The Haunting of Brier Rose (13 page)

Taylor closed his eyes. He could smell the soft scent of lavender
wafting up from her. He swallowed back a strong physical urge to run his
fingers through the ripples of her shining tresses and let the strands
titillate the sensitive flesh between his fingers. He could almost imagine the
way her hair would hang around him in a fragrant russet cloud should she ever
lean over him in bed, her graceful white hands planted on his chest. Much to
his annoyance, he felt himself swell with desire for her, only this time the
desire was sharp and insistent, because she was in his bed already. All he
would have to do was straddle her, trap her delicate wrists beneath his palms
and take her from behind. That way he wouldn't even hurt her scratched skin. He
could have her right now if he wanted to take her by force.

Taylor breathed in sharply and turned away from the bed,
wondering what had come over him. He had never taken a woman against her will, had
never forced himself on anyone. Yet he wanted Rose so acutely that he felt
dangerously desperate, his hunger heightened by the fact that he hadn't had a
woman for months and the knowledge that his thirst for this woman was not to be
slaked. The odds that Rose might someday hunger for his touch were minimal, if
not downright nonexistent.

He snatched the tweezers from the nightstand and sat down beside
her, willing himself to inspect her back as a doctor might inspect a broken
toe, making himself view her back as a separate entity and not part of a
glorious whole. God help him in the second phase of this operation, when he had
to look at her lushly rounded bottom. If he could control himself then, he
would be a candidate for sainthood.

"Mr. Wolfe?" Rose asked
,
her
words muffled by the comforter.

Her voice startled him, and he realized he must have been gawking
at her longer than he should have.

"Okay, I'm ready," he replied, his voice gruff.
"Are you?"

"Yes."

He raised the tweezers while he searched for a good place to
start. He decided to work from top down, doing the backs of her arms first.
Gently he pressed her flesh with his left thumb and forefinger, forcing the
brier to pop to the surface. Then, one by one, he pulled out each venomous
brown dagger.

Rose never made a sound, even though he was certain he caused her
pain when he squeezed out the more deeply embedded stickers. After a while he
felt her relax on the bed, which made her muscles slacken so that his job was a
bit easier. She never said a word the entire time he worked on her back, for
which he was grateful. He wasn't the type that could concentrate and talk at
the same time. Pointless chatter annoyed him, as well.

After a quarter of an hour he sat back and brushed the hair off
his forehead with the back of his wrist. "So far so good, Brier
Rose," he said.

"Are you done?" she asked, twisting on the comforter.

He nearly caught a glimpse of her naked breast. Knowing it would
be pure torture if he saw any more of her torso, he averted his gaze.

"Yes—on the top, that is. Just as a precaution,
though, I think I should apply some kind of antibiotic."

"My comfrey salve would do well in this case."

"What in the heck is that?"

"Comfrey is a plant that fights infection. I mix powdered
comfrey with cocoa butter and beeswax to make the salve."

"I suppose it would be better than nothing. Do you have
some?"

"Yes." She rose on one elbow, holding her loose garments
to her breasts this time. "In the bathroom that's in my bedroom."

"Stay right there. I'll get it." He traded his tweezers
for the cane, which was propped against the nightstand, and hobbled to the
door. Then he turned. "Where is your room, anyway?"

She gave him a funny look, as if she didn't believe him, and then
pointed to the left. "Down at the end of the hall, near the back
stair."

"And what does this salve look like?"

"It's in a green glass jar marked Comfrey. It should be in
the cabinet above the sink."

"I'll be right back. Just stay where you are."

He walked down the hallway, wondering why he was so eager to help
her. If he were honest about it, he would have to admit that he liked the idea
of Rose Quennel lying in his bed and wanted to keep her there as long as
possible.

Taylor opened the last door on the left and peered inside the
room. This chamber had to belong to Rose. The feminine decor of white lace
curtains and wine-colored floral-print fabric fit Rose's personality, as did
the neat stacks of books on her dresser and writing table, and the bouquet of
bird feathers she had arranged in a small crystal vase. A collection of
impressionist prints graced her walls, most of them by Mary Cassatt, whose
subjects were women and children. His gaze lingered on a painting of a woman
bathing a child, and he felt a twisting jab in his chest.

Somewhere there was a woman who had borne a child in shame. He
could have done something about it. But as a sixteen-year-old, he had allowed
his father to override his sense of honor. Taylor had been forbidden to step
forward with the truth, for the truth involved speaking out about the no-good
son of a prominent businessman with whom Taylor's father had been arranging a
construction deal. The deal went through, establishing Wolfe Construction as
the premier firm in San Francisco. The young woman's accusation of rape, on the
other hand, was squelched, but not before her reputation and life were ruined.

Taylor felt like hell for years afterward and never forgave his
father for demanding such a costly silence from him. But more importantly, he
never forgave himself for keeping quiet. After graduating from high school, he
left home and never saw or spoke to his father again. He never accepted a penny
of the Wolfe fortune for college or anything else, even though his father
constantly wrote checks and bought him cars, as if trying to make up for the
past. The checks were returned uncashed, the vehicles never accepted. And only
when his father had died four years ago had Taylor returned home to visit his
mother.

He still burned with anger and shame, even now, after all these
years. He turned sharply away from the painting.

Taylor walked past Rose's four-poster bed, which looked plump and
fresh, the lacy shams frothy white. He could imagine that her bed would smell
pleasantly of lavender and that the linen would be spotlessly clean—a
virginal bed, just like her.

Taylor smiled sadly at his private joke and hobbled into the
bathroom. As far as he was concerned, her bed was going to remain virginal and
his celibate.

He found the comfrey salve and—thinking of Rose's
modesty—a large white towel with which to drape her, and then returned to
his bedroom.

When Taylor walked through the doorway, he saw Rose flop back
down on her stomach to shield her body from sight.

"Found it," he remarked, walking forward. "Shall I
put some on you?"

"Please. And gently."

"Have I been hurting you?" he asked, hoping he hadn't
caused her too much discomfort.

"No. Actually, you have a light touch, Mr. Wolfe."

Her words pleased him. At least he had done something right in
her eyes. He sank down beside her, removed the lid from the jar, and set it on
the nightstand.

With feather-light strokes, he applied the salve to her back and
arms, trying not to imagine what it would be like to caress her for reasons of
pleasure, not pain. Even so, the touch of his hands must have had a soothing
effect on her, for at one point she let out a long sigh. The sound shot right
to his loins. He shifted.

"Do you want me to fasten your bra and dress?" he
asked, his voice hoarse. "I brought a towel in case you don't want to get
the salve on your clothes."

"The towel would be fine. Thanks."

He lightly draped the terry cloth over her back and then started
to unbutton her dress all the way to the hem. With each button, his breathing
grew more uneven and his arousal more intense. Ah, but this was exquisite
torture. She wore no slip beneath the dress, only pure-white panties.

"Your panties," he began, clearing his throat. "I'll
have to take than down just a bit."

She was as stiff as a board.

"Do what you have to, Mr. Wolfe," came her muffled
reply.

He groaned silently. If she only knew what his body was screaming
for him to do, she wouldn't grant him carte blanche like that. Taylor reached
for her underwear and slid it off her slender hips. The round flesh of her
small, white, incredibly virginal bottom popped into view. Taylor sucked in a
breath and held it. How would he live through this torture without going crazy?

She stirred. "There are quite a few briers, aren't
there?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I couldn't bear to sit down this morning."

Taylor clenched his teeth. He could hardly sit down now. His
jeans were uncomfortably tight. He reached for the tweezers, figuring the best
thing he could do to keep his mind off visions of lovemaking with Rose was to
start plucking briers and try to make small talk, as much as he hated it.

"I noticed the clothes you had on yesterday," he ventured.
"Have you been painting the house?"

"No." She propped her chin on her balled fists.
"I've been working on a piece of fabric for a client."

"A client?" He pulled out a brier, trying to fill his
mind with their idle conversation instead of the sight of the dimple in her
right buttock. Her rump was so slender and
delicate,
he had a nearly overwhelming urge to nip it with his teeth. He forced himself
to look only at the very tip of the tweezers. "Do you run some kind of
business here at Brierwood?"

"Yes. I'm a fabric designer."

"What exactly is a fabric designer?"

"Well, in my case, I paint designs on cloth. Some designers
use computers to create patterns, which are produced by machines, much like a
printing press. But my work is all done directly on the fabric, freehand."

Freehand? He could imagine his hands freely cupping the pale
moons before him and crushing her against his aching body. What a feeling that
would be! And how good it would feel to release himself in her tight depths.

Taylor moistened his lips. "Where
..
.
um
...do you work?"

"I have a studio on the third floor. Would you like to see
it sometime?"

"Yeah." He would like to see anything, anywhere, if he
could just survive this brief moment in time with his self-respect intact.
Carefully he pulled more briers, squeezing her skin as gently as possible.
"Do you... do you have many clients?''

"Enough to keep me busy. Right now I'm trying to finish
something by the end of the week. Then I'm going to take a small
vacation."

"That sounds good. Where?"

"I don't know. Someday, when I have enough money, I'd like
to go to Milan to research textiles in the museums there."

"Ah." Four more little hummers and he would be done.
Taylor caught his lower lip between his teeth and bent to his task, knowing a
greater test lay beyond—that of rubbing comfrey salve on the expanses he
longed to caress with more than just the tips of his fingers.

When the last brier was plucked out, he leaned forward, dropped
the tweezers on the nightstand and picked up the salve.

"Almost done, Rose," he said in encouragement, more to
himself than to her.

"It feels much better already, Mr. Wolfe."

"You should have asked me to help you yesterday." He
dipped his fingers in the creamy yellow salve.

"I was too embarrassed."

"Has it been that bad the past few minutes?"

"No." She turned her head enough to look over her
shoulder at him. Her blue eyes were smoky with an emotion he didn't recognize.
All he knew was that he'd never seen anyone look so alluring and so innocent at
the same time. "I have to admit that I didn't expect you to be such a
gentleman."

"Gentleman?" He forced a chuckle and spread the salve
on her rump, stroking her with just one hand, which made it less of a
temptation to run his palms all the way up the sides of her body and make her
his prisoner.

The truth was, he hadn't expected her to be such a lady, either.
Her behavior baffled him. If she had wanted to engage him in a compromising
situation, this would have been the time to do it, and yet she had made no move
to seduce him. He had to admit that he was somewhat disappointed.

"You wouldn't say I was a gentleman if you knew what I was
thinking."

"And what are you thinking, Mr. Wolfe?"

For an instant he thought of revealing his attraction to her, of
leaning down and kissing her, but an instant later he thought better of it. He
pulled back his hand.

"Things better left to the imagination." He rose and
turned his back so she couldn't see the physical evidence of his reaction to
her. "All done, Brier Rose."

"Thank you. Really. Thank you."

He hobbled over to his cold breakfast. Rose followed a moment
later, wrapping the towel around her. He didn’t dare turn around to look at
her.

"Let me make you another breakfast, Mr. Wolfe. It's the
least I can do in return for your kindness."

"It’s all right." He lifted one of the covers and
sniffed. He had choked down many a cold meal of crackers and beer aboard the
Jamaican Lady
. Lukewarm eggs and coffee
cake seemed like four-star fare to him. "There's nothing wrong with the
food."

He heard her walk toward the door and glanced at her over his
shoulder. Her grace and bearing made her look like a queen, even when she wore
a plain terry-cloth towel. Why had he ever accused her of being hysterical and
melodramatic? The more he got to know her, the more he realized that
"proud" and "noble" were far better descriptions of Rose
Quennel. He was just about to ask her to share his breakfast when someone
pounded on the door.