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****
Eric pulled onto Redbud Lane just as Baldwin was ushering Jenna from his car. Neither of them appeared to hear his rental since its motor was no louder than a small swarm of bees. He cringed as he watched the scene on the porch—Baldwin holding Jenna awkwardly, his thick arms like overfilled sandbags.
Sulking, Eric hunkered low in his seat.There are places for men who stalk their ex-wives—mental wards and prisons.
He frowned as he watched the two bodies press close and the space between them disappear. He watched Baldwin’s hand slide down Jenna’s arm in a drawn out pour. He watched Baldwin travel back to his car striding proudly and smiling. Eric fought the urge to screech forward and broadside him.
A moment later, a vehicle with ramped-up hip-hop screaming from the windows pulled to the curb, a girl ran down the drive, hopped in the car, and it sped away. Eric loped to the porch and knocked on the door.
****
Thinking the sitter had forgotten something and returned, Jenna rushed to the door. “You,” she whispered.
Eric stepped into the foyer. He took her waist in his hands and pulled her close. Jenna didn’t try to wriggle away. She didn’t shove or make any attempt to escape the steely grasp. Spellbound, she found herself caught in the blue fire of his stare. He walked, obliging her to match his easy footfalls but backward. Their stride was like a tango, slow and graceful, their bodies fitted perfectly together as they stepped along the floor. Their journey ended only when Jenna’s shoulder blades came to rest against a wall.
The length of Eric’s body made contact with hers at every plane. His chest, abdomen, and thighs pressed close as he held her against the cool plaster. Her heartbeat matched the pulse she could see beating at the hollow of his throat. She had never been more aware of the surging rise and fall of her own breasts.
He stroked her face with his thumb, starting at her temple and glancing from cheek to jaw. “Your boyfriend doesn’t know how to kiss.” Eric slipped his fingers through her hair and covered her mouth with his.
The slow and sensual mingling of lips and tongues seemed to last forever. His hands slid down her ribs and around her back, and he pulled her closer. Womanly softness molded easily against the muscle of his taut frame. His mouth was warm. The taste and fragrance of him was a sweet persuasion that roared into a fiery memory. Jenna put up no resistance and melted into him. When it ended, she could feel his heart pounding hard against her breasts.
“I’ll never let another man kiss you again.”
Then, as quickly as he entered the house he left.
Chapter Eleven
The ten o’clock church service seemed to freeze time as the minister rambled on about her journey from some personal crisis to God. It was meant to be uplifting, but Jenna paid little attention. Her thoughts were a mile away—two point three to be precise. In her mind she was still in her house, still pressed up against the wall near the stairs, Eric’s hands and mouth upon her. She hadn’t been kissed intimately in too long a time to even remember, and last night, she had been kissed by two different men within minutes of each other. She was still reeling from the last.
How could she have let herself respond to Eric like a love-struck schoolgirl? She was supposed to be over him. This wasn’tsupposedto happen.
It had been nine years, and he’d been married to another woman for six of them. How could he possibly believe he had any claim on her? He was obviously not the same man. He was Eric Laine the star now, a self-absorbed, arrogant son of a…Jenna pushed the curse word from her mind. She was, after all, in church.
The organist began the introduction for the next hymn and, books in hand, the congregation rose. Forgetting herself, Jenna sangLift High the Crossin such clear tones she far surpassed the sound coming from the choir loft. When the hymn ended, a dumb-struck cluster of her fellow parishioners, the minister, and even her own daughter looked at her as though a halo had suddenly materialized above her head.
****
Ina Cummings was busy rolling out piecrust when Eric jogged down the stairs whistling. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee. There’s biscuits and gravy on the stove, help yourself.”
As Ina continued kneading and rolling out dough, Eric piled his plate high with food. “I’m going to get fat if I keep eating like this.”
“You can have your personal trainer pound you into shape when you get back to Hollywood.”
The fork dripping with the creamy sausage mixture stopped halfway between Eric’s plate and his mouth.
Ina lifted gray eyebrows. “Supermarket, sonny. I go shopping after church.” She wiped dough residue from her fingers and picked up a copy ofThe Inquisitor. “Thatisyou on the cover, isn’t it?”
Eric intentionally stretched his mouth wide enough to expose his back molars. He winked. “I told you I was a big star.”
“Bah. You’re no Troy Donohue, but I suppose you might look passable up on the screen.”
Shrugging, he winked again. “It’s a living.”
Ina picked up a coffee pot, an old-school percolator with a glass bubble on top, and poured. “So, do you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
Sobering, Eric looked at Ina. He studied the abundant integrity in her eyes and the discerning wisdom sketched into every line and fold of her face. “I already did.” Then he told her more of the story. He told her all of it.
****
