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“How did you learn to cook like this?”
“There are cookbooks in the cabinet. I can read.”
So much for that conversational gambit.
She went upstairs immediately after the kitchen was clean. Reese went into his office and took a stab at the paperwork that never ended, but his mind wasn’t on it, and by eight o’clock he was glancing at his watch, wondering if Madelyn was ready to go to bed. He’d already heard the shower running, and the image of her standing nude under the steaming water had had him shifting restlessly in his chair. There were times when a man’s sexual organs could make him damned uncomfortable, and this was one of them. He’d been hard most of the day, cursing himself for not having made love to her that morning, even though it would have been a huge mistake.
He tossed the pen onto his desk and closed the books, getting to his feet with restrained violence. Damn it, he needed her, and he couldn’t wait any longer.
He turned out the lights as he went upstairs, his tread heavy and deliberate. His mind was on that searing, gut-wrenching moment when he first entered her, feeling the small resistance of her tight flesh, the giving, the enveloping, then the wet, clasping heat and his senses exploding. It was all he could do not to keep after her time and again, to try to remember that she was very new to lovemaking and still tender, to stay in control.
The bedroom door was open. He walked in and found her sitting on the bed painting her toenails, her long legs bare and curled in one of those positions that only females seemed able to achieve and males went crazy looking at. His whole body tightened, and he became fully, painfully erect. She was wearing a dark pink satin chemise that ended at the tops of her thighs and revealed matching petal pants. The satin molded to her breasts, revealing their round shape and soft nipples. Her blond hair was pulled to one side, tumbling over her shoulder, and her skin was still delicately flushed from her shower. Her expression was solemn and intent as she concentrated on the strokes of the tiny brush that turned her toenails the same deep pink as the chemise.
“Let’s go to bed.” His voice was guttural. He was already peeling off his shirt.
She hadn’t even glanced at him. “I can’t. My toenails are wet.”
He didn’t much care. He’d keep her legs raised long enough that the polish would be dry when he’d finished.
She capped the polish bottle and set it aside, then bent bonelessly over to blow on her toes. Reese unsnapped and unzipped his jeans. “Come to bed anyway.”
She gave him an impatient look and got to her feet. “You go on. I’ll go downstairs and read awhile.”
He stretched his arm out in front of her when she would have passed, barring her way. His hand closed on her upper arm. “Forget reading,” he muttered, pulling her toward him.
Madelyn wrenched away, staring at him in incredulous anger. “I don’t believe this! You actually think I could want to make love now?”
His eyebrows lowered, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Why not?” he asked very softly.
“For one very good reason. I’m angry! What you did stinks, and I’m not even close to forgiving you for it.” Just the way he was standing there with his thumbs in his belt loops, his jeans open and his attitude one of incredible male arrogance, made her so angry she almost couldn’t talk.
“The best way to make up is in bed.”
“That’s what men think,” she said scornfully. “Let me tell you, no woman wants to make love with a man while she’s still thinking how funny it would have been if he’d choked on a chicken bone!” She whirled and stalked barefoot from the bedroom.
Reese began swearing. Frustration boiled up in him, and for a moment he started after her. He reached the door and stopped, then slammed his fist into the door frame. Damn it all to hell!
THE ATMOSPHERE WAS decidedly chilly between them the next morning when he drove her to the small town of Crook to buy groceries. Though she was no longer so furious, she was no less determined. He couldn’t reject her one time and the next expect her to accommodate him without question. If that was his idea of what a marriage should be, they were both in for some rocky times.
To call Crook a town was to flatter it. There were a few residences sprawled out in a haphazard manner, a service station, a feed store, the general store, and a small café with the expected assortment of pickup trucks parked in front of it. Madelyn wondered just what sort of dangerous behavior Reese had expected her to get up to in Crook. Maybe he thought she’d run wild and drive on the sidewalks, which looked as if someone had already done so. They were actually wood, and were the only sidewalks she’d ever seen with skidmarks on them.
“Let’s get a cup of coffee,” Reese suggested as they got out of the station wagon, and Madelyn agreed. It would be nice to have a cup of coffee she didn’t have to water down before she could drink it.
The café had five swivel stools, covered in split black imitation leather, in front of the counter. Three round tables were each surrounded by four chair
s, and along the left side were three booths. Four of the stools were occupied, evidently by the owners of the four trucks outside. The men had different features but were identical in weathered skin, battered hats, and worn jeans and boots. Reese nodded to all of them, and they nodded back, then returned their attention to their coffee and pie.
He guided her to a booth, and they slid onto the plastic seats. The waitress behind the counter gave them a sour look. “You want something to eat, or just coffee?”
“Coffee,” Reese said.
She came out from behind the counter and plunked two coffee cups down in front of them. Then she went back for the coffeepot and returned to pour the coffee, all without changing her expression, which bordered on a glare. “Coffee’s fifty cents a cup,” she said as if it were their fault, then marched back to her post behind the counter.
Madelyn sighed as she saw how black the coffee was. A tentative sip told her that this, too, was strong enough to strip paint.
One of the men eased down from the stool and went over to the corner jukebox. The waitress looked up. “I’ll unplug that thing if you play one of them caterwauling love songs,” she said, her voice just as sour as her looks.
“You’ll owe me a quarter if you do.”
