Jennifer Greene - Man From Tennessee

“What I’d like is a cup of coffee myself,” he said finally.

“Fine. I have to admit you look-” She stopped uncomfortably.

“Like hell?” he finished for her.

The corner of her lips lifted, just a little. His slash of a smile held the same memory hers did. Hell had the inevitable devil in it, and when Trisha had first met Kern that was exactly how she had labeled him. And for good reason…

Kern stayed with his mother while Trisha found her way to the kitchen. She opened cupboards to find the accoutrements for tea, barely conscious of how much the room itself had changed. The colors were burnt orange and copper; every appliance and convenience shined with care. The long window over the sink held a view of the garden and the stretch of woods beyond, carpeted with spring violets. In front of her eyes was a picture that wouldn’t go away. It was a picture of Kern and the night she had totally and whimsically fallen in love with one tall, dark-eyed man, her devil of a man…

It was a New Year’s Eve party at the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club on Lake Saint Claire. The ballroom was crowded, an overwhelming assault on the senses of festive lights and colorful couture gowns, French perfumes and champagne. A band in tuxedos played loudly over the high-pitched laughter, and increasingly boisterous conversation. The younger set of women were as scantily dressed as possible; the older, richly ornate in jewels and brocades.

Trisha wore a pale blue floor-length gown that had cost the earth and did not suit the gathering at all. Medieval in design, the velvet came to a long low V at her wrists and ruffled demurely at the neck, draping loosely over her slim figure. She looked like an innocent princess, but that wasn’t a picture that belonged in the sophisticated world of Grosse Pointe.

Her uncle had deserted her upon their arrival, which was not unexpected. It was typical of how he had raised her once her parents had died. Her uncle was not ungenerous; the material advantages were always there. But he was cold and indifferent far beyond the point of mere insensitivity. As a result Trisha was painfully shy and almost unforgivably naive for a girl of nineteen, a dreamer in mind and in looks.

The yacht club had dozens of rooms beyond the ballroom. There was a choice of three bands, a place to play poker, a room for conversation and plenty of champagne everywhere. She wandered about slowly, feeling lost and uncomfortable. She hadn’t wanted to come. At last she ventured to the third floor of the club, seeking refuge from the constant noise. Tentatively she opened a door to a dim, quiet room. The only light was from the moon, which streamed in through the windows at the far end of the room, overlooking the ice-encrusted lake.

“Close it!”

She jumped in shock at the reverberating command that came from nowhere.

“I said close it!”

She closed it quickly, her heart beating wildly. Hours later she had wondered why she hadn’t had the sense to close the door with herself on the opposite side. As it was, the party noise dulled to a distant hum and she leaned against the door, trying to fathom where the voice was coming from.

“Over here.”

Cautiously she moved closer until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. When he struck a match to light a cigarette she was startled and her imagination worked overtime: it was surely the devil’s face. He was stretched half out on the floor, leaning lazily against the wall, the cigarette in his one hand and a drink-and bottle-on the floor beside him.

There was no question that someone had made a terrible mistake trying to fit him out in powder blue. Black was clearly his color. He practically had more legs than there was carpet space and the breadth of his shoulders was just as daunting. The giant came equipped with a wicked pair of bushy eyebrows and dark eyes that radiated danger. She smiled politely and backed up as rapidly as her stiff legs would allow until she bumped into something, and he started laughing.

“I just bite necks, and that’s only when there’s a full moon. Although come to think of it…” He motioned to the window and the full white moon sitting low over the lake. “Never mind. Come and sit down if you’re here to escape from that madhouse.”

“Just for a minute,” she said weakly, with a careful glance to ensure she knew exactly where the door was. When she turned back he was smiling, and that soft sensual smile mesmerized her as he motioned her closer. Captivated, a bit frightened, she knelt on the carpet a little distance from him.

“You have blue eyes, don’t you?” he asked idly as he poured her a glass of the amber-colored liquor.

She nodded, staring at the bottle.

“I’m not drunk,” he told her perceptively. “They’re serving champagne downstairs and I don’t drink it. This is my second whiskey-from the look of you, your first.”

She sipped at his whiskey, tiny sips so she wouldn’t gag. Quiet reigned for a long time. She found herself unable to stop staring at him, aware but not self-conscious that he was studying her just as intently. She saw a brooding man, intense and private. Arrestingly attractive though not really at all handsome. Disturbingly sexual and comfortable with power. “Why?” she asked quietly.

“Pardon?”

“Why are you getting drunk?”

He twirled the liquid in his glass, staring at her. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

She shook her head. “That’s why they’re drinking.” She motioned downstairs. “That’s not why you are. Of course it’s none of my business. For that matter if you want me to go…” She made to get up again but his long arm reached out, a mammoth hand enclosing hers in a small, unexpectedly sensual little prison.

“Stay.” The please was there, though he didn’t say it. She felt loneliness-something she understood very well. She had the impulse to flee. This man spelled danger. She was out of her league. But the urge faded and she had the strange desire to comfort and soothe.

He took so long to answer that she was certain he wasn’t going to. When he did, his voice was gruff and impatient. “I’ve just had enough of cement and pollution…of using people like rungs on a ladder.” He was looking out over the lake, not at her. “But in a year or two I very well may not care anymore. There was an article in yesterday’s paper. My company, taking over another. A ‘financial coup’ they labeled it.” He shook his head. “What it was was taking advantage of another man when he’s down.”

He talked-a world completely foreign to her, but it didn’t matter. She was listening to him on another level entirely. So cynical, so hard, the words spit out from him as if he’d forgotten how to talk about his feelings. “Don’t do it then , ” she said simply. “Do something else. Something that you want-that you need. ”

“God, you sound young,” he said dryly. He reached beside him to switch on a small table lamp. She felt his eyes sweep over her as if they were fingers, assessing the quality of her dress, her hair, her skin. She shivered uncomfortably, wary of the sensual appraisal again and yet strangely compelled to sit still for it. He had admitted he was a predator, but she did not feel like prey. His face seemed to soften the more he stared. “It isn’t just young in years, is it?” he asked, probing quietly. “It’s in those bright eyes. We still believe in rainbows, do we? Happy endings? Love?”

She lifted her chin. “I get up every day glad to be alive. How about you?”

He hesitated, then chuckled dryly. “Perhaps there’s a case for naiveté.”

His insolence sparked a rare spurt of temper. “Mister-whatever your name is-I saw both my parents killed five years ago in a car crash. Don’t you go telling me I don’t know what life’s about. I’d still rather look up than down any day. It’s a question of choice. If you haven’t made it, I feel sorry for you!”