A Loving Man Page 6

  “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

  He motioned to his pickup on the farm road. “I needed a part for the tractor and was going into town. I could not resist stopping when I saw you and Estelle acting like happy children in the field, chasing those pigs. Estelle has never looked so young and free. It was a beautiful thing to see, and to hear your laughter. You’ve become friends with my mother and my daughter. It seems that is more than I can do.”

  “We were flower rustling,” Rose explained shakily, as Stefan carefully took a clean white handkerchief and began methodically wiping her face, holding it gently with one hand. She heard herself talking and knew it was because she was so nervous, her skin heating as he touched her. “It’s an old custom here for new homemakers in Waterville to take a piece of this beautiful old home-place to theirs…an inheritance, so to speak. Taking those starts thins out the bulbs and lets the plants grow better. Sometimes people come out here to separate the plants and start them at another place on the farm, like those willows over there. It’s a family sort of thing to do. You know, like Grandma Granger did when she was a girl, and like Mom and Dad did when they were dating, and like— Lily of the Valleys are pretty down in that hollow…little white bells on dark broad leaves—”

  “Why did you kiss me?” Stefan asked softly. His intimate study of her face, her eyes, her cheeks and mouth took away her breath.

  “You were there,” she answered truthfully. “It seemed right after catching the pig. I had to celebrate somehow.”

  “I would like to carry you off and feast upon you,” Stefan said raggedly. “Do you not know how seductive you are—part girl, so innocent, and all woman?”

  “‘Seductive?”’ Rose circled the thought. “You’re mistaken. Not one of my—”

  “They were blind fools,” Stefan said passionately. “I do not want to hear about them.”

  His command shifted Rose’s unsteady emotions into simmering anger. In her lifetime, no one had spoken sharply to her, or ordered her. “Oh, you don’t? And I don’t like your tone. Take it back.”

  Stefan blinked as if she had reached out and struck him. “Take what back?”

  “That high-handed order, like you were a general or something.”

  He was silent for a moment, his expression darkening. “Perhaps I speak too formally to you. I was born in this country, but sometimes my upbringing—some schooling in France—emerges when I am…emotional. My father spoke thus—very proper—when he was…emotional.”

  Stefan shook his head as if a new thought had entered it and he wasn’t certain of it or himself. He started again. “You arouse me. I do not like that I am so susceptible to your touch, but I am. You think I like to think of you with other men?”

  Rose held up her hands. Stefan was volatile and cruising off into areas of her life that even she didn’t want to examine too closely. “Let’s get back on course. There’s nothing between us. There isn’t going to be.”

  “Is that so?” Then Stefan reached out one hand, curled it around the back of her neck and tugged her close. She pushed at his chest and then, failing to dislodge herself, stood staring defiantly up at him. “So you decide what is to be, do you not? You open yourself to no one, especially me. I am too old, you think? I am not suitable? You wound me, ma chérie,” he said in a scathing tone, his accent more pronounced.

  “Do you have to be so darned open about what you’re thinking?” she demanded and realized that Stefan’s other hand had settled firmly on her bottom, caressing it, as if her curves pleased him. Stefan was the first man to look at her like that, to touch her as if he had all the time in the world to enjoy her. She began to shiver, her nerves dancing as if they needed to lock on to an anchor—

  Suddenly Stefan bent, picked her up on his shoulder and carried her to the pond. When he tossed her into the water, it was cold, and mud sucked at her feet as she struggled free. Rose didn’t think; anger pushed her out of the pond. She ran at Stefan, who was walking back to his pickup, and hit him with a linebacker’s tackle.

  He went down in the field grass, turned, grabbed her and pinned her beneath him. Rose frowned up at him, her wrists clasped by his hands. Stefan’s grin flashed; he lowered his head and took her mouth in a devastating kiss. It was a rough, hungry kiss, and not the kind that she could stop—if she’d wanted to, if she weren’t grabbing him with her arms and legs and wrestling him beneath her to have more of that fiery, wide-open hunger. She raised up once to look at him, to stop the whirling furnace, and Stefan stared back at her, his dark expression just as wild and fierce as she felt. Then he looked down at her breasts, to the buttons that had opened to reveal her lacy bra. His body hardened beneath hers, and in the next second that dark, heated gaze was slowly easing away from her face, from her lips, and rising to Yvette and Estelle who were standing near them. Yvette was trying to hide a grin and Estelle was staring down at them, her expression shocked. Her mouth moved once and no sound came, and then, “Daddy! Just what are you doing?”

  “Playing. Rose likes to play. I think she wants me,” he said unevenly, though his expression would have been sheepish, if he weren’t Stefan Donatien, power businessman. “Go away.”

  “Stay,” Rose ordered and couldn’t seem to push herself upright, away from Stefan’s big, aroused body…or the seductive stroking of his hands on her back. She blinked when she saw her fingers pressed deep into his strong shoulders.

  “That’s the first time Daddy has ever—” Estelle murmured in a disbelieving tone.

  “I know, dear,” Yvette said cheerfully. She tugged on Estelle’s arm and began walking toward the old cabin. “Let’s go take my new plants home. It will be a nice little walk. Coming, Rose? Stefan?”

  “Not me,” Rose stated firmly as she eased herself to her feet. She was headed for safety—anywhere away from Stefan. “I’m going home.”

  Standing beside her now, Stefan lightly tugged her wet hair and Rose swatted at him. Estelle and Yvette were having an animated conversation as they walked, which became more energetic each time Estelle looked back at her father. With as much dignity as Rose could manage, she marched off across the field toward town, her shoes filled and squishing with mud.

  She couldn’t resist turning, just that once, to see Stefan standing in the lush green field, his arms crossed over his chest. His boyish, devastating grin shot straight across the dying sunlight and hit her with the force of a thunderbolt. She turned to stare at him and his expression changed into a darker, sensual one that caused every molecule in her body to vibrate and heat.

  She couldn’t—Rose swallowed the tight emotion in her throat. She’d been through enough pain and she couldn’t expose herself again. She forced herself to turn and walk away, and then she began to run. She ran until she thought her heart would burst—just like it did when her mother left her.

  At her house, a cold shower did not erase Stefan’s arousing touch, the intimate way he looked at her. Rose shook her head beneath the spray. “I can’t help it if I’m a physical woman. I feel like all my senses have been sleeping, just waiting to leap on Stefan. I didn’t feel like this with Larry or Henry or Mike, no matter how much I tried. This is just not fair. I’ve just now got my life under control. I was safe. I will not get involved with Stefan. He’ll get tired of dull rural life in Waterville and he’ll move on. And he’s just too—just too unsafe,” she finished saying.

  She blew the water from her bottom lip, the lip that Stefan had gently suckled. Still sensitive and tasting him, Rose Granger decided that in the ball game of life, she wasn’t meant to have fair and just umpire calls. Dressed in a long emerald caftan, with her damp hair propped high on her head, she went out on the porch to curl up in the white wicker chair, to sip lemonade and to contemplate while she painted her toenails. She always fought life better with scarlet toe nails and with Stefan, she was certain there would be a battle.

  In the evening hours, Henry and Shirley strolled by. They stopped at Rose’s front white picket f
ence. “Heard you were rolling in the mud with Stefan Donatien,” Henry called. “Heard you pinned him in five seconds flat.”

  “Hi, Shirley. Keep on moving, Henry. No offense,” Rose answered and frowned as they moved off and Henry’s guffaws carried back on the sweet May air.

  From the other side of the hedge that Mrs. Wilkins was shearing, she called merrily, “I heard that, too, Rose. Zeb was thankful you’re such a good pig catcher, though.”

  “Next time he can catch them himself,” Rose muttered.

  “What was that you said? Yes, that Donatien man would be a good catch,” Mrs. Wilkins agreed. “But he’s not apt to let you roam free like those other boys. He’s the man-kind that would want a ring on your finger to brand you as his. He’s the real up-close-and-personal type.”

  “I’m going in the house, Mrs. Wilkins. Have a nice night.” Rose closed her eyes and tried not to think of Stefan, which was difficult since he was opening her front picket gate and walking through it. He had showered, shaved and she resented how delicious he looked—coming up the steps with that wildflower bouquet in one hand and a picnic basket in the other.

  “No more picnics with you,” she said bluntly and wished she were wearing underwear. When she shifted restlessly, Stefan’s dark eyes immediately locked on to her breasts; he had that hot, steaming look that both terrified and excited her. The evening air carried the scent of the flowers, the good food and Stefan, a heady combination. “I’m all done with erotic stuff and I’m on a diet,” she added, so that he wouldn’t mistake the way she couldn’t breathe or take her eyes off him.

  “Tell me about your mother, Rose,” Stefan said quietly as he began to unpack the picnic basket, in quick efficient motions.

  “You do that like you were a waiter,” she said, as he whipped out a linen tablecloth and smoothed it over the small, round table between the wicker chairs. She didn’t want to reveal her deeply hoarded feelings about her mother, the terrible pain of abandonment, the decline of her father. She suspected that Stefan was very thorough and she didn’t want him prowling so close to pain she’d stuffed away for years.

  In a short time, she’d learned that Stefan was very likely to be efficient at everything he did—including kissing. She didn’t want to think about his lovemaking techniques.

  “I started waiting tables when I was very young. Before that, my father would tutor me as to the right wines, the right glasses, the right breads, cheeses and sauces. Your mother?” he repeated, as he poured red wine into a glass and handed it to her. He settled into the other wicker chair and spread paté on crackers, artistically arranging them on the plate before taking his own wineglass.

  “Your wife?” she countered, reaching for her second cracker and paté. She didn’t want him to know about the dark corners of her life; he knew enough already.

  “I loved her. Not a passionate love, but it was warm and soft and good. It was more than I had hoped for in a girl matching my background—”

  “Matching your money?” she asked, anxious to point out the differences between them.

  “Our families knew each other,” he returned quietly with a nod.

  “An arranged marriage?”

  Stefan looked out into the evening, as though settling into the past. “It happens, and I did love her. When she gave me Estelle, I thought we were complete. But Claire’s heart was delicate, and childbirth weakened her. Estelle was only ten when her mother gave up the struggle. I will always regret the time I spent away from them both, building the restaurant business. For a long time, Estelle blamed herself for her mother’s death—she may still—and I didn’t suspect until much later…I was too busy, you see.”

  Rose knew exactly how a child could blame herself for circumstances she couldn’t control. On the porch, Stefan’s shadows surrounded him and Rose didn’t think—she acted. She patted his jeaned knee and asked, “Hey, bud. Are these crackers all there is to eat?”

  Stefan smiled gently. “You always give to others, don’t you? Trying to help them? You have a soft heart, ma chérie.”

  “I’m just hungry, bud. Don’t read more into it than that,” she lied lightly and tried to let the shadows hide her blush. Stefan looked as if he needed a friend—or a lover. She didn’t want to be his lover, but she knew how to be a good friend. “You know what this looks like, don’t you? People are already gossiping about us. I don’t want to get them all stirred up and expecting more than they’re going to get.”

  “Well, getting stirred up can be quite—exciting,” Stefan murmured, humor threaded through his deep voice. “When you are ready, I would like you to tell me about your mother, but for now, let us eat.”

  Rose wished she could have refused his meal, but her stomach clenched at the sight of the light dinner, a lovely dome of spaghetti noodles, artichokes, eggs and cooked ham. “Yum,” she said, before diving into the plate Stefan handed to her.

  He ate more slowly, serving her a second helping. “You eat without stopping. Do you ever relax fully without charging into your next project?”

  “This is good, but I would really like to top it off with a hot dog and plenty of mustard,” she managed to say around the salad she was eating. She stared meaningfully at Larry and Mary Lou who were trying not to be too obvious. They slowly cruised by her house, taking stealthy looks.

  Stefan breathed deeply, but did not respond to her hot dog comment. Instead he began methodically, grimly packing the food and plates back into his basket. “I can see your breasts through that material,” he said finally, pinning her with his dark, intimate look. “And I want you. But I want to be your friend, too. You give, but you do not accept the same in return. Your defenses are high, Rose Granger. You fear a broken heart and you trust little. This makes the journey to your heart and hopefully to your bed, a difficult one.”

  “Do you always have to come straight to the point?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her. Stefan could jar every cell in her body with that look. Now, standing and leaning against the front porch post, his cotton shirt unbuttoned above his crossed arms and wearing jeans like any other Waterville male, Stefan took her breath away.

  She could have leaped upon him and dragged him up to her bed. Rose forced herself back to the garden of reason, picking out the weeds of temptation. She’d only known him for over two weeks; he came from a different world. He would be leaving, once boredom hit him—or the summer ended—and she’d be left in a dark, depressing hole.

  “Yes, I do always come to the point,” he said unevenly. As he spoke quietly, he smiled at Mrs. Wilkins, who was peering over the hedge.

  “You know,” Mrs. Wilkins said, “the last time Rose had man-trouble, she painted that whole big two-story house by herself, then redid every room in it. In the summer, I had my windows open and I could hear her crying over that no-good who dumped her. I’m getting old and I’m not in the mood to hear that poor girl cry again. You’d just better have good intentions.”

  “Mrs. Wilkins, thank you—but I can handle this,” Rose said, loving the woman who had tried to ease her mother’s desertion. “I’m thirty-seven now, you know.”

  “I changed your diapers, Miss Sass. Don’t think the whole town isn’t buzzing about this man paying so much attention to you.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Wilkins, my intentions are purely—” Stefan shot Rose a sultry look, then murmured, “honorable.”

  “Here in Waterville, people take their time courting and when they do, there’s usually a wedding ring at the end of it,” Mrs. Wilkins persisted staunchly, unswayed by Stefan’s deep, seductive voice. “Rose ought to have a flock of children around her by now, but since she doesn’t, I’d guess you’d better leave well enough alone. She’s pretty well over the hill for that game.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wilkins. I think you’ve pretty well said all there is to be said.” Rose’s life had always been an open book to the people of Waterville. When she was growing up, most of them had either fed her or patched her scraped knees. As t
hey aged, she’d started taking care of some of them—not because she felt an obligation, but because she loved them. Their lives fitted together like one of the old pioneer quilts, worn and soft and comfortable. She knew they meant well, and she tried not to show her heartbreak because they worried for her.

  She stared meaningfully at Stefan. Stefan looked more like lover material, than like that of a husband. Rose didn’t want to dip into dreams safely tucked away. Just looking at him caused her body to hum and she didn’t want to get started all over again—she suspected that Stefan could leave even more scars than Mike. “One of you has to leave. I’d prefer it was you.”

  “Very well. But I want you to think about this—we started off wrong, but I have waited too long for a woman like you. According to what your father told my mother, you fixed up Henry with Shirley and Larry with Mary Lou. Maggie White has started hunting me and I want you to call her off. I cannot oblige Maggie’s not-so subtle invitation to her bed, because I intend to be in yours.”

  With that, he lifted her palm up to his lips and pressed a kiss into the center.

  “You know how you are, dear,” Mrs. Wilkins called while Rose tried to slow her heart. “Too sweet and soft and naive for big-city men. Better shoo him away before you get all tangled up again.”

  Stefan’s sultry look took in Rose’s blush. “Yes,” he said very quietly. “I would like to be tangled up with you.”

  The first of June marked the Donatiens’ one-month anniversary on their Waterville farm. For Stefan, it marked two long weeks without that enjoyable sparring with Rose. He sat on the porch he had just repaired, tipped back his chair against the side of the house, propped his bare feet up on the railing and gave himself to the sweet early-summer night.

  A reasonable man, he told himself as he ran his hand across his chest, would give a woman time. When his daughter spoke of her friend, Rose, his heart shouldn’t stop, his mind sliding back to how she looked, dressed in that emerald lounging gown and curled upon the wicker chair. He’d been too blatant, telling her of his need for her. With the fireflies blinking in the June night, the scent of his mother’s garden wrapped around him, Stefan tried not to think of Rose. He tried not to think of how she looked when he’d come into town that early morning. She’d been jogging, her damp T-shirt plastered to her breasts, which bobbed gently. Her shorts had fluttered around her smooth bottom, those long legs eating up the road.