He had no energy for such a conversation, so he stayed on his feet and chatted with her until she took the hint and left. As the pianist at the bar’s baby grand switched to Gershwin, he finished his third whiskey and ordered a fourth. Before Sugar Beth had come banging on his front door, he’d taken pride in the way he’d confined his romantic inclinations to the printed page. But how did a man distance himself from a woman like her?
He couldn’t let her leave Parrish. Not yet. Not until they’d had a chance to work through this bloody train wreck of a relationship. They needed time, but she didn’t want to give it to them. Instead, she’d made up her mind to run as soon as she got the chance. And it was wrong.
He remembered her wistful expression as she’d gazed around at the depot and talked about making it into a children’s bookstore. She belonged in Parrish. She was part of this town. Part of him.
His guilt settled in deeper. The pianist abandoned Gershwin for Hoagy Carmichael. Colin finished his drink, but the alcohol didn’t offer the absolution he craved.
Today, he’d found Sugar Beth’s painting, and he hadn’t said a word.
Ryan had never been more attentive. He asked Winnie a dozen questions about the shop and seemed genuinely interested in her responses. He complimented her on her hair, on her posture, on her jewelry, on her
Considering his attentiveness, she should probably have been happier with the evening, but she wasn’t, because the elephant still sat at the table between them, that beast created by her deceit and his resentment. Ryan ignored the animal, acting as if the angry, pent-up words he’d assaulted her with last week at the shop had never been spoken. And she was tired of always being their emotional archaeologist, so she didn’t bring it up.
“Are your scallops good?” he asked.
“Delicious.”
After what he’d said to Sugar Beth last night, she wanted emotion from him, passion, but he chatted with the waiter, waved to Bob Vorhees across the room, remarked on the wine, and talked to her about everything that didn’t matter. Even worse, he didn’t seem to be struck by any of those stunning little volts of sexual electricity that had begun plaguing her at the most unexpected times-when she heard his voice on the phone or caught sight of him behind the wheel of his car, or at church this morning when his arm had brushed hers during the doxology. And what should she make of that shocking, limb-melting rush of desire that had overcome her last night when he’d rejected Sugar Beth’s enticement?
They finished their dinner and ordered coffee. Someday she’d have to tell him that Sugar Beth had set him up, but not just yet.
He paid the bill, and the elephant followed them to his car. She’d known the patterns of their marriage were too deeply etched for easy changes, and she shouldn’t have pinned so many hopes on tonight. She was always to be the pursuer, Ryan the pursued. She the adorer, Ryan the object of her adoration. But she’d lost the will to play her part.
He took a corner too sharply, and she realized they were headed toward the southern edge of town instead of Mockingbird Lane. “I want to go back to the carriage house.”
He responded by hitting the automatic door locks.
She couldn’t have been much more shocked if he’d slapped her. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t reply.
His gesture was symbolic. She would hardly jump out of a moving car. She started to ask him what he hoped to accomplish with his theatrics, but something about the tough set of his jaw made her decide to wait.
As they reached the highway, a blade of light thrown by the headlights of a passing car slicked across his face, and another jolt of lust shot through her. “I want to go back,” she said, not meaning it.
He didn’t reply. Courteous, accommodating Ryan Galantine ignored her, just as if she hadn’t spoken.
They were heading toward the lake, but it was only March, and the season hadn’t kicked in yet. She clasped her hands in her lap and waited to see what would happen. It felt odd to be so passive.
He drove past the road that led to Amy and Clint’s cottage, then passed the entrance to Spruce Beach, where they all swam and picnicked. The bait shops were still closed for the winter. He ignored the boat launch and the Lakehouse. Ten minutes ticked by. They were approaching the less-populated southern side of the lake. She seldom came this far, but he seemed to know the road by heart.
She didn’t see the narrow, unmarked lane until he’d begun to turn into it. She couldn’t imagine where they were-
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
She’d driven out here by herself not long after she’d gotten her driver’s license, just to see what it looked like, but she’d never been here with a boy. She could hardly breathe.
The lane ended at a small promontory, which was protected on three sides by trees, with the open end overlooking the lake. At some point, the county had thrown down a little gravel, but not much of it was left. He turned off the ignition. She swallowed and gazed straight ahead. Moonlight dripped down the center of the lake like spilled milk.
“I tripped the safety locks,” he reminded her.
She licked her dry lips and looked over at him. “I’m gonna tell my mom.”
“No, you won’t,” he replied, leaning back into the seat and regarding her with cocky, half-lidded eyes. “She’ll ask you what you were doing out here. How are you going to tell her you were lettin’ Ryan Galantine feel you up?”
“Is that what I’m going to do?”
“I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” He slipped his finger under the plunging stretchy black lace neckline. “Don’t wear Sugar Beth’s clothes again.”
“You recognize this?”
“I’m not entirely unobservant. I was hoping for your blue silk blouse, the one that matches your eyes. Or that pink yarn sweater you can see your bra through. Or maybe the yellow dress you wore the last time we went to Memphis. I like the way your legs look in it.”
The fact that he’d ever noticed anything she wore left her speechless, let alone how her legs looked in her yellow dress. He slid his arm behind her shoulders, leaned forward, and gave her a deep soul kiss.
Everything inside her melted. A few weeks ago she’d felt as though she’d never experience desire again. Now, she wanted to rip off her clothes and attack him.
Always the aggressor. Never the pursued.
“Take me home,” she said. “I’m not going all the way with you.”
“No?” He trailed his index finger from the base of her throat to the black lace. “You really think you can stop me?”
Her short skirt had ridden up on her thighs, and she did nothing to pull it back down. “I could scream if I wanted to.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure you don’t want to.” He hooked his finger deeper under the lace neckline, picked up a bra strap, and drew them both down, exposing one breast. His hair brushed her cheek as he leaned forward and sank his teeth into a spot just above her nipple. She let out a tiny exclamation of pain. He sucked hard on the place he’d bitten and blew softly. “Tell me something, Winnie Davis. How are you going to explain that to your mamma?”
She was going to die right here, dissolve into a steaming pool of lust. Her legs inched apart. Her breasts ached; her panties were wet. “If you don’t stop that…”
“Oh, I’m not gonna stop.”
He began kissing her again. Not married kisses, but deep, sloppy make-out kisses with spit and tongue. Her panty hose disappeared. Her panties. He was sweating under his shirt. The windows had fogged up. He grabbed
