McNeil's Match Page 9

  “I usually spend Christmas with my brother and his wife, and I’d invite you to join us, but I envision you and Brad at loggerheads. He’ll get on your nerves, and you’ll put him in his place.”

  “Well,” he said, seeing an out, “in that case, you come to Galveston with me, and visit with my parents. That way, you’ll learn as much about me as you need to know, and you’ll enjoy it. They’re right on the Gulf. My father has a boat, and—”

  “But what would I do with Caesar? I wouldn’t want to leave him alone for three days, and you wouldn’t be home to take care of him.”

  “We would board him in the same kennel that I got him from. That’s not an excuse.”

  “I’ll keep that under advisement, but if I don’t go to Frederick for Christmas, I can see Brad going up in smoke. Anyway, it’s too soon to be thinking about Christmas.”

  So brother Brad was a troublemaker, was he? He’d gotten over worse hurdles. “Did you spend Christmas with him and his wife when you were married?”

  “Why, no, and he didn’t come to us, either, though I suppose he might have if I had invited him. As I think of it, I didn’t invite one person to my home the entire six years of that marital debacle. He visited me on several occasions for periods of an hour or so. A little of Willard tested him to his limit.”

  “Think we should head back?” he asked. If he told her that he came to her because he wanted to find out the reason, if any, why an automobile would stop in front of her house for a minute or so and then move on, she wouldn’t like it. If he’d learned anything about her, it was that she cherished her independence, that she would tolerate protectiveness so long as she didn’t feel controlled or smothered.

  * * *

  Lynne fed Caesar, patted him in the way that he loved, led him to his house and shut his gate. Then she went to the kitchen, washed her hands and got busy cooking the dinner.

  “When did you cook all this?” he asked when they sat down to eat half an hour later.

  “A few minutes ago. I made the jalapeño corn bread and the salad while you were on your way here. Rice takes seventeen minutes from the time the water boils, broccoli in the microwave takes four and a half minutes, and the sorrel soup was left over. Shrimp is done almost the minute it hits a hot pan.”

  “This is gourmet fare. I like the wine, too.”

  “Thanks. It isn’t much. Someday I’ll cook you something nice.”

  She thought his face registered surprise. “If this indicates the quality of your culinary efforts, I can’t wait, but then, from the minute I met you I’ve received one surprise after another. Who would have dreamed that the great Lynne Thurston was such a down to earth, gentle and lovable woman, devoid of arrogance and conceit?”

  Her laugh was self-deprecating, and she was aware that he knew it. “If I ever had any conceit, Willard Marsh promptly rid me of it while the words ‘I do’ were still warm from the heat of his breath.”

  “What is it that causes you to refer to him so often? Is it a sense of failure, is it hatred, or a way of reminding yourself to be...uh, more cautious?”

  Lynne loved his voice, and when he spoke softly, as he did then, he gave her a warm, comfortable feeling and a desire to curl into him with his arms tight around her. “I haven’t thought much about why I can’t forget the horror of those years, although I realize that I hold myself responsible for staying with him when I knew the marriage was a farce. But I’ve stopped beating on myself about it.”

  She put her fork down and looked at him, for what she would say was as important as anything she had ever said to him. “Sloan, that weekend you spent taking care of me, including the way we kissed each other when you were leaving, confirmed for me that no man had ever loved me and that I had never loved a man.”

  He gulped loudly enough for her to hear it, and she could see his Adam’s apple move rapidly. “And you still won’t admit that we care for each other? That doesn’t mean we’re ready to swear eternal love, Lynne, but that we’re there for each other. I’m not asking you not to see other men, but if I’m honest, I’ll tell you that I’d rather you didn’t. As for me, I can’t imagine relating to any other woman. I told you what to expect the day we played tennis together?”

  “You knew it then? You’d only met me three or four days earlier.”

  His laugh bore no mirth. “Really? I knew the day I met you that it would be a while, if ever, before I got you out of my blood. So don’t tell me about how long it takes.”

  She got up from the table, took their dishes to the kitchen and prepared the dessert. Ice cream cones made of praline cookies. She set them in tall, slim tea glasses, put the glasses into colorful plates and took them to the table. “What kind of ice cream is this?”

  “Praline-pecan. I think it’s delicious, and I hope you concur.”

  She licked her tongue over it and looked up to find him gazing at her. What the heck! That was the way people ate ice cream, wasn’t it? She savored it a second before allowing it to slide down her throat.

  “Hmm. It is delicious.”

  “You are one sensuous woman. It’s the most natural thing about you.”

  She heard what he didn’t say, and her nerve ends fired up, sending rivulets of heat from her scalp to her toes. This time, she made certain not to catch his gaze, for she knew he could read her emotions. He surprised her when he suggested that they clean the kitchen together, and after they finished, he gave her another reason to gape at him.

  “I haven’t been to any affair given by the local chapter of the Howard University Alumni since I’ve been in San Antonio, but I’ll go if you’ll go with me. It’s a fund-raiser for homeless children. Will you go with me?”

  “Why, yes, I will. But why haven’t you attended these functions before?”

  He leaned against the wall in a lazy and relaxed manner, comfortable with himself and with the answer he would give. “I’ve never regarded such affairs as a social occasion, as many of my fellow alumni do. I mail a contribution, but I don’t attend. I consider them humanitarian functions, not an occasion to show off wealth in designer clothes while donating a measly couple a hundred bucks to help the less fortunate, and I think you’d view it the same way.”

  She couldn’t resist a laugh. “Sloan, I do not own any high-fashion designer clothes, and I never have. I belong to the look-good-for-less society. It’s formal, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “When?”

  “A week from Saturday. Black tie.”

  “I’ll enjoy going with you.” And she would. For six years, her recreation had consisted of after-morning-church-service coffee hours, annual church suppers and Christmas and Easter choir concerts. She enjoyed the concerts, but she hoped never to see another piece of bread pudding as long as she lived. She wouldn’t buy an expensive designer’s dress, but if this man was going to wear a tux, he could bet she’d dress to make him and a few other men look at least twice.

  “Say, that’s Saturday after the Fourth of July, which is on Thursday this year,” she said. When his left eyebrow shot up, she added, “I’d planned to spend that weekend with my brother in Frederick, but I can come back here that Friday and see you on Saturday.”

  “Good. Thanks for the really delightful dinner. I’d...uh, better get going. It’s getting late, and you have a rough day ahead.”

  “I’m glad you came. I don’t think ice cream is on the list Max gave me, but I can cheat once in a while.”

  When he eased his arm around her and started for the front door, she rested her head against his shoulder as if she’d done that all of her life. As they reached the door, he said, “You may not realize it, but we made a lot of progress this afternoon and evening. I care for you. Do you think you can tell me that it’s mutual?”

  She didn’t hesitate, for there was no point in lying either by wo
rd or action. “Yes,” she said, “I do care for you. Now, kiss me and...scat.”

  A grin began around his lower lip and slowly spread over his face, lighting his eyes and causing them to sparkle. “Yeah. I guess we’d better not build a fire tonight.” And then, with lightning speed, she was in his arms, held tightly to his body, but when his lips touched hers, they were soft and gentle, sweet and tender, sending shock waves all through her.

  “Good night, love,” he said, then opened the door and was gone.

  She watched from the window as he drove off. So he had punished his libido until he reached his limit, had he? If so, it suited her, because another passionate exchange with him might result in something neither of them seemed prepared for at the present time. She was more than reluctant to make love with him so early in their relationship, and she didn’t doubt that he wouldn’t want her unless she was both eager and willing.

  “Our day will come,” she said aloud. “If it doesn’t, what a pity that would be.”

  * * *

  They settled into a comfortable relationship, one fueled less by passion than by a growing understanding of and need for each other. Relaxed and, she had to admit, happier than she had ever been, her tennis game progressed faster than she or her coach had hoped.

  “That bloom on your face has taken hold of your game,” Gary told her one afternoon, when she sent three consecutive aces past him on the clay court.

  “Thanks, but my ground strokes still seem too slow on this clay court.”

  “Not to worry. Your game is best suited to hard courts and grass. You know that. What I want you to do is lean your whole body into your shots. Power. Make every shot a power shot, and that requires concentration. Whoever the guy is, don’t think about him when you’re playing tennis. Got it? Now show me some line drives that cut the corners.”

  After making several points that way, without giving it a thought, she used a technique that had once been one of her specialties and, catching Gary flat-footed behind the baseline, she looped a drop shop right over the net.

  He stood in the spot, his right hand on his hipbone, and looked hard at her. Then he began to laugh. “Right on, girl. That’s just what you should have done. Your instincts are kicking in. If you continue this way, I’d like to enter you in a small tournament late this summer. What do you say?” The racquet fell from her hand, and when she bent to retrieve it, she dropped the ball. “A small tournament is nothing for you to be nervous about, Lynne.”

  “All r-right.” That couldn’t be her teeth chattering. “I’ll play whenever you think I’m ready.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He glanced up toward the sky, and frowned. “Looks like rain. Feels like it, too, and I smell a thunderstorm coming up, so perhaps we’d better knock off for today. Close your windows, and take your dog inside. Those clouds are getting darker by the minute.”

  She skipped to the house and danced from one window to another, closing them as Gary suggested. She couldn’t wait to tell Sloan that Gary wanted her to enter a tournament before summer’s end. Bubbling with enthusiasm, she went outside to the deck to check on Caesar and was startled by his whimpers. Thinking that he might be ill, she telephoned Sloan and asked him what she should do.

  “Take him inside. Dogs dislike thunderstorms, and he knows one is coming.” After assuring Sloan that she had closed all of the windows in her house, she told him of Gary’s plan for her.

  “Congratulations. This is great news. Are you willing to play a match with me? I’d love to see what progress you’ve made. I’ll bet we won’t play to a tie this time.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You’re a good player.” When Caesar’s whimpers became louder and more persistent, she said, “Caesar’s really agitated now. I’d better take him inside and call you back. Okay?”

  “Okay, but if you call after the storm hits, use your cell phone. It doesn’t conduct electricity. Okay? Kiss me?”

  She made the sound of a kiss. “I’m not any more fond of these storms than Caesar is, so he and I will huddle together.” She laughed, but she was far from amused.

  “Want me to come keep you company?”

  “I don’t want you to drive in a bad storm. I’m not that scared. Bye.”

  She hung up, took Caesar into the den and settled him on the dog bed that she’d bought the previous week. From his facial expression, she’d swear that he offered humble thanks. “I hope this storm passes quickly,” she said to the dog, “because I am not going to feed you here in the house.”

  She dialed Sloan’s home phone number, but didn’t get an answer. “Maybe the lines are already down,” she said to herself, noting that the wind had strengthened considerably, and that although it was only six o’clock, outside it seemed almost as black as a moonless night. She found some candles, matches and a flashlight and put them on the table beside her chair, in the event that her house should lose power.

  Caesar’s growl startled her, and when he sprang up and barked, her nerves seemed to reassemble themselves. She patted him on the head and started toward the foyer and, to her surprise, he dashed ahead of her and waited at the door. She looked out of the window, saw the beige Buick Le Sabre parked in front of her house, rushed to the door and flung it open. However, when she opened her arms to him, he merely leaned down and kissed her cheek. She stepped back, her face blanked by an inquiring expression.

  “Don’t want to teach Caesar bad habits,” he said as the dog wagged his tail in welcome.

  But she wasn’t placated. “What do you mean?”

  “If he sees me hugging you, he may get the mistaken idea that it’s all right for a man to put his arms around you, and he might fail to protect you from a guy out to harm you.”

  She sucked air through her front teeth. “My dog isn’t stupid.”

  He showed his teeth in a devilish grin. “Maybe not, but I’m not taking chances. Dogs learn what their masters and mistresses teach them. Can I come in?”

  With her hands fastened to her hips, she made an effort to glare at him, but he’d covered his face with a mask of innocence, and she soon joined him in the laughter that he had obviously struggled to contain.

  “I won’t ask if anybody’s ever called you a smart-ass,” she said, taking his hand and walking with him to the den. He was about to sit in the chair she had previously occupied when Caesar growled.

  “What’s with him?” he asked.

  “He likes to lie beside my feet, and his bed’s right beside that chair.”

  “Just as I expected. I’m taking a back seat to a dog.” He sat in the Shaker rocker on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Come over here and sit on my knee. I want some recognition.” She did and was rewarded with a warm and loving kiss, but when she moved away from him, she noticed that Caesar watched them intently.

  She had forgotten the storm until a loud crack of thunder and a sharp flash of lightning reminded her. But it was the sudden sound of the wind howling with a fierce intensity that unsettled her, and made her doubly glad for Sloan’s presence.

  “I’ve never been in a hurricane,” she said.

  “This is just one of our summer storms. If it was a hurricane, we’d have had plenty of notice to board up the windows and store water and food supplies, maybe even go to a safe place.”

  “How long will it last? Caesar and I haven’t had dinner. Have you?”

  “It should be over in an hour at best, and then you can feed Caesar. You and I can go someplace nearby and eat. I wonder how Thelma’s doing.”

  The thunder roared, and flash after flash of lightning lit up the room. “You don’t know how glad I am that you’re here,” she said.

  “I’ll always be here for you when you need me. If you reach out to me, Lynne, I’ll never let you down.”

  “What was that?” She almost screamed it. “It sounded l
ike a bomb.”

  He went to the living room, looked out the window and turned to her. “That big crab apple tree split wide open. Did you close the garage door?” She nodded. “Thank goodness. I wish Thelma had given me a cell phone number—I’d like to call her. This is a bad storm.” He brought the rocker and placed it beside the chair in which she sat, reached over, wrapped her hand in his and gently rocked. “Thunderstorms have always fascinated me. We think we’re busy with a thousand things to do and not enough time to stop and live, to visit with a friend or to be a good neighbor, and then we get a bad electrical storm, and no matter what we were doing, we stop, become quiet and thoughtful. Maybe this is nature’s way of bringing us to heel.”

  “But it’s frightening, because it’s out of our hands...we’re at the mercy of the storm.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. We’re always warned and given enough time to take precautions.” He pushed back his sleeve and looked at his wristwatch. “It’s been almost ten minutes since the last streak of lightning. Stay here. I’m going to dash over to Thelma’s and see if she’s all right.”

  “But—”

  “Not to worry. I’ve lived with these Texas storms for thirty-six years. Be right back.”

  “At least take an umbrella.”

  “Wouldn’t last a minute in this wind.”

  She couldn’t ask him not to go, for he wouldn’t appreciate it, and moreover, Thelma might need him. She watched as he sprinted across the street and down the road to Thelma’s house, uneasy at the sight of fallen trees and broken tree limbs. “Lord, please don’t let anything happen to him,” she whispered.

  * * *

  He wiped the water from his face and pounded on the door. “Who is it?” the frail and unsteady voice demanded.

  “Sloan McNeil. Are you all right?”

  She flung open the door, and a draft literally sucked him inside. He closed the door as quickly as possible and looked down at the frightened woman.