains, making it look all girly and sweet. At the time, they hadn't been able to afford a new bedroom suite, so they'd painted the old iron bedstead and the cheap nineteen-fifties dresser and chest. And Jaron had bought her a tape player/radio combo. She'd spent hours listening to her favorite pop music. The walls in her bedroom were now faded and dirty and the only piece of furniture remaining was the iron bed, devoid of mattress or box springs.

Charmaine closed her eyes and let the memories wash over her. Hearing inside her head the steady rhythm of the music that had once filled this room, she began to dance as if she were in a partner's arms. Her body swayed. She hummed an old familiar tune. If only she could go back in time. If only she could erase the years with Booth.

Suddenly strong arms encompassed her and turned her slowly into a tender embrace. She didn't open her eyes at first, almost afraid that she was dreaming, that the arms she felt around her were a figment of her imagination. As she continued humming, he danced her slowly around the room, holding her close, his cheek against hers.

Finally, garnering her courage, she lifted her eyelids and looked up into the face of the man she loved. Ronnie Martine smiled down at her. She sighed contentedly and returned his smile.

"I've been trying to seduce you," she told him. "I've used all my feminine wiles on you."

"I know." He pressed his cheek to hers and glided her around the room.

The temperature inside the old house had to be in the nineties and the humidity made it feel like a hundred. But the external heat was nothing to compare to the fire burning inside Charmaine. Hot, raging hunger boiled through her veins, peaking her nipples and moistening her femininity. She wanted… needed… craved… some good loving from a good man.

"I'm in love with you," she said.

His smile widened. "Yeah, I know." His large hand splayed across the center of her lower back and urged her closer-close enough so that she felt his arousal. "I love you, too," he whispered in her ear.

The world outside Ronnie's arms ceased to exist, magically shrinking to encompass only the two of them. Happiness exploded in the very depths of her soul. Whatever price she had to pay for this moment in time, she would gladly pay. But did she have the right to ask Ronnie to risk everything-his very life-to love her?

She gazed up at him through half-closed eyes and said, "You realize that if Booth ever finds out, he'll kill us both."

Ronnie halted the dance, but didn't release her. "I'll make sure he doesn't find out. I promise. I'll keep you safe."

"Booth is dangerous… very dangerous. Are you sure you're willing to risk-?"

Ronnie kissed her. Tenderly. Possessively. And it was all she'd ever dreamed it would be. There was no way to describe how he made her feel-all hot and cold at the same time. She had loved Jed Tyree with the raging hormones passion of a teenager; but that love had burned itself out long ago. What she felt for Ronnie was a woman's passion, a love that could last a lifetime.

When he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into her open mouth to taste and probe, she sampled his mouth in the same fashion. They kissed; they touched. She whimpered; he groaned. Sweat trickled between her breasts, over her belly and into the triangle of red curls between her legs. Ronnie cupped her hips and lifted her up and against him, pressing her mound against his erection.

"I want to make love to you," he told her.

"Yes, yes," she sighed the words against his neck, then licked the perspiration from his throat.

He glanced over her shoulder, exploring their surroundings. "You should have silk sheets and sweet music and candlelight."

"I've had all those things and they mean nothing." She clung to him, wanting to never let go. "All that matters is being with you. Anywhere. Anytime."

"Charmaine, honey, you've been driving me crazy. But you know that, don't you?"

"Come with me." She took his hand and guided him through the house. He followed as she led him onto the back porch, which was, surprisingly, still intact, although the roof sagged. "It's cooler out here."