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“We recognized something in each other from the minute our eyes met,” he continued. “That’s never happened to me before.”
From out of the near darkness, she felt his hand move to her cheek. She pushed it away. “Back off, J.J. Don’t touch me.”
“Ouch. I don’t know which is worse, hearing you tell me not to touch you, or hearing you call me J.J. Please call me Jack.” His voice moved lower. She realized he’d bent to pick up the flashlight only when he brought it up and shone it on them both.
The light looked pretty damn good on him. His chest. His tousled, right-out-of-bed hair. His thick, muscular arms and broad shoulders. His green eyes, not twinkling with humor now, but dark and confused. His mouth…
She gulped, then crossed her arms in front of her chest, looking for a defense mechanism when there was really none to be found that could halt her physical attraction to him. Finally she said, “What kind of stupid nickname is Jack, anyway?”
“What?”
She knew she sounded like a belligerent kid, but couldn’t help herself. Sarcasm was her only defense. “I mean, come on, aren’t nicknames supposed to shorten your real name? Like Kate instead of Katherine? What genius decided to change a four-letter word like John into a four-letter word like Jack?” Four-letter word being the operative phrase, here.
She saw his lips turn up as he shook his head and gave a rueful chuckle.
“Oh, I amuse you now? You break in here, tackle me, almost break my back…” Almost break my heart…“And now you’re laughing at me?”
“No, I’m actually agreeing with you. It doesn’t make much sense, does it? But anything’s better than J.J.”
“So what’s wrong with plain old John? It’s good enough for your average, everyday toilet, isn’t it?”
“Ouch. You’re really pissed.”
She clenched her jaw, mad at herself for letting him see her anger, which he would rightly assume had to have evolved out of hurt. She took a few deep breaths, trying to regain control. Where was her infamous control? Gone, baby. Gone for weeks, since that kiss on the steps of Mrs. McIntyre’s Tea Room.
Finally she forced a shrug. “No, I’m not, not angry at all.” A strained laugh emerged from between her clenched teeth. “I’m just tired and cranky from getting knocked on my rear by a six-foot-tall man in the middle of the night.”
“I’m so sorry about knocking you down. I had no idea it was you moving around over here. I was afraid someone had come back to cause more problems for your mother. I told her I’d look after the house for her. Both houses, actually.”
“Why would you do that?” she asked, still not able to comprehend him being here. “Why would you, a mighty Winfield, care what happens to your trashy Tremaine maid’s house?”
He stepped closer, holding her chin and forcing her to look up at him in the semidarkness. She remembered, suddenly, how tall he was. How petite and feminine he’d made her feel.
Their bodies were only inches apart and she could smell his musky, clean scent, and feel warmth radiating from his hard, bare chest. Her body reacted instinctively, getting hot and achy. Her nipples felt incredibly sensitive against the cotton of her sleeveless tank top, and her jeans were suddenly uncomfortably snug. She wanted nothing more than to taste him. All over.
“Your mother was the nicest person I knew growing up,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And I hated to hear what this town had done to her because of my father.”
Kate’s eyes widened. Did he know? Could he possibly know about Edie’s affair with the mayor? She took a deep breath and carefully asked, “Your father?”
He let go of her face, walking over to stare out the undraped window at the shadowy front lawn. “My father left her a small amount of money, when by rights he owed her more.” He cleared his throat and shook his head. “A lot more. As usual, the town looked for scandal and decided to crucify her with spite and innuendo because of it.”
No. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand the truth. Kate, Cassie and Edie were still the only ones who knew the Pleasantville gossipmongers really had the story right.
