A Loving Man (13 page)

“Nope, but I can tell you that it’s not that easy to find privacy in this town to get to know a woman.”

“Yvette?”

Maury avoided the direct question. “She’s sure opened up my eyes to all the living that is to be done. The thing is, Rose, life moves on. I’ll bet that ringing telephone in the house is for you. Better answer it.”

S
tefan’s voice coursed low and sexy across the telephone lines. “I’m in our bed.”

“Our bed.”
Rose shivered, though her bedroom wasn’t cold. Flashes of the previous night went skimming through her as she settled upon her single bed. She saw Stefan, poised over her, his hair mussed and warm in her fingers, his chest wide and gleaming, his throat taut and a cord pulsing there as he held himself for her greatest pleasure. “I’m sorry about tonight,” he said. “I had plans to kiss every beautiful freckle on your body. Why did you come to see me last night?”

Rose was lifting up the neckline of her blouse to see how far her freckles extended downward. “Mmm, what?”

“Why did you come to see me last night? You said you wanted to talk.”

She had a few freckles low on her breasts and a dot or two on her stomach, and just a few on her thighs. She
remembered how Stefan’s big hands had dug in slightly, possessively, and her body started to soften, her hips lifted just slightly— “Hmm? Oh, I wanted to know how it went with Mike and I wanted to give you that check for the roof.”

The silence on the other end of the telephone wasn’t friendly. “Stefan?” she asked.

“I returned the money as you requested. The matter of the roof isn’t up for discussion. I merely wanted to tell you that the morning didn’t end as I had planned. I should have brought you breakfast in bed. Crepes, perhaps, with strawberries.”

“Stop saying ‘bed.”’

After another silence, Stefan murmured, “What’s the matter, Rose?”

Her body was humming, aching and Stefan was too far away. “I had a nice time. I meant to tell you so, but I got—mmm—I don’t just wake up in bed beside a man every day, you know.”

“I know. Perhaps we should do that again sometime. Good night, my darling.”

When the line clicked off, Rose held the telephone receiver and stared at it.
“My darling.”
Stefan’s endearment was her first. She was usually just plain “Rose.” She liked being just plain Rose—no fear of being hurt, just one day after another, no more emotional bruises. Rose scooted under her sheets and watched the night wind play with the curtain’s lacy ruffles. She couldn’t erase Stefan’s gentle lovemaking—she’d seen him in action…Stefan would want everything.

She called him back, on the private number he’d given her earlier. “No. Just no. I’ve tried all this before, and it didn’t work. I got all closed-in feeling and sweaty and panicked and we’ve got to stop right here, Stefan. You
saw how I ran out this morning. I didn’t mean to, I just did.”

“I thought you said this was a ‘share-and-share-alike deal.’ That we would make decisions together.”

She recognized that hard, determined voice without the beautiful accent. “You’ll be sorry.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m not dependable in the stretch.”

“I know you are…quite dependable and efficient.”

Rose clenched the telephone. Stefan wasn’t backing off. “Are you trying to start an argument, because if you are—”

“You were very soft and tight, my darling. If I hurt you, I’m sorry.”

Rose swallowed, her throat constricting as she remembered how gently Stefan had taken her. “Could we…um, say good-night?”

Stefan began talking softly in French, and though Rose didn’t know what he was saying, the rhythm and the deep roll of his voice told her that Stefan was telling her how he wanted to make love to her. When the call ended, Rose lay flat on her bed and shook, her body tensing, remembering every caress the night before, how he had filled her gently.

She swung quickly off the bed and raced for the cold shower. She passed the room her mother had used, now redecorated by Rose. The shadows were still there, the blond woman combing her hair in front of her vanity. Maxine Granger had told her daughter she loved her and then she’d left her.

Rose stepped into the icy water, letting it sluice over her face and tried to forget everything, to wrap herself away from the past—and from Stefan.

In the morning, Rose flopped over her tangled sheets and turned off her alarm. She just had time for a good, hard run and a nice shower before opening the store. A night of dreaming about Stefan’s lovemaking, those soft, sweet kisses, the way he handled her so gently, reverently, didn’t allow a deep, restful sleep. At six o’clock in the morning, she stepped out onto her front porch and noted her father coming in the back way, looking very pleased with himself. “Be down to the store later, Rosie,” he called. “Need a little shut-eye first and my exercise program for vim and vigor.”

She stretched, listened to the birds singing, and jogged down the front steps. She opened the front gate and sailed out onto the street. If she tried hard enough, she could trim away the need to see Stefan, to know if those warm dark eyes really looked at her so intimately.

Just as she sailed around the corner of the street, she noticed Stefan, running toward her. His hair caught the dawn, tousled and gleaming, and his bare chest glistened with sweat. The muscles in his legs bunched and contracted, his stride even, that of an athlete. He looked all warmed up and just right for—Rose’s instincts told her to push him down into the lawn behind Mrs. Black’s bushes and have him.

But that wouldn’t do. She’d get used to having him on a regular basis and the next thing she knew, it would be the end of summer and she’d be looking at heartbreak trail. She turned, heading the other direction, and picked up speed. He quickly closed the distance. “Louie is gone. Estelle took him for a walk last night in the pasture. He stepped in a fresh cowpile. Then later, at the lake, he experienced his first authentic chiggers, which seemed to have caused him discomfort during the night. It appears that my mother and daughter forgot to tell him of the dan
gers of walking through brush without insect repellent,” Stefan said, running easily beside her. “My mother came in too happy this morning. Do you know anything about that?”

Rose kept running. She had an idea why Yvette’s happiness might match Maury’s smile. “No. But this is my street. Not yours. I run here every morning. Well, except for yesterday.”

Running beside her, their strides matching, Stefan was…delectable. They ran side by side beneath the shady oak trees, with the dawn skipping through the leaves and the mockingbirds singing, just as they did every morning. For a while, the paper boy pedaled his bicycle beside them and chatted with Stefan about prime fishing worms called “nightcrawlers” and where to dig for them.

When they were alone—the boy riding ahead and sailing his papers onto front porches or on top of shrubs—Stefan shot Rose one of those intimate, dark glances that ripped down her body, heating it more. “You have sweat between your breasts. They are bobbing gently and I remember the taste of them, the shape in my hand, how readily your body opens to mine,” he stated unevenly. “I would like to kiss you, just there, where the sweat makes your shirt cling to you. How long do you think you can keep your secrets, Rose?”

“What secrets?” A wave of panic slammed into her. Stefan was definitely too close for comfort.

Stefan reached for her arm and slowed her to a stop. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, studying her as they tried to catch their breaths. “When you tell me, I’ll know that you trust me. Trust is important for you and for me. But you are my lover and I am yours and you have my heart. I do not give it lightly, but I cherish you as you are, a delight and a beautiful, loving, exciting
woman. You can call me, if you wish—at night, when you think of me.”

“I’ve never done that in my life, Stefan. I can’t imagine talking to a man like that.”

“And I’ve never spoken so to a woman. But isn’t it a wonderful time to start, just after making love?” With that, he tugged her closer and gave her a kiss that tore through her like wildfire.

Stefan reached low to cup her bottom and lift her against him, her arms encircling him. “I could pin you in two seconds flat,” she whispered, when she could speak. She pulled his damp hair back, easing his face up to hers, and looked down at him. “If I wanted to.”

“You want to seduce me. I see it in your lovely sky-blue eyes. I see it in your freckles. They want to attack me. To rub themselves all over my naked body until I melt into a mindless pool of gelatin.”

“That’s not possible,” Rose whispered raggedly because Stefan was already hard against her.

Stefan lowered her to the ground and his hungry look at her breasts started them peaking. Then he smiled tightly, turned and set off jogging on the road toward his house.

When Rose stared after him, thinking how nice and tight his backside was, Mrs. Wilkins called, “You’ll have to run faster than that, Rose. He’s a mover. And he’s the kind that will want to marry you. Not just waltz up to the altar and bolt. Sonny is out for the whole tamale. That’s why he’s taking his time.”

By the first of August, Rose was having difficulty concentrating on paint and wallpaper samples, and on ordering fall carpet samples. Business was slow, though she expected the usual fall rush—when Estelle went to college and the Donatiens packed up and left Waterville. Maury
was looking better every day, losing weight, his color returning. He began puttering around the house and would often go home in the middle of the day to fix the plumbing. He usually returned near to closing time with quite a cheery look. Rose could only hope that Maury would enjoy his life as much when the Donatiens left. He would miss— Rose didn’t want to think about what Maury might miss with Yvette, other than her friendship. “Don’t worry about me,” he’d told her frequently when she worried. “I’ve got plans.”

With his help, Rose had more time to run in the morning and Stefan usually met her. It was comfortable with him, running through the dawn, forgetting everything and settling into the routine. She liked routines; they were safe.

She loved to sit with him at sunset. Stefan’s childhood hadn’t been wild and free like her own; he’d led a structured life, pushed by a demanding father, and made bearable by a loving mother. Stefan seemed to enjoy listening to stories of young Rose’s escapades, such as rescuing kittens from the tops of trees. When she described going into a narrow cave to rescue puppies, he became very quiet. “Where were your parents?”

She had shaken her head. They’d both been occupied—her mother with her lover and her father with his broken heart.

Stefan’s evening calls were not routine in Rose Granger’s life, because whatever he was saying in French, so dark and sweet, caused her to tremble and tighten and dream of him. Their lovemaking seemed too delicious to be real now, because Stefan appeared to have withdrawn slightly, which was what Rose usually expected of the men who were briefly interested in her. He seemed less interested about wanting her. When they had met, he felt like more of a companion, a bud, a friend, than the man who
called her every night and turned her to one big, molten shivering ache.

Well, then, Rose thought as their paths met or they jogged together and Stefan bent to kiss her cheek, or touch her hair. His expression was warm and tender, when she really wanted that sexy, smoldering sensual look.
She had another bud, when she wanted a lover.

And then, the whole town was gossiping about Maggie White and how she seemed to be purring and content—her usual when she was being satisfied on a regular basis.

Rose looked out of the store’s windows and sighted Stefan’s truck at Danny’s Café. She’d worried enough about Stefan rolling in Maggie’s experienced arms, a known man-zapper. After a full fifteen minutes of walking back and forth in the store and trying to concentrate on an attractive display of brushes, Rose had had enough. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon and her father would be back soon. She flipped over the Open sign to Closed and locked the door as she crossed the street to the café. If Stefan was enjoying Maggie’s charms, Rose wanted to know.

When she entered, she saw Stefan back in the kitchen; Danny’s bulk was threatening a bar stool. He was discussing summer heat and slow business with the spit and whittle bench-men, who had moved inside Danny’s to take advantage of the air conditioning. Rose nodded to Danny and the elderly men and walked back into the kitchen, taking in Stefan’s chest-to-thigh cook’s apron over his white T-shirt and jeans. Despite her dark mood, it struck her how comfortable the scene was—Danny taking a break and Stefan cooking.

He looked nothing like the stiletto-lean man in his Chicago office; he looked nothing like the lover who had betrayed her with Maggie White.

He smiled briefly at her and then gave his attention to braising the slices of a large pot roast and placing them in a Dutch oven. “Beef
Arlesienne,
” he explained and with a flourish, added fresh, peeled country tomatoes, mushrooms and olives. If she hadn’t been worried about Maggie zapping Stefan, Rose might have enjoyed the artistry of his movements, the little experienced flourishes. She wanted his full concentration when she asked him the vital question and decided to wait. Stefan deftly smashed garlic cloves with the flat of a chef’s knife and tossed them into the mixture. Fresh, chopped basil was next, followed by bay leaves, and then Stefan covered the heavy pot and placed it on the back of the big cookstove. “There,” he said, as he washed his hands in the big kitchen sink. “Now I can talk. Danny wanted something different for tonight. He doesn’t feel like cooking, so I made a little coq au vin—chicken with wine—a little braised cabbage, a little dressing for his usual salad, and he will provide the required mashed potatoes.”

He studied her. “You look hot. Let me get you a glass of ice water.”

While he went to the fountain area in the front of the café, Rose tapped her toe and thought of how she would ask him about Maggie. When he admitted seeing Maggie, Rose would be calm, unaffected and simply go back to her life without him.

Stefan returned and handed her the large glass of ice water—which Rose promptly threw at him. Water hissed and beaded on the large grill and Stefan shook the droplets from his face, then wiped his hand across it. “And what, may I ask, is the problem?”