Lisa Kleypas - Rainshadow Road

“Emotion causes it to happen,” he said rather than asked.

“Yes. I was watching Holly color a picture, and I was thinking about teaching an art class for children. Showing them how to make things out of glass. And the idea made me feel incredibly … hopeful. Happy.”

“Of course. When you have a passion for something, there’s nothing better than sharing it.”

Since that afternoon, something had altered between them. It was a good feeling, a safe feeling that Lucy wanted to savor. Letting it take hold, she looked at him. “Does emotion play a part in what you do? Your ability, I mean.”

“It feels more like energy. Very subtle. And it’s not there when I’m away from the island. When I was in California, I half convinced myself I’d imagined it. But then I came back here, and it was stronger than ever.”

“How long did you live in California?”

“For a couple of years. I had a job as a winemaker’s assistant.”

“Were you alone? I mean … were you going out with anyone?”

“For a while I went out with the daughter of the guy who owned the vineyard. She was beautiful, smart, and she loved viticulture as much as I did.” His thoughts had turned inward, his voice quietly reflective. “She wanted to get engaged. The idea of marrying her was almost tempting. I liked her family, loved the vineyard … it would have been easy.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to use her that way. And I knew it didn’t have a chance in hell of lasting.”

“How could you be sure? How can you know without trying?”

“I knew it the moment she and I started talking about making it permanent. She was certain that if we just went ahead and flew off to Vegas and did it, we would be fine. But to me it sounded like someone throwing a roll of paper towels and a can of frosting into an oven and saying, “You know, I think there’s a good chance this is going to turn into a chocolate cake.”

Lucy couldn’t help laughing. “But that just means she wasn’t the right woman. It doesn’t mean you couldn’t have a good marriage with someone else.”

“The risk-benefit ratio has never been worth it to me.”

“Because you saw the worst side of love while growing up.”

“Yeah.”

“But according to the principle of balance in the universe, someone out there has to have the best side of love.”

Considering that, Sam raised his jam jar in a negligent toast. “To the best side of it. Whatever that is.”

As they clinked glasses and drank, Lucy reflected that there were probably many women who would regard Sam’s views on marriage as a challenge, hoping to change his mind. She would never be that foolish. Even if she didn’t agree with Sam’s beliefs, she would respect his right to have them.

Past experience had taught her that when you loved a man, you had to take him “as is,” knowing that although you might be able to influence some of his habits or his taste in neckties, you would never be able to change who he really was deep down. And if you were lucky, you might find a man who felt the same way about you.

That, she thought, was the best side of love.

“Later this morning,” came Sam’s voice through the bathroom door, “you have a doctor’s appointment. If he gives the go-ahead, you’ll get the Aircast brace and crutches.”

“I would love to be mobile again,” Lucy said fervently, rinsing with the hot shower spray. “And I’m sure you would love not having to carry me everywhere.”

“You’re right. I can’t imagine why I thought wrapping a half-naked woman in plastic and carrying her around would be any fun at all.”

Lucy smiled and turned off the water. She removed the Hello Kitty shower cap that she’d borrowed from Holly, and wrapped a towel around herself. “You can come in now.”

Sam entered the humid bathroom and came to help her. His manner was casual and matter-of-fact … but so far that morning, he hadn’t quite been able to meet her gaze.

The previous night they had stayed out on the porch for a long time, eventually finishing the entire bottle of wine. Today, however, Sam was quiet and restrained. It was likely that he was getting tired of waiting on her hand and foot. Lucy decided that no matter what the doctor said later in the day, she would insist on getting crutches. Three days of putting Sam through so much trouble was enough.

Lucy stood, clutching the towel while balancing briefly on one foot. Carefully Sam hooked an arm beneath her knees, lifted her, and carried her into the bedroom. Setting her on the edge of the mattress with her legs dangling, he picked up a pair of small scissors and began to cut through the layers of plastic from her leg.

“You’ve done so much for me,” Lucy said quietly. “I hope someday I can—”

“It’s okay.”

“I just want to tell you how much I—”

“I know. You’re grateful. We don’t have to go through this every time I help you out of the damn shower.”

Blinking at his curt tone, Lucy said, “Sorry. I didn’t realize ordinary politeness was going to annoy you.”

“It’s not ordinary politeness,” Sam said, snipping through the last of the plastic, “when you’re sitting there wet and mostly naked and staring at me with Kewpie doll eyes. Keep your thanks to yourself.”

“Why are you so touchy? Do you have a hangover?”

He gave her a sardonic glance. “I don’t get hangovers from two glasses of wine.”

“It’s having to do all this for me, isn’t it? Anyone would be frustrated. I’m sorry. But I’ll be out of here soon, and—”

“Lucy,” he said with strained patience, “don’t apologize. Don’t try to figure anything out. Just … shut up for a couple of minutes.”

“But I—” She broke off as she saw his expression. “Okay, I’m shutting up.”

When the plastic was discarded, Sam paused at the sight of a bruise on the side of her knee. He traced the edge of the dark blotch, his touch so light it was nearly imperceptible. His head was bent, so Lucy couldn’t see his expression. But his hands went to the mattress on either side of her hips, his fingers digging into the bedclothes. A deep tremor went through him, desire splintering through restraint.

Lucy didn’t dare say a word. She stared fixedly at the top of his head, the span of his shoulders. Her ears were filled with the echoes of her heartbeat.

His head bent, the light sliding across the dark layers of his hair. The touch of his lips was soft and searing against the bruise, causing her to jerk in surprise. His mouth lingered, drifting to the inside of her thigh. His fingers tightened until he gripped the covers in handfuls. Lucy’s breath caught as he leaned farther between her legs, the feel of his body heavy and sweet wherever it pressed.

Another kiss, higher, where the skin was thin and sensitive. Her skin turned hot and cold beneath the damp towel, sensation washing over her. Slowly his hands eased beneath the hem of the towel, the motion causing the white terry cloth to loosen and part. He moved higher, his palms sliding over her hips and stomach, his lips following in a path of excruciating sensation. Gasping, Lucy sank back bonelessly, her limbs turning weak. He pushed the sides of the towel open, the clean scent of her skin rising in a heated draft.

In a haze of excitement and confusion, Lucy turned her burning face to the side, her eyes closing to blot out everything but the intense pleasure of his touch. She wanted it so badly that nothing else mattered. He was making love to her, using his hands and mouth to draw her into a dark, sweet current of desire, and nothing had ever felt like this, a delight that seemed to dissolve her bones in liquid fire. His thumbs stroked her intimately, parting the humid flesh. A sob escaped her as she felt the heat of his breath, the pressure of his mouth opening against her. A stroke of his tongue, a gentle tug. He began to lick steadily, the rhythm teasing and luscious, until her body began to throb and clasp on emptiness. Helplessly she lifted against him with each silky flick and swirl, the sensation building to a flash point.

The metallic shrill of the doorbell cut through the brimming heat. Lucy froze, her nerves screaming in protest at the sound. Sam kept kissing and stroking her, so absorbed in the mindless sensuality of the moment that the noise hadn’t registered. But the doorbell rang again, and Lucy gasped and pushed at his head.

With a guttural curse, Sam tore himself away from her. He fumbled for the towel and covered Lucy. Half sitting, half leaning against the edge of the mattress, he panted for breath. He was shaking in every limb.

“Probably one of my crew,” she heard him mutter.

“Can you—”

“No.”

He pushed away from the bed and went to the bathroom, and she heard the sound of water running. By the time Sam emerged, Lucy had managed to pull the covers over herself. His face was hard, his jaw set. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Lucy bit her lip before asking, “Are you angry because of what you started, or because you didn’t finish?”

Sam sent her a brooding glance. “Both,” he said, and left the room.

* * *

As Sam went downstairs, the vicious ache of arousal was nothing compared to his scalding emotions. Anger, frustration, severe unease. He’d been so close, too damned close, to having sex with Lucy. He’d known it was wrong and he hadn’t cared. Why had Lucy done nothing to stop him? If he didn’t get control over the situation, over himself, he was going to make a serious mistake.

Reaching the front door, he opened it and was confronted by Lucy’s sister, Alice. An incredulous scowl spread across his face. For one longing moment he let himself imagine the pleasure of booting her off his front porch.