had no business even
But he didn’t want to explain all that to Charly, partly because he wasn’t comfortable letting her know just how vulnerable to her he was, and partly because he was pretty sure she wouldn’t see anything particularly wrong with it. Not that he thought it was usual for her to go jumping into the sack with a guy within hours of making his acquaintance, or that she’d somehow been overwhelmed by his own personal charms. Hell, no. He didn’t have any illusions about that. She’d been emotionally vulnerable and he’d been available, that was all. End of story. And as far as he could see, those circumstances hadn’t changed a whole lot.
Well, okay, except in a couple of ways. For one, they’d already made love one night. And a memorable, most enjoyable time it had been. Which would make it a whole lot harder to avoid doing again.
And for two…well, to put it bluntly, now he cared about her. Which made it a whole different story.
“It’s a nice evening,” he finally managed to say through the truckload of gravel in his throat, keeping his eyes focused steadfastly through the windshield as he tried to tiptoe his way around a lie. “Nice and warm…doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain. Thought we’d have us a picnic. You know of any place around here we can go and park?”
There was an odd little silence before she said, “Yeah, actually. I do.” He could tell by the sound of her voice that she was looking straight at him, and knew that he was taking a risk, meeting her eyes, even for a moment. He chanced it anyway, but she’d already turned her head away. “It’s not too far from here,” she said softly. “Bear right at the fork.”
Beyond the place where the main highway out of town branched off, the road got curvier and began to climb. A little farther on she told him to turn right where a sign said, Mourning Spring Park-No Camping-Closed at Dusk.
“Ignore that,” she said. “Everyone does.”
“Ah,” said Troy dryly, “let me guess-the local lovers’ lane?” Lord, he hoped not
She didn’t reply. The narrow paved road wound down and down. Troy was conscious of trees he couldn’t see, and lush vegetation closing in around them, shutting out the stars. At Charly’s direction, he pulled into a wide graveled clearing, parked and turned off the engine. In the Cherokee’s headlights he could see picnic tables and trash cans and the trunks of large trees. A car parked down at the far end of the clearing started up its engine and pulled slowly past them, lights off.
“Sorry, kids,” Troy muttered. He rolled his window down and he sat for a moment, listening to the music of the night…the ticking of the cooling engine, the rhythmic singing of frogs, the screech of cicadas in far-off trees, the rush and tinkle of running water, the rustling of leaves. And closer by, the breathing sounds of the dog in the back seat, and of the woman next to him. The air felt cool and moist on his skin and smelled of ferns and moss and rotting leaves and rich, dark earth. Eden must have smelled like this, he thought.
He left the car’s headlights on while Charly carried the sack of groceries to one of the picnic tables and he got Bubba’s leash on him and secured it to a nearby trash can. Then he hauled out the blankets he’d started keeping in back to protect his new upholstery when he’d first got the pup, and gave them a good shaking. He got the battery- powered emergency lantern out from under the front seat, set it on the picnic table and spread the blankets out on the ground. When he came back from turning the car lights off, Charly was already carrying the grocery bag over to the blankets.
“You don’t know what’s been on those tables,” she said with a shudder. “And you don’t even want to.”
They settled themselves on the blankets, out of reach of Bubba, whose leash allowed him as far as a corner and no farther. One by one, not looking at each other, they laid out the things Troy had bought, placing them on the blanket between them-save one, wrapped and cushioned in plastic, which he set carefully aside. From a tree nearby an owl hooted his hopeful question, and Troy thought again of Eden. He was beginning to have doubts about whether this picnic had been such a good idea after all.
He got out his pocket knife and began whittling at the loaf of bread, cutting off huge slabs while Charly laughed at him and muttered, “Boy Scout.”
“Nope,” he said placidly, slathering the slabs with spicy-sweet honey mustard, “SEALs.”
He then turned his attention to the chicken. The first piece, covered with greasy, well-seasoned skin, he meant to offer to Bubba, since the poor guy was whimpering and slobbering all over himself and just about to pee himself in his excitement and anticipation. But when Charly saw what he was doing, she snaked out her arm and snatched the chicken out of his hand just in the nick of time, exclaiming indignantly, “What are you doing? That’s the best part!” And poor ol’ Bubba gave a woof of disappointment as he watched her pop his morsel into her own mouth.
Troy just shook his head in resignation and went back to slicing, while Charly defiantly cooed and licked her fingers with exaggerated smacking sounds. In the lantern light he could see the sheen of grease on her lips and fingers, along with a wicked gleam in the look she slanted his way. He knew she was teasing him, taunting him, tryin’ her best to get his goat. He just couldn’t quite be sure whether it was the food she was giving him a hard time about, or something else entirely.
“Here you go, guy,” Charly was crooning to the dog, “you can have this instead.”
Well, that got Troy’s attention off of Charly’s lips and the busy pink tongue she was cleaning them with barely in time for him to rescue a drumstick from Bubba’s slavering jaws. Which was just about more than the poor dog could handle; he gave a brokenhearted yip and sat back on his haunches, quivering all over, until Troy got the meat pulled off the bone for him. Then it disappeared in one gulp, before Charly’d even had a chance to utter a squawk of indignation.
“Never give a dog a chicken bone,” Troy explained to her. “They splinter-might get caught in their throats.”
She made a vaguely acquiescent sound deep in hers and slowly licked her lips. Then, keeping her eyes fastened on Troy’s mouth, she tore off a piece of the chicken and held it out to him, dripping skin and juices. “This is so-o good,” she murmured. “You’ve got to taste it.”
Before he could even recall why he shouldn’t, much less tell himself not to, he’d opened his mouth and let her place the fat, juicy scrap of meat on his tongue. “Mmm,” she crooned. “See?”
It probably was delicious, but you couldn’t have proved it by him. All of a sudden his mouth had gone bone-dry, and his tongue wanted to stick to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed with an audible gulp as she wiped her thumb across his lower lip.
She pulled off another piece and put it in her own mouth, then licked her fingers, sticking them in her mouth one by one and slowly drawing them out again.
Troy wanted to grab her and shake her and demand to know what the hell she was trying to do to him, but he was afraid if he moved, if he so much as opened his mouth, he’d find himself kissing her instead. He felt light- headed and bottom heavy, as if all his blood had suddenly surged into his lower body. Which it probably had. Lord, but the woman was dangerous.
Bubba was whining again, figuring his turn was way overdue. Charly told him sweetly to mind his manners, then fed him the part of the back with the tail on it. The poor dog was so grateful it was almost pitiful to watch him. Troy knew just how he felt.
“You ever have a dog?” he asked her, his voice an unrecognizable croak.
She shook her head. “I always wanted one when I was a kid. Most of my friends had them.” She cocked her head to one side, and her voice took on a dreamy tone. “I wanted a great big woolly bear of a dog, you know? Something lazy, like a St. Bernard, so I could cuddle up with it on the rug and read a book, or something. Stupid, huh?” She broke off another piece of chicken and studied it for a moment before absentmindedly letting Bubba steal it.
“So why didn’t you get one?”
She shrugged and went for the chicken again. “When I was…oh, about eight, I guess, my father got me this little mouse thing-a gerbil. Maybe a hamster. Anyway, it died-I don’t remember why, I must have done something wrong-and my father said I couldn’t have any more pets because I wasn’t responsible enough to take care of them properly.”
Troy cautiously cleared his throat, finding it necessary once again to tiptoe around his own emotions. “Don’t know very many eight-year-olds that are,” he muttered.
Then he figured he’d better rescue the chicken before she fed the whole thing to the dog, so he took it from her, pulled off a nice big piece of skinless breast meat and held it out to her. She leaned over and took it into her
