Unforgiven (6 page)

“A favor.” The shift in the conversation tilted the world under her feet.

“How well do you know Brookings?”

Totally caught off guard, she blinked. “Brookings? Pretty well. Why?”

“I need to find an apartment, sooner rather than later. Many more nights on the futon at my mom’s house and I’m going to need a chiropractor.”

She gaped at him. “You came here to ask me to help you find an apartment.”

“I planned to ask nicely and buy you supper afterwards, but yes.”

“Why not get Keith to help you?”

“He’s busy.” Inflectionless, no details. Keith was pretty low on her list of favorite people, and it didn’t surprise her that he wouldn’t take time to help his best man find an apartment.

“How do you know I’m not?”

“I don’t. This isn’t a command, Ris. I’m asking a favor. Say no if you can’t. I’ll figure it out on my own. I just . . . wanted company.”

Something vibrated under the words, but she couldn’t think with him so close, so she pushed against his chest. He leaned back a few inches, but she harbored no illusions she’d moved him. He’d moved for her, and having that powerful body at her command struck at a very feminine place inside.

“I’m not going to sleep with you again.”

Big words when she was still half-naked and close enough to feel the heat of his erection against her belly, but she had to retain some measure of self-protection here. She chose bed partners without much regard for rules or convention, but something dark and dangerous occasionally breathed fire under Adam’s steel-hard exterior. He had the power to annihilate her. He’d done it before.

“Fine,” he said. He took one step back, all he could do in the tiny bathroom, giving her enough space to struggle back into her layers of shirts. In just seconds she was too warm, the first time that had happened in who knew how long.

“When?” she asked through her tightly closed throat.

“Tomorrow?”

An excuse to put off doing what she had to do, and no small sense of relief washed through her. When she nodded, he added, “I found a couple of apartment complexes online, and a few other rentals in the older parts of town. I’ll pick you up around nine.”

“Okay.”

“Just so you know . . . if you change your mind, ask anytime.” He bent forward and kissed her, soft, hot temptation personified, before he stepped back. “I won’t say no.”

An image flashed bright on the movie screen of her mind: Adam, in her bed, saying yes to everything she asked. She’d been shocked by electric currents before, and that’s exactly what happened now, the charged air between them zapping the breath from her lungs. Leaving the bedroom lights off, he covered the distance to the back door in four steps, then walked out into the rain.

6

A
DAM TOOK THE
steps two at a time, water splashing up from the depressions worn into the hundred-year-old marble blocks each time he planted his foot. He arrived at the front door of the Walkers Ford library just as Alana, in a long coat and scarf, struggled to unlock the front door with one hand while balancing two cardboard shipping boxes and a tote in the other. “Let me help you with those,” he said.

“Thanks so much,” she said, and offloaded the boxes and tote into his waiting arms. A plastic container of hummus and another of sliced carrots and celery peeked out from the top of her tote. Lunch, or maybe a morning snack, and not purchased at Walkers Ford’s lone grocery store. Based on the weight and her occupation, the boxes held books.

Sheltered from the rain by the portico, she struggled with the lock for a few seconds, jiggling both the handle and the key before it gave way. She stepped through and held the door wide open for him. Large windows let in enough of the day’s gloom for him to find the circulation desk and set down the boxes while she went to the bank of switches and turned on the lights.

“That’s better,” she said with satisfaction. “I was ready for biting cold and snow when I moved here, but not for weeks of rain with no end in sight.”

“Give it five minutes and the weather will change,” he said, repeating the old saw about weather on the high plains.

“I’ve been giving it five minutes for ten days straight. So far, that adage holds only rainwater,” she replied, her voice more amused than irritated as she adjusted the temperature. Under his feet the furnace whirred to life. She walked to the circulation desk, absently adjusting a display of children’s books as she moved through the big, high-ceilinged room. “What can I do for you?”

“I can wait until you get your coat off and your things settled.”

“I’ll be wearing my coat for the next few minutes,” she said, still amused. “I’m sorry it’s so cold. The windows are original and leak heat like a sieve. It’s not an ideal environment for books. How can I help you?”

Her alert, interested gaze was both disconcerting and compelling. “I need books on giving a speech,” he said.

The promise of a day with Marissa, vulnerable and tough all at once, couldn’t fully distract him from the upcoming wedding. Online he’d found some simple formulas to construct a best man’s speech, but he wanted something to help him organize his thoughts before he planned what to say.

With a brisk nod she led him into the double rows of shelves that ran the length of the single room and stopped in the eight hundreds. Deftly she sectioned off a cluster of books and set them on top of the shelves. “We don’t have a very large selection, I’m afraid,” she said. “Most of the budget for new books goes to popular fiction and periodicals, but the high school library might have a more recent selection. As a graduate you can continue to check out books there. I can also order books from other libraries around the country. You’ll have to pay the shipping costs and it takes a couple of weeks for them to arrive.”

A return trip to the high school didn’t appeal, and he didn’t have a couple of weeks to wait for better books to arrive, but after twelve years in the Marines, he knew how to make do. He scanned the titles and recognized a couple his online research indicated were classics. “I’ll take these two,” he said.

Alana reshelved the others and led him back to the desk. He looked around at the high ceilings, the white columns beside the doors, the marble flooring. The ceiling itself was recessed paneled wood. “The building needs some work,” he commented.

“It does,” she agreed. “These old Carnegie libraries are fast-crumbling national treasures, in my opinion, with rural tax bases shrinking as they are.” She looked up at him, then added, “The town council’s considering how best to upgrade the building and the technology. Marissa’s skills would come in handy if they decide to go ahead.”

“She won’t be the front-runner to get the job,” Adam said. He knew how Walkers Ford worked. The front-runner was probably Chuck Matterly, a prominent builder on the school board who’d put up a couple of cookie cutter subdivisions around the county.

Alana’s smile disappeared. “I don’t suppose you still have your library card?”

He’d never had a public library card in Walkers Ford. “No, ma’am,” he said.

“Then let’s get you set up with one.” She powered up her computer and looked up at him expectantly. “I need something that proves you’re a resident of Walkers Ford or Chatham County. A rental agreement, a utility bill, or a phone bill will do,” she said.

Invisible chains tying him to the community wouldn’t count. “I’m staying with my mother until I get a place of my own.”

“Driver’s license?” she said without batting an eye.

He pulled the card from his wallet and offered it to her. She transcribed the information into the computer, then began the process of checking out the books. “Due three weeks from today, but late fees aren’t onerous, still a nickel a day. Don’t make me hunt you down to get them back.”

Three weeks from today Delaney would be married and on her honeymoon, and he’d be setting up residence in Brookings. “Understood,” he said. “Thanks.”

He was halfway to the door before her next question stopped him. “Will you see Marissa again soon?”

“Yes,” he said. As soon as he got to Brookhaven. Less than twenty minutes until he saw Marissa again.

Alana opened a drawer, removed a box cutter, sliced open the boxes, but didn’t remove the contents. “How well do you know her?”

There was a loaded question. He shrugged, then considered the books in his hand. “I’ve known her all my life.”

Alana pulled books from the boxes and set them on her desk. The room had warmed up enough for her to remove her coat and drape it over the chair. “Marissa ordered these books via interlibrary loan.”

“The books she said she didn’t want anymore.”

“Yes.” Alana looked at him. “I think she should still have the chance to take a look at them. Skim them, if that’s all she has time to do. Would you take them to her for me, please?”

His boots clunked loudly in the silence as he walked back to the circulation desk. The books, six in all, came from libraries in places like Delray Beach, Newport, and San Luis Obispo. He scanned the bindings for the titles, then looked at Alana. “What’s this all about?”

“Oh, just your average, run-of-the-mill obsession.” He cut her a look at the lighthearted tone over the stone-cold serious words.

Apparently he didn’t know Marissa nearly as well as he thought he did. “What does she owe you for the shipping?”

“Sixteen thirty-four,” Alana said.

Adam gave her a twenty, then put the change into a clear acrylic box marked Library Fund. The stack of books tucked between his arm and his hip, he walked out the front door and jogged through the rain to his car. Inside, he wiped the accumulated drops off the spines, then, under the dim illumination of the dome light, carefully read the back cover copy for each of the six books. When the dome light dimmed he tossed the books into the backseat, then drove through town to County Highway 12, headed for Brookhaven.

Approaching the house from the southeast with storm clouds massed behind it, her house looked like a fanciful ship, the sharp corner of the wraparound front porch poised at the peak of the hill. Rain sheeted from the figurehead’s streaming hair and white Grecian gown, her arm outstretched, pointing west, tilting at an odd angle. The windows at floor level were clear glass, and the inset windows above were all made of stained glass, but not in the typical geometric forms. Rather, waves of blue and gray gave way to the warm colors of the sunset.

On a windy fall day, the prairie unbroken to the horizon, the house looked like it was about to launch off into the swells of windblown green grass. He looked at it, blinked. Barked out a laugh. That wasn’t the Brookhaven he remembered, with peeling white paint and a vaguely abandoned, ramshackle air about it. No, the house was now utterly unconventional, passionate, unique.

He blinked again, and it was just an odd old house, cobbled together from bits and pieces of architectural styles and auction junk. Where the hell had she gotten a sailing ship’s figurehead in South Dakota?

He parked in the circle drive, followed the paving stones around to the servants’ entrance, knocked on the door, and found himself braced like he was outside officers’ quarters. When she opened the door he was grateful for the stance, because his heart stopped for a split second, then took off in triple time.

She’d always been a tomboy, the kind of girl you’d see in a Michael Bay film, sexy as a centerfold while she kicked alien ass. He hadn’t given any thought at all to what she’d wear for a day of apartment hunting. She stood in the doorway in a pair of slim-fitting dark jeans and a forest green turtleneck sweater that clung to her lean body. Her dark hair spilled around her face and shoulders in tousled waves. A light coat of gloss gleamed on her full mouth, and she’d put on just enough eye makeup to make her brown irises dark and mysterious.

Silence held, then she ducked her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. “What?” she said.

“You look amazing.”

That got him a smile. “Thanks. Better than carpenter jeans and work boots, right?”

“Just different,” he said. “Jeans and boots work for me.”

“You have a thing for construction apparel?”

“Apparently I have a thing for tough girls,” he said. His heart thudded against his breastbone, doing an awesome job of sending blood south to his cock.
She said she wasn’t sleeping with you again. Take her at her word.
“Grab your coat. The first appointment is at one.”

She buttoned herself into a navy peacoat and riffled through her shoulder bag before she stepped out onto the landing to lock the door behind her. He stepped back and gestured for her to lead the way.

“That’s a real Navy peacoat,” he said as he followed her around the house, to the car.

“It belonged to an old boyfriend,” she said as she slid into the car.

Inside the car he could see it was a little big on her through the shoulders, but the right length at hip and sleeve. It would fit perfectly over layers of sweatshirt, turtleneck, and long underwear, though. He started the car and drove back down the driveway, trying to think of something to say. “And you kept it when you broke up with him?” he said, trying to inject a little humor into the situation. The mood in the car vibrated with tension: sexual, emotional, everything. Or maybe that was just him.

“Actually, he left it behind when he went back east,” she said lightly. “He was a stained-glass artist doing a residency at SDSU. Showed up in town in June, stayed until December, then went home. We bartered for windows in the great room. I paid for the materials and let him use the barn as a workshop while he was here. In return he did the design and installation. When he wasn’t working he would drive all over the countryside, taking pictures, sketching. I went with him. I’ve lived here my whole life and after a summer with him I saw eastern South Dakota in a whole new way.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that, because irrational jealousy fisted around his throat, making it hard to swallow and impossible to form words. He reached into the console for a folder containing the pages he’d printed from the computer workstation he’d set up for his mother years ago so they could Skype during his deployments. “These are the apartments I’m looking at today,” he said. “First place is on top.”

She paged through the stapled sheets, pausing at addresses. “Okay, I know where we’re going.”

They came to the four-way stop sign at the county highway south of Brookhaven. Left took them east, into Walkers Ford. Right went west, into the next town over. He went south through the intersection and forty minutes of silence later, they were on the outskirts of Brookings. Lost in thought about the books in his backseat, he missed the exit for the university. “Don’t worry about it,” Marissa said. “You can backtrack up 22nd Avenue. Pull in here,” she said as they neared a grocery store.

“You need to stop?”

“A cup of coffee sounds good.”

The store had a Starbucks inside, near the customer service area. He pulled into the parking lot and they trotted through the rain to the automatic doors. Inside she inhaled deeply and smiled, then got in line.

“A Venti bold,” she said when they got to the counter, then turned to Adam. “What do you want? My treat.”

“I’ve got it,” he said and reached for his wallet. “Grande Americano,” he said.

She claimed her large cup while he paid, and went to the stand to add cream and sugar. “You like Starbucks coffee?” he asked when he joined her.

“It doesn’t taste all that different from Gina’s,” she said. He gave a little huff of laughter, but she continued. “I just like . . . I don’t know. It’s a treat. It’s something I see on TV when I zone out, people with their cups of coffee in New York City or Las Vegas or Miami. When I have to come to Brookings I treat myself.”

This little insight into Marissa’s mind amused him. “So you like holding the cup?”

“I like holding the cup,” she said. “Why? You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine if you need a kick, but it tastes bitter and burned. Most people put cream and sugar in the coffee, so they don’t notice the taste.”

Amused, she said, “So Gina’s coffee tastes bitter and burned?”

“Gina’s coffee tastes like it was brewed with stagnant swamp water then left on the burner for a week.”

She eyed his cup. “What did you get?”

“An Americano. It’s a shot of espresso with water.”

He offered her the cup. Keeping one eye on the road, she took it and sipped, considering the flavor. “Smoother.”

“Let’s go hold Starbucks cups while we look at apartments.”

The first appointment on his list was at a complex near McCrory Gardens. They parked in the visitor spots and found the management office on the first floor of one of the buildings. A woman in her twenties dressed in tight black slacks and a low-cut shimmery blouse led them down the hall to an empty unit.

“Usually our leases run through the school year,” she said as she unlocked the door, “but the tenant dropped out and the unit’s available. When do you need occupancy?”