MARRIAGE MATERIAL Read online

Tamara came back into the room, bearing a neat little wooden tray with a teapot in a cozy, a bowl of sugar and pitcher of milk, and two cups. "He's almost four and a half," she said.

  "Mommy, I read this whole page!" he said.

  "Very good, honey." She put the tray on the coffee table. "Why don't you go and play in your room now for a little while? I'll give you a bath later."

  "Can I take my books?"

  "Of course. They're yours."

  Cody gathered the slippery books close to his chest. "Bye," he said.

  "Bye. Thanks for reading to me."

  Cody nodded and ran off to his room.

  "Cute kid," Lance said. "Are you teaching him to read?"

  Tamara straightened, looking after her son with a perplexed expression. "No. He has little magnetic letters on the fridge, and he watches 'Sesame Street' all the time, so he must have started putting them together in his head somehow." She shook her head, and gave him a smile that was very sweet. "I only realized this afternoon that he was really reading, not just picking out a word here and there."

  Her whole attitude tonight was quite different from what it had been the other times he'd seen her. She seemed kinder, warmer, not so bristly.

  But maybe it was because he was putting out something different tonight. He had no energy left to flirt or tease or come on to her. When she handed him a cup of tea, he felt only grateful. "Thanks," he said.

  "You're welcome." She poured herself a cup, and then looked at him earnestly. Gone were the harsh, tight lines around her mouth, the wariness in her eyes. "Lance, it was very kind of you to help me this morning."

  "Glad to do it. No big deal."

  "It was a big deal." She took a breath. "It was your father's funeral today, wasn't it?"

  He looked down into his cup. The herb tea was a deep, rich red. "Yeah. It was."

  "If I'd known, I would never have asked for a favor."

  "You wouldn't have needed to take your test?"

  "Of course I would have. But I just—I feel kind of bad. I'm sorry for your loss."

  That thick, unbearable weight sunk against his chest again. "Thanks," he said, and heard how rough his voice sounded.

  "I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you don't look very good tonight. Can I do something?"

  If he hadn't been so damned worn-out, he would have summoned up something suggestive to counter that. Instead, to his horror, he felt the long-held tears in his throat suddenly rise. "No," he said abruptly. He put the tea aside and stood up, feeling a panicked need to get out of there before he completely humiliated himself. "No, I'm fine."

  He rushed toward the door, blindly, without thought, certain of only one thing. Something about this warm house and the comfort of tea and a little boy's warmth against his side had destroyed his defenses, and he had to get out of there.

  Now.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

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  Stunned, Tamara watched Lance jump up and bolt for the door. He was out on the porch before she managed to collect herself enough to go after him. "Lance!" she called, going through the door.

  He stopped in the yard, his back to her. And for one tiny moment, Tamara couldn't help but admire the picture he made against the gilding of the last sunlight. His hair, those broad shoulders set in such stiff lines, the almost inhumanly perfect rear end.

  Desire, pure and plain, filled her. She pushed it aside, aware that he needed something a lot more satisfying than a roll in the hay. Like maybe a friend. Or a shoulder to cry on.

  She ran lightly down the steps and stopped next to him, instinctively reaching out to put her hand on his arm. He flinched. "I'm okay," he said gruffly.

  "Well, if you say so," Tamara replied with a chuckle. "But if you were in my bar, I'd recommend a good shot of whiskey."

  It worked. He gave her a quick, rueful glance. "I've been doing pretty good right up till this minute." With a rough swipe of his forearm, he rubbed his face. "I guess I'm just tired now. Oughta just get home before I make a total fool of myself."

  His half smile was filled with heartbreaking bravado. For one evening, Tamara could ignore the past, and just live in the present. "I have a better idea," she said, firmly taking his arm. "I haven't had any supper, and I was going to make some French onion soup. It doesn't take long. Why don't you let me fix you some, too?"

  He hesitated.

  She tugged a little. "C'mon. Let me repay your kindness to me today."

  He looked at her for a long, silent time, the dark blue eyes filled with hesitance and sorrow and exhaustion. The exhaustion won. "I think I'd like that."

  * * *

  True to her promise, the soup took only a half hour. Lance wandered into Cody's room while she cooked, and she heard them building something out of Lego blocks. Cody had collected the parts for a castle, and he loved to build the tower, with little Lego-men guards on top, but he needed an adult to help him. And much as she liked playing with him, Tamara did not often have time.

  Listening to the soft conversation between the man and his son, Tamara wondered again if she were wrong to keep this knowledge from Lance. Whether he had intended to do it or not, he'd planted a child, and that child was bright and warm and wonderful. Especially in light of his very plain grief, perhaps the knowledge that he had a son might ease the sorrow.

  Shredding cheese, she frowned. He probably did have a right to know. But if she told him, she'd have to deal with the very real and awkward issues of custody.

  As the ramifications of that thought fully penetrated for the first time, the air left Tamara's lungs. What if Lance, in retribution or anger or even love, took Cody away from her?

  She had officially adopted her nephew, but a blood father, especially one who had had no knowledge of the birth of his son, might have a higher claim. Especially a father with as much power as a Forrest commanded in this tightly knit mountain community.

  Breathless, she sat down, the cheese grater still in her hands. Shreds of Parmesan drifted over the knees of her jeans and she brushed them off distractedly. How had she never considered this angle before? That Lance Forrest, if he knew, might take her son from her?

  A rich, low man-laugh rolled out of the back bedroom, punctuated with the higher giggle of a boy. The sound seemed suddenly ominous to Tamara. To have worked so hard, and given up so much, only to lose him?

  No.

  To safeguard her interests, she had to talk to a lawyer. She had no idea how she would manage to pay for the services of one, but somehow, she had to find a way. She needed to be prepared, just in case…

  In the bedroom, a tower of Lego blocks fell over with a crash, and Cody shrieked with glee. The sound broke into Tamara's frightened reverie. A smell of scorching onions penetrated and she jumped up to stir them.

  Taking a deep breath, she calmed her racing thoughts. Lance Forrest was no more likely to steal Cody away than he was to marry a dowdy spinster. He was footloose and liked it that way. He wouldn't tie himself down to anything or anyone.

  Or at least that's what she'd always believed. Tonight, looking so broken, she had cause to wonder. Maybe he wasn't quite the hellion she believed. Maybe his reputation was ill deserved.

  Then she thought of Valerie. No, Lance had earned every word of his wild-man reputation.

  So he likely wouldn't take Cody away from her, simply because it would mean tying himself down.

  But sooner or later, Lance was bound to put two and two together and remember that Tamara was Valerie's cousin. He'd remember that wild Christmastime affair, and start to wonder. Or she would be in public somewhere, and run into Lance with his nephew Curtis, who was almost a twin of his cousin Cody. Tamara went to great pains to keep Cody out of Louise Forrest's sight. A grandmother would notice immediately the resemblance between the two boys.

  So perhaps, just to be safe, Tamara needed to be clear on her legal rights before she told Lance about his son. Sooner or later, he was going to find out the truth, and it might be best f
or everyone if he heard the news from her own lips.

  * * *

  After scaring herself silly with thoughts of Lance taking Cody away from her, Tamara regretted her decision to invite him to stay. And yet, he showed no signs of hurrying off. He ate the soup with genuine hunger. When Tamara said she needed to give Cody his bath and get him to bed, hoping Lance would take the hint and leave, he only stood up and started collecting the dishes. "How about if I wash these up for you, then?"

  "Oh, that's not necessary," she protested. "I know how tired you must be."

  "No trouble," he said, and walked toward the kitchen.

  Tamara gave up. She hurried Cody through his bath, and read him one story, then tucked him in, and rushed back into the kitchen. She would tell him she had to study. That she had—

  But he wasn't in the kitchen, although all the dishes were neatly stacked on the drainboard. He'd even wiped the counters and stove, something Eric had always missed. "Lance?" she called.

  No answer. She wandered out through the dining room of the small bungalow and into the living room. And there he was, sprawled in her comfortable, overstuffed recliner, sound asleep. Tamara stopped, putting a hand to her stomach, pierced by his rough, vulnerable beauty.

  Yellow light spilled over him from the floor lamp, illuminating the bright streaks in his uncut hair, and catching the faint bristles of beard beginning to show on his jaw after the long day. She followed a finger of light from his high brow, down his straight nose, to the edge of his lower lip. His head was cast sideways, showing the line of his strong brown throat, and the triangle of chest above his shirt. Lamplight plucked a faint scattering of gilded hair on his chest.

  He breathed deeply, slowly, one hand on his chest, his long, jean-clad legs flung out over the footrest.

  Tamara filled her eyes, letting wonder creep over her. He was the kind of man a woman would make up, the kind of man a woman would fashion for her own pleasure. Thick hair to run her fingers through, a mobile mouth made for half-cocked grins, the lips shaped for kissing a woman for a long, long time, the strong, hard body made for touching and embracing and making long, lazy love.

  Standing in the doorway, Tamara found it far too easy to imagine herself stretched out over that long, lean length, her body pressed into his—

  Oh, Valerie! she thought. No wonder you fell so hard!

  With a rueful smile, she shook her head at herself. It had been too long since she'd had a lover. Way too long. That was the trouble with sex—you could do without forever as long as you never tasted the fruit. Once tasted, it was always missed.

  It was something she'd learned by watching Valerie, actually. And she'd been careful to preserve her innocence until college. Until she met Eric, who had seemed to share her goals and dreams. She'd never regretted either waiting or deciding to at last sample the fruits of the flesh.

  Until now. Now it seemed impossible she'd gone four years without making love. Without letting herself even dream of it.

  From the couch, she took the blanket, and covered Lance with it. He barely moved. Up close, she could see the etching of weariness around his mouth, the deepening of strain around his eyes. Tamara remembered the strain of her mother's funeral, and how completely drained she'd felt that night. It would hurt nothing to let him sleep here for an hour or two. She had to study anyway. When she was finished, she would awaken him and send him on his way.

  But as she settled at the table, she noticed she sat facing him, so she could watch him. It was bound to make studying statistics a little bit more pleasant, much like playing sonatas to ease the pain of accounting or reading business administration at the park so the sunshine took away the boredom.

  A wry grin twisted her mouth as she flipped open the textbook. "You're a hussy at heart, Flynn," she said under her breath, and lifted her eyes to the gilded picture of Lance Forrest lying asleep in her chair.

  There were worse things, she thought, and applied herself to her studies.

  * * *

  A faint, faraway ringing yanked Lance from his fathomless, dreamless sleep, and he sat up abruptly, the recliner slamming closed. His arm tangled in a blanket, and his foot was asleep, and—where the hell was he?

  He blinked hard, trying to erase the fuzziness on him, and spied a toy car on the floor. Oh, yeah. Tamara's house. He must have fallen asleep.

  He didn't see her, but the evidence of her was scattered all over the table—notebooks and papers and pencils and textbooks. From the kitchen, he heard her voice, soft and pleasant, like wind in the trees on a summer morning.

  With effort, he untangled himself from the blanket and leaned back once again in the chair. The woman was going to think he was a basket case—he'd nearly wept right out there in the yard, and then he'd fallen asleep in her chair.

  Not exactly his usual modus operandi.

  Somehow, he couldn't find it in him to care. His limbs felt heavy and thick, and he couldn't summon the energy to move just yet. It was so comfortable here. Not just in the chair, but in the house.

  It was obvious she had little money—the couch had worn places that the blanket had covered, and nothing matched. But there were framed prints on the walls—maybe cut from a calendar of Impressionist art, judging by the matched size and spirit of them. He liked the way she had hung them, not all in a line, but scattered high and low over the whole wall. In one corner was a basket of dried mountain plants, attractively arranged with a branch of aspen coins providing the centerpiece. There were small lamps here and there, creating inviting islands of light. The house even smelled good, like spice and cooking and bubble bath.

  It was comfortable. Almost protective.

  He'd forgotten how warm a woman could be. He'd forgotten that countrywomen naturally saw to the feeding and care of any weary town person in her path, as Tamara had tended him tonight. He was almost absurdly grateful.

  She came back in the room, not noticing he was awake. She glanced at her watch and sighed. So pretty, he thought blurrily. So feminine and strong all at once. "Hey," he said. "How did that test go this morning?"

  "You're awake!" She brushed a lock of hair from her face, tugged down her simple T-shirt, crossed her arms. He doubted that she realized how nicely the pose displayed her round, high breasts. Until she noticed him noticing. She dropped her arms, put her hands on her hips, didn't like that, either, and shifted from foot to foot.

  Still sprawled backward in the chair, Lance grinned very slowly. She was flustered. That must mean she liked him a little bit. Women didn't bother to get flustered around men they didn't like.

  "Must not have done too well, if you won't even tell me what you got," he said.

  "I flunked." The words were without rancor, and she inclined her head. "To tell you the truth, I was going to blame you, Mr. Forrest, but I didn't study the right chapter."

  She looked good. Like a Sunday afternoon in a meadow. Like a good bottle of wine. Like everything calm and soothing in the world.

  Like good sex.

  Sleepily he blinked. Yeah, that, too. That sweet mouth, her pretty breasts, that hint of fury and passion in her green eyes. Unless he missed his guess—and if he knew anything, it was women—she hid a very passionate nature behind all that no-nonsense busyness.

  "Blame me?" he echoed with a smile. "What did I do?"

  She looked away, tracing the edge of her book with a fingernail. The thick hair fell over her face, hiding it, but he saw the blush pinken the skin of her chest. Ah-ha.

  "Nothing. I just wanted to blame someone." She tossed her hair from her face. The pointed chin jutted upward. "But I was just dumb."

  "Nah," he said, standing up. "Never that." In a couple of long strides, he closed the distance between them. He stopped in front of her, acting purely on instinct. Lifting one hand, he brushed his fingers over the greenish bruise that marked her face. "Maybe you were just distracted."

  It was the second time he'd touched her. And for the second time, he noticed her skin was almost astonishi
ngly soft and silky. Caught by the texture, he ran his fingers over her cheek. She didn't move away, but she lowered her gaze. He touched her thin eyelids, traced her eyebrows, which were as dark as her hair, and shaped like bird wings. "You must be part Indian, to have such dark hair."

  "My father was half Choctaw." The response was automatic enough he knew she said it a lot.

  A dizziness—maybe exhaustion or loss or simple appreciation—moved through him. She was as easy to enjoy as a dandelion growing in a forgotten lot. And like a dandelion, he suspected she had long and sturdy roots, a stubborn will to survive that would not be easily killed.

  He lifted his other hand to her face and cupped the piquant shape between his palms, spreading his finger open so he could touch as much of that tender skin as possible. "Wow," he said, and couldn't think of anything else to add.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered.

  "I don't know," he admitted. "Your skin is so soft. I just want to feel it. Do you mind?"

  "Yes," she whispered. She raised her lids, revealing the dusky heat in her eyes. He doubted she knew that it showed so plainly, so alluringly. "Please don't," she said.

  But her body betrayed her. She shivered a little and her lips looked suddenly moist and ready.

  Lance kissed her. It was done with no thought, no planning. He just bent his head and tasted her lips. It seemed like such a simple thing, the obvious thing to do—bend his head and taste the roses of her lips.

  But it wasn't simple. A bolt of something pure and clean and hot moved through him as their lips touched, a physical jolt as powerful as a plunge into the ocean. Her lips tasted faintly of lemon tea and salt, and they fit his with an extraordinary perfection, as if their mouths had been carved together, long ago in another world, and only now fit together again.

  It was so unexpectedly satisfying that Lance didn't even feel any need to go within. There was enough just right there, in the sweetness of lips too long untouched—and hungry, by the way she returned the kiss—and the discovery of a mouth so flawlessly molded to his own. When he inclined his head, she moved the other way; when he moved, she moved.