Mary Baxter - His Touch

Suddenly the phone rang. The caller ID identified her mother’s number. Was that mental telepathy or what? She hadn’t heard from Opal Cannon in over a month, something that wasn’t out of the ordinary.

Since her mother had remarried—a shock in itself, considering her attitude toward men—and moved to Florida, she and Opal had drifted further apart.

“Jessica?”

“I’m here, Mother.”

“I was just thinking about you,” Opal said in the hesitant tone that was usual when she spoke to her elder daughter. “So I decided to call.”

“I was thinking about you, too, actually.”

“Oh.”

Jessica heard the surprise in Opal’s voice and felt the old sting of guilt. Her mother had tried throughout the years to patch things up between them, but it never quite worked. Jessica had decided long ago that the blame rested equally between them, which lessened her penchant for beating up on herself.

“Are you and Chris all right?” Chris was Opal’s husband, a good man and a good provider, for which Jessica was thankful. Long after her father had deserted them, leaving her mother to support two young children on a teacher’s salary, Opal’s resentment had continued to fester. She had sworn she hated men and would never have another.

She’d vowed to make it on her own. That endeavor had been difficult, especially financially. Yet Opal had done remarkably well. It was in the emotional arena that she had failed.

“We’re fine,” Opal acknowledged into the silence. “How ’bout you?”

“All right,” she lied. “Busy as usual. I’m about to jump-start my bid for reelection.”

“That’s a plus. But are you sure everything’s all right? I read where you’re embroiled in a controversy, something to do with the police force, if I recall.”

Jessica smothered a sigh. “Your recall is on target. The investigation is still ongoing, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Well, you were always the strong one in the family.”

Jessica thought she heard a note of envy in her mother’s voice, but maybe she was mistaken. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Her mother’s opinion, good or bad, had ceased to sway her one way or the other.

Sad but true.

“When are you coming to Florida?”

“Oh, Mother, I have no idea.” She wanted to invite Opal to visit her, but right now was not a good time. Her mother’s presence would only complicate things, not help.

“Is there perhaps another man in your life?”

Brant Harding’s face suddenly came to mind. Horrified, Jessica gripped the receiver until she had no feeling left in her hand. “Absolutely not.”

“It wouldn’t hurt, you know,” Opal said in a slightly offended tone. “Porter was more of a father than a husband. Now that I’ve married Chris, I know what it’s like to have a real man and a real marriage.”

“As I’ve said before,” Jessica told her in a tight voice, “I’m happy for you. But I’m not interested in remarrying—now or ever.”

“Whatever.” Opal’s tone was resigned. “Joan and the kids send their love.”

“Give them mine, too. Look, as soon as things settle here, I’ll try to get to Florida.”

“We’d all love that.” Opal’s voice had perked up considerably. “We’ll talk again soon. Meanwhile, you take care.”

“You, too.”

Once the receiver was back in place, it hit home one more time that no “I love yous” had been exchanged. An even sadder fact.

She was grateful for the sudden noise that pulled her out of her reverie. Realizing it was her stomach rebelling once again, Jessica decided to raid the kitchen or she could forget about sleeping. Besides, she figured by now he was in his room asleep.

Wrong.

The instant she entered the kitchen, she pulled up short, her eyes widening.

Brant.

Her pulse rate soared. He was kneeling, his back to her, rummaging through the cabinets. That in itself was no big deal. Like her, he was apparently hungry. The big deal was the way he was dressed.

Only in jeans, which rode low on his waist.

Her gasp must have alerted him that he was no longer alone. He turned slowly, and for the second time that evening, their eyes met and held.

Sparks.

No, actually, her insides felt like rockets erupting on the Fourth of July. This kind of reaction to Brant had to stop. Somehow she had to maintain control when she was around him. The constant awareness of him as a man was wearing thin.

Discipline. It boiled down to that. Nothing more complicated than that.

Only it was.

The way she reacted to him in a physical sense made it very complicated. She couldn’t get past this absurd need to touch him. Jessica felt her face flame. For heaven’s sake, how could she feel this way about a man almost as frightening, in his way, as the pervert interfering in her life?

“Hello again,” Brant finally said, relieving the smothering silence while rising slowly to his feet.

Jessica swallowed and forced herself to smile, though she knew it fell far short of genuine. “Are you looking for something to eat?”

She might as well cut to the chase so she could get back to her room. But for the moment it appeared she would have to carry on a cordial conversation whether she wanted to or not.

“Actually, I was looking for a lightbulb, then I was going to make some coffee.” He paused, massaging his slightly shadowed chin. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She gave him an incredulous stare. “Not about the coffee, certainly. But why on earth are you looking for a bulb?”

“The light’s out in the small hallway next to my room.”

His room?

Jessica swallowed the hysteria bubbling in the back of her throat. “I know it is. But it’s not the bulb. Something’s wrong with the electrical system, and I just haven’t had it fixed.”

“No problem. I can take care of it. I’m a whiz at that kind of work. I wired my entire cabin.”

She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “That’s not your job.”

“I know, but I don’t mind.” He paused and angled his head. “Unless you do, that is.”

“Not at all,” she said lightly. It suddenly dawned on her that underneath her caftan, she was nude. Could he tell?

“Why don’t I make the coffee?” he said, once again breaking the silence.

Jessica shook her head, venturing farther into the room, suddenly feeling like a stranger in her own house. Renewed resentment welled up inside her. She curled her nails into the palms of her hands, wincing against the sting of the pain.

“I’ll do it, but thanks, anyway,” she said, sounding out of breath.

He shouldn’t be here. More to the point, he shouldn’t look so damn manly and attractive, half naked, standing in front of her. In all fairness, bare chested hardly qualified as naked. Still, he should have on more than a ragged pair of jeans and no shoes.

Maybe at the root of her dismay was the fact he exhibited what she’d always envisioned as the perfect male “bod.” Hairy chested, but not too much hair. Tanned skin. Flat abs. Muscled, but not too muscled. Even the scar that jig-jagged down one side before disappearing beneath the waistline didn’t detract. In fact, it made him appear that much more rugged and manly.

In a nutshell, perfect.

And he acted like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that it was his God-given right to parade around her home as he pleased, dressed any way he pleased. That galled her. It should have occurred to him that she just might appear unexpectedly.

Apparently that was no big deal to him.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».