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That's when Jack noticed the kitchen. He latched on to anger as a preferable emotion to desire. "Christ Almighty!"
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"Jack?" she said sleepily. "It must be you. I'd know that pleasant voice anywhere."
"It looks like a cannonball landed in here. What in the hell are you doing?"
"Jack!" This time his name was a shriek, as if she'd just realized she was naked in the tub. She flung herself sideways and grabbed a towel, plastering it to her body.
"What are you doing?" he demanded again.
She got slowly to her feet, the damp towel clamped protectively across her body. "Cooking."
"You can't cook."
"You can say that again."
"I said you can't?"
She burst out laughing. "I didn't mean it literally, Jack."
"Goddamn it, Amarylis, you know I hate a mess."
She sobered instantly and looked at him. He tried to shield the desire in his gaze, but he had a sick, certain feeling that she'd seen it. She eased her death grip on the towel and stepped toward him. "You're afraid," she said quietly, her voice filled with wonder.
Jack stiffened and tried to retreat, but his feet felt nailed to the floor. He
stood there, breath held. His senses were so alive, so sensitive, he heard each droplet of water as it streamed down her naked legs and plopped in the bathwater. The quiet, quickened strains of her breathing stabbed through his midsection like hot needles, making him shiver and want and ache.
He riveted his gaze beyond her, staring dull-eyed at the stove. He forced himself to remain perfectly still, even though his skin felt too tight for his body, and he wanted desperately to run.
The touch was so soft, he barely noticed it at first. But when he did, the gentle caress felt like a slap. He grabbed her hand and yanked it away from his face. "Stop it," he said in an embarrassingly husky voice.
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Her eyes captured his, held his gaze in a fire-hot'grip. "I think I guessed that about you."
Her voice, so soft and edged in the memory of the South, slid down his chest and landed hard in his groin. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out.
"About hating messes, I mean," she went on. "You're the kind of person who slaps a coat of paint on a crumbling wall and calls it new."
The clean lavender scent of her wreathed him, lulled him. His damp palms tingled with the need to touch her, to feel the silky softness of her skin.
"Not me," she whispered, never once taking her gaze from his eyes. "I might make a mess?a hell of a one, actually?but when I'm done, there's a brand-new wall. Strong and lasting."
Jack felt as if he were being sucked over the edge of a huge, crumbling precipice. Any moment, if he didn't break away, he'd go tumbling into the fathomless brown depths of her eyes, and he'd never come out alive. The realization gave him a surge of strength. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her backward enough to hold her at arm's length. "Clean up your goddamn mess." "Okay."
Her easy acquiescence unnerved him. Frowning, he added, "And don't go around building any walls, either." She smiled enigmatically. "Don't worry, Jack. Apparently I have to tear down a few first."
Hours later, after the kitchen was clean, Tess stood beneath the oak tree with Caleb in her arms, waiting for the girls to come home from school. A cool late afternoon breeze ruffled through the grass and plucked at her skirt hem. The crisp springtime scents of freshly turned soil, new grass, and blooming flowers filled the air.
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But, for once, the beauty didn't capture Tess's attention. She couldn't stop thinking about her confrontation with Jack.
She rocked Caleb gently in her arms, moving in time with the whistling cant of the wind.
