Smooth Irish (Book 2 of the Weldon Series) (20 page)

A brisk breeze whipped in from the ocean and a line
of dark clouds hovered in the distant horizon. Rushing home before
the storm, she put a roast and a potato casserole in the oven and
checked the asparagus soup she had prepared yesterday. She would
serve the soup cold and add a spinach and vinaigrette salad to
complete the main meal. For dessert she had snatched a Chocolate
Decadence Cheesecake from the grocery’s freezer.

Hurrying to the bathroom to take a final assessment
of her appearance, she looked in the mirror as she spritzed on her
favorite light perfume. Her mind a convoluted mess with one clear
thought. She’d married the man in her fantasy. Repeatedly. Was it
some sort of sign that she was supposed to really marry
Jackson?

“But I can’t marry Lord Weldon,” she blurted out to
herself.

Eyes wide, she clamped her hand over her mouth.
Okay, she could handle this. Talking to a mirror as if the fantasy
she had had last night was real was no biggie. She was completely
in control of her life. She was a mature, consenting adult. It was
just sex, right?

She was…she was…deranged. She decided to call
Jackson and reschedule after she went to therapy. That should take
about six months. Six months was good. Maybe by then she’d be able
to carry on an intelligent conversation and not see a masked pirate
lover lurking around, or a Harley, or remember the hood of his
truck, or hear guitar music. Okay maybe she needed a year of
therapy in Siberia to cool down her attraction to Jackson.

Though the leopard-print underwear she’d bought and
wore gave lie to her intentions, she still walked over to the
telephone to call Jackson and cancel. The doorbell rang before she
could make it. He was early. Jackson was never early.

Jackson rolled his shoulders, marveling at the
relaxed ease he felt. For the first time in forever, he’d had a
damn good day. This just sex proposition with Nan was just right.
He couldn't wait to have her again, but that hunger would ease.
Just give it a little time and he'd be back to his normal self.
Still, he thought, maybe things would be a little different from
now on. The possibility of another damn good day on his horizon
seemed to be something he'd have to adjust to.

Back in med school and during his internship, he had
had too many things to do to feel any type of ease, ever. Recently,
he had done just what he had to do to get the job finished, but
today things had been different.

He’d enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his back, the
fresh breeze blowing in from the Atlantic, and the low-key
camaraderie involved in the shared task of building something
tangible and worthwhile with his own hands. There was a certain
satisfaction in construction. Nothing like the rush of handling
medical emergencies in the ER, but then he didn’t have to deal with
the patient who didn’t survive, or the constant pressure of having
a person’s life rest on your decisions. And without medicine, he
didn’t have to deal with the constant reminders of Amy and his own
failure.

Jackson wasn’t sure what made today any different
than every day for the past four years, but being with Nan had to
be part of it. He lifted an impatient gaze to the gathered clouds,
showering him with a misty rain. At this rate he’d be soaked before
she answered the door. He shifted the wine and spray of honeysuckle
blossoms he’d clipped from the bush next to the creek and aimed his
finger at the doorbell again. What was taking her so long?

She opened the door just as he hit the buzzer and
she jumped about three feet. She appeared tense, harried, and as
needy as he felt. She looked him up and down twice, started to say
something, but couldn’t seem to get the words out.

Her full lips parted and she seemed so adorably
kissable he couldn’t wait another minute. He’d been thinking about
kissing her all day long.

“Here.” Stepping into her apartment, he handed her
the wine and the honeysuckle, then he wrapped his arms about her
hips and lifted her to his kiss. She managed to move the wine
bottle to the side, but the honeysuckle lay squashed between them.
He didn’t care; she met his kiss with sock-smoking enthusiasm. She
tasted like heaven itself and he delved deeper into her sweet
mouth.

Jackson didn’t even think to ask Nan or to say
anything, all he could think about was having her. He set her on
her feet, shifted his arms and swooped her up, just barely
remembering to kick the front door shut with his boot as he carried
her back to her bedroom. She kept kissing him and he kept kissing
her; they hardly had time to breathe.

He laid her on the bed and stepped back. Her eyes
were dark with passion, her mouth open and ready for more of him,
and her breasts rose and fell intriguingly with her every breath.
She wore a feel-me silky brown blouse and an enticing short white
skirt.

“I’ve been waiting all day for you,” he said softly
as he loosened her hand from the wine bottle and set it on the
floor. Then he took the fragrant honeysuckle spray and placed it on
the bottom of the bed.

“Me too,” she confessed. “You, uh, wore all
black.”

“Yeah. Does that bother you?” He placed a knee on
her bed and leaned in close enough to cup her breasts in his
hand.

“Um, nnooo. You’re sort of damp.”

“Yeah. Let’s work on getting you damp, too.” He
flicked his thumbs over her rising nipples. Just then an alarm rang
from the kitchen area, and Nan jumped up from the bed
lickety-split.

“The roast.”

“Roast?” He was roasted all right.

“It will burn if I don’t turn off the oven.”

“I can relate,” Jackson muttered.

“Huh?” Nan looked back at him as she walked to the
door.

“Nothing. Just hurry.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Jackson flopped back on the bed and accidentally
knocked the pillows askew. He was in the middle of seducing her and
the woman remembered a roast in the oven? Maybe he was losing his
touch. Maybe he was losing his mind. He turned over on his stomach
and groaned. Having an affair with Nan was like jumping into a
forest fire. He was doomed to burn and he’d known that beforehand.
How long did it take to turn an oven off? He opened his eyes and
before him was an open black book.

A diary? Frowning, he sat up and placed the book on
her bedside table. Would taking off his boots seem too
presumptuous? After the way he’d carted her into the bedroom, she
would expect he’d take off his boots—and maybe a few other things
as well. He leaned over to slip off his boots and did a double take
on the open page of the black book. The name Lord Weldon jumped out
at him and he picked it up. Was Nan doing some sort of genealogy
research? If so she was clearly barking up the wrong Weldon family
tree. He didn’t have any lords in his ancestry. He looked at the
door, thought about reading it without asking then changed his
mind.

“Nan,” he called walking to the door holding the
book. “Who’s Lord Weldon?”

“Oh my God!” Nan froze in the middle of transferring
the potato casserole from the oven to the table. She couldn’t move;
she couldn’t speak. Her heart raced and the room swayed like a
banana boat in a hurricane. The heat of the casserole burned
through her insulated gloves and still she couldn’t move.

Jackson entered the kitchen. “Nan?”

She shut her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. She
couldn’t breathe, and she could feel the blood rushing from her
head.

“What the hell!”

Nan barely felt Jackson take the casserole from her,
but his expletives came through loud and clear though. “Ouch, damn,
sonofabitch, that’s hot! What kind of crappy potholders are
these?”

His grip on her shoulders was firm as he pushed her
down into a kitchen chair and shoved her head between her legs.
“Take a deep breath, Nan.”

“I can’t,” she gasped.

“Are you hurt? Are you sick? Why can’t you
breathe?”

“You, you. You read my story! How, how could
you?”

Jackson pulled her head back up and Nan sank into a
sea of embarrassment. “Just let me drown.”

“Drown? You’re not making sense.” Jackson studied
her face a minute then furrowed his brow. “What story?”

Nan sucked in a lung full of air. “You mean you
didn’t read from the black book?”

Jackson stood up and retrieved her black book from
the floor where he must have dropped it to rescue her. “You mean
this?”

“Yes.” She reached for it and he snatched it
back.

“Not so fast. I didn’t read it, but when I moved it
off the bed I saw Lord Weldon’s name on the page. If you want this
back, you’re going to have to explain that. And let me warn you, I
won’t buy into any coincidental theories.”

Nan bit her lip. She was in a fine pickle and it was
her own fault. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot, and
glared.

He raised his eyebrow. “Not talking, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I guess I’m just going to have to read for
myself. He flipped the book open.

Nan jumped up. “No!”

Both of Jackson’s eyebrows shot up this time. “Who
is Black Jack? Just exactly what are you writing about me?”

“It’s not about you.”

“Not about me? The scarlet blush all over your face
tells a different story. What gives?”

The game was up. She was either going to have to
shoot him, tell him what she was up to, or stab him with the meat
thermometer. Since she didn’t have a gun, her best option was out.
The thermometer was still in the roast across the kitchen and her
legs weren’t steady enough to carry her that far. She sat back down
in the chair. She’d have to tell him.

“Please, let me have it back, Jack. It’s just a book
of little short stories that I think about and write down.”

He grinned. “Really?”

She watched in amazement as he handed the book back
to her. She took the book, her fingers so numb she couldn’t feel
its leathery binding. Embarrassment burned through her every
nerve.

“Short stories, huh.” He sat in the chair across
from her. “That’s really cool. I didn’t know you were interested in
writing. Tell me about it.”

She blinked and felt like such a
fraud. Could fantasies be considered short stories? “I’ve only
started doing it recently. It’s nothing much.”

“
Don’t underrate yourself.
Every great writer starts somewhere.”

In her mind Nan saw Hemmingway and
Steinbeck turn over in their graves. “This isn’t exactly what made
the classics.”

“
So, am I the good guy or
the bad guy in the story?”

“
Both,” Nan managed to
rasp out.

“If I’m in it, you’ve got to let me read
it.” His blue gaze could have rivaled a puppy in the window of a
pet store.

She scrambled for an excuse. “It’s not
ready for someone else to read yet. I just wrote it last
ni—“

“
Last night? This sounds
interesting. Please, I promise to keep in mind that this is just a
rough draft.”

She tightened her hold on the book.
Were the tables reversed, and Jackson had written something about
her, she didn’t think she would be as calm and as reasonable as he
was. In the last fantasy she only suggested a scenario about making
love to Jackson rather than describe it as she had in many of the
others. Could she live with it if he read just one?

She opened the book to the last story
and shoved it to him. “You can only read this one. I’m going to put
dinner on the table.”

“
Why don’t I put dinner on
the table and then read while we eat. You are either going to sit
right here or go lie down. Those are your only two
options.”

“
But—”

“
No buts. Next time we go
out to eat when you’ve worked all day. Did you make that
appointment with the doctor yet?”

Nan narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not
an invalid. I can cook, and I can put dinner on the table. I just
became dizzy for a minute.”

“
You know that as many
times as it has happened over the past weeks, it’s more than that.
Don’t avoid the issue. Have you made that doctor’s
appointment?”

“
Yes.” She wasn’t lying.
She had. She had a checkup scheduled three weeks from Friday. After
noting her poor eating habits today and getting dizzy, she was
pretty sure her whole problem was nutrition. Sometimes when it came
to healthcare, doctors and nurses were the worst. They consumed
more coffee, ate the least balanced diet, and in the past probably
smoked more cigarettes than the average person.

“
Good.” Jackson stood,
laying the black book on the table. “Before I start putting out all
of this delicious food, where’s Shakespeare?”

Nan grinned. “He’s asleep in the
magazine basket by the television.”

“
Then it’s
safe?”

She nodded. “He’s too well mannered to
attack the table when we’re sitting at it.”

He looked at her as if she’d just told
him the sun was green. “I’ve learned not to take anything for
granted where he is concerned. Now what do I do first?”

“
Soup. It’s in the
fridge.”

Jackson was efficient and within a few
minutes he had dinner on the table and had fetched the red wine
he’d brought. Lighting the multi-candle centerpiece was the last
step and they began eating, both so hungry they didn’t really talk
for a while.

“
Are you a gourmet cook or
what? This is great.”

“
Thanks. I’ve yet to take
a class or anything, but about every other month I pick out a new
recipe to fix, and once a month I try and go to a different
restaurant. That way I’m always experiencing something new on a
regular basis instead of getting into a rut of eating the same
thing all the time.”