Читать книгу Ace's Wild - Sarah McCarty - Страница 9
ОглавлениеTHE SMALL ONE-ROOM schoolhouse was quiet in the minutes before the day started, but soon Petunia would walk out the sturdy wooden door and ring the bell, and the excitement would start. Twenty children from the ages of five to thirteen would push through the doorway, sit at their desks and look at her with expressions ranging from boredom to anticipation. Educating growing minds was a hard job, a taxing job and one Petunia loved. But as soon as she saved the money for her ticket, she was going to hop on the stage and continue on to San Francisco to take advantage of the newly wealthy’s desire to compete socially with East Coast established society. If she were careful, she could take that desire to “do them one better” and use it to open a school that would fund her dream to truly educate all.
Just thinking about leaving brought Ace to mind. And bringing Ace to mind just revived the familiar combination of ache and anger. Just who did that man think he was to take apart her way of life as if there was something wrong with it? He, who was in the middle of every fight, every scheme, every betting game that took place in this town.
And in the middle of every type of aid, too, the little voice of fairness inside whispered.
Damn it! Petunia erased the word she’d just misspelled on the chalkboard and started over. Just once she wanted to catch Ace doing something so wrong, so evil, that this irrational attraction she had for him would die an ignoble death. But every time she’d seen him fight, he’d been defending someone, and while she didn’t approve of gambling, he didn’t do it recklessly. He did drink more than she approved of, but when he was drunk, he never harmed anyone. He just got more quiet from what she could tell, more mysterious.
She sighed as she set the chalk down and dusted off her hands. The one thing she didn’t need was for Ace to become any more mysterious. He already had too much appeal for her.
As was her habit, she went behind her desk and set up her papers in the order of what her lesson was going to be for the day. She started simply and then worked up to the more complicated for the older students. She was going to be losing Analisa soon. Unfortunately, her mother wanted her home to help with her siblings and the work around their small farm. Analisa had a bright mind and a desire to learn. She’d asked Petunia for help, to convince her parents to let her stay in school. Unfortunately, no matter how much Petunia tried, she couldn’t convince her parents of the importance of continuing their daughter’s education. As long as Analisa could read, write and count, the adults in her life seemed satisfied.
Petunia shook her head and set her math book to the side. They just couldn’t see the brand-new world out there waiting for them and the possibilities that existed. They just wanted to stay in this little town, in this little world, in this little spot and ignore it all. She shook her head. She would never understand it.
Outside the door, she could hear the students playing in the small school yard. She always gave them this time. They seemed to have so little time to just enjoy being young.
Sighing, Petunia placed the creative writing instructional on the top of the second pile. She might only have these children’s minds for the period of time it took her to earn the money for her stage ticket. But in that time, she intended to plant the seeds of curiosity and just maybe, in one of them, that seed would grow, and they would see something of the world besides this tiny town. At least that was her hope.
From the yard came the regrettably familiar sound of a singsong chant. Frowning, she went back to the window. She wasn’t surprised to see a slight boy with shaggy hair and threadbare clothing cornered by a bigger boy. Every school yard had its victims and its bullies. And here the bully was Buster, and the victim was Terrance Winter, probably because he had the look of a child whose family didn’t care, and in a town this small, neglect was like throwing a red rag in a chicken pen. They all started pecking.
Petunia opened the heavy door in time to hear, “Fatty lip, fatty lip, Terry isn’t worth a shit.”
Gritting her teeth, she reached up and rang the bell. Hard. All sound stopped. One by one, the children trickled to line up in front of the short steps. All except Terry and his tormentor.
“Buster Hayworth,” she snapped. “Line up, please.”
A murmur rippled through the line of children. Some kids ooh’d, others giggled. Buster came reluctantly around the corner, the shock of blond hair on his forehead standing up straight as it always did, the expression on his face angelic. She’d learned on the first day when he stuck a frog in her desk drawer not to fall for the false sincerity in his big blue eyes.
“You’ll be staying after class tomorrow. I’d appreciate it if you informed your parents of that.”
“But, Miss Wayfield, I was only—”
She cut off the protest with a wave of her hand. “You were only trying to make someone else’s life miserable within my earshot, in my school. You know that’s not allowed.”
He opened his mouth. She cut him off again.
“I don’t want to hear it. You will inform your parents tonight that you will be staying after school tomorrow. No excuses.”
His eyes got bigger. “My dad will blister my butt.”
Something she felt needed to be done. “Well, then, maybe the double punishment will make you think the next time before you decide to be mean-spirited to one of your own.”
Buster scowled. “He’s not one of mine.”
“He’s a student in this class. That makes him part of your school family. You should be helping him, not hurting him. The world would be a better place if everyone did that.”
He looked at her askance, hands in his pockets. “You don’t know much about the world, do you, Miss Petunia?”
She looked back at him. “I know a lot about it. I just don’t accept that what is must always be.”
He shook his head, gave her one last wheedling smile. She pointed to the line unmoved. He went.
“Now, all of you sit down and get out your slates and start practicing your alphabet until I get there. You older kids help the younger ones, and Buster—” she stopped him at the door “—I want to see your letters improve. They were very sloppy last Friday.”
After the last child wandered in, Petunia sighed and went in search of Terrance.
She found him standing by the back steps, hands still in his pockets and his head still down. He was so young to have so much life beaten out of him. Petunia approached him slowly. Reaching the steps, she tucked her skirts under her and sat down so she wouldn’t tower over him. She’d always found it was easier to do that when she was dealing with children.
He still didn’t look at her. She was afraid she knew why. Putting her finger under his chin, she lifted his face and barely suppressed a gasp. His lower lip was split open and swollen, and his eye was black-and-blue. The bruise spread down his cheek and followed his jawline to his chin. The kind of mark only a man’s fist could make.
She didn’t need to ask who’d done this. But the severity of the beating... It was a wonder Terrance’s father hadn’t killed him.
She touched his cheek delicately. Why did it have to be her student most interested in learning whose world made it so impossible for him to succeed? “What happened?”
He shrugged. “You know.”
“Pretend I don’t. Tell me.”
“Pa got into a game last night.”
Standing, she took his hand and walked toward the well. “I take it he wasn’t successful.”
He shook his head. “No, he lost everything.”
She took a clean handkerchief out of her pocket when they reached the well, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
Petunia had never seen such hopelessness in a face of any age. Dipping her handkerchief into the bucket of cool water she’d drawn earlier, she pressed it to his eye. He winced and blinked at her with the other. His hazel eyes didn’t have the artifice of Buster’s, but they had the appeal of sincerity.
“I’m sorry, Terrance.”
He nodded and swallowed hard. “I might be leaving.”
Petunia was probably the only one who understood how devastating that revelation was to a boy more suited to scholar than farmer.
“But we haven’t even finished the story of Ulysses.”
It was a stupid thing to say.
He looked at her with a bit of hope. “Maybe you can tell it to me real fast.”
“Maybe.” She dipped the cloth again and applied it to his lip. Again the wince. “Or maybe we can just do something about the situation.”
Terrance shook his head. “Nothing to be done. Dad lost the mortgage money to that gambler, Ace.”
And had come home to take out his frustration on his son. “I see.”
“Everybody knows what’s Ace Parker’s stays Ace Parker’s.”
“Do you think he cheated?”
He looked horrified. “Ace? No.”
She did not understand how the boy could idolize the man who’d just taken everything from him.
His gaze slid from hers. “My pa might have, though. He was pretty beat up when he came in.”
Gambling room justice. Petunia shook her head. Only a man could understand it. It was nothing to put a family out on the street. But let a man cheat at cards, and all damnation broke loose.
“I see,” she said again. “Well, Terrance, I’m glad you came to school today.”
“I wanted to hear Ulysses.”
She’d begun reading them Ulysses Tales, a little bit at a time, changing the language so the kids could comprehend the greater message, making it fun and entertaining.
“I’m glad you came, even though it was hard, and you must be hurting.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Yes, he had but if she had her way, there wouldn’t be any more. Terrance was a prime example of why the type of boarding school she wanted to establish needed building. “And maybe after school today we can see if something can be done about your problem.”
He shook his head and stepped back. “Pa is who he is.”
Yes, he was. “But you love him.”
A boy should love his father. But more important, a man should be worthy of that love.
Ducking his head, Terrance shrugged his shoulders. “I used to. He didn’t used to always be this mad. Just since Ma’s been gone.”
She’d never been able to find out if Terrance’s mother had left or passed on.
“Sometimes life can be hard, but tomorrow can be much better.”
He didn’t even look at her on that one. She guessed she couldn’t blame him. For a child his age, life had to seem pretty darn impossible. Wringing out the handkerchief, she came to a decision.
“I’ll tell you what, Terrance. I can’t make any promises, but after school today, I’ll go talk to Mr. Parker.”
Hope sprang into Terrance’s eyes. She felt a pang at feeding it to him. To him, the schoolteacher was all powerful. And at the end of the day, she was going to have to be. Or learn to live with the guilt.
“You will? Thank you.”
She shook her head at him. “It’s not going to be that easy. As you said, Ace Parker isn’t one for letting things go.”
“But neither are you.”
He had a point there.
“You’re right, and I’m going to do my best to see if we can come up with some compromise that will fix your problem. All right?”
He nodded.
“Now do you want to go inside and practice your letters with everybody else, or do you want to be excused for the day?”
He grabbed up his books and headed to the door. She guessed that was an answer. She followed more slowly. For an eight-year-old boy, Terrance had a serious dedication to learning that if she had her way, would not be snuffed out. Not by his father, not by life and certainly not by a gambler with a possessive streak. Ace didn’t need the strip of land Terrance’s father pretended to farm. But Terrance did. Which meant just one thing. Ace was going to have to give it up.
* * *
PETUNIA STOOD OUTSIDE the saloon and straightened the dark blue jacket of her most favorite suit, wishing the day wasn’t so unseasonably hot. Wishing she could just look the other way like so many people did. Wishing there was a way to keep her promise to Terrance without actually having to speak to Ace. Wishing she’d been able to run into him somewhere in town today rather than having to track him down in his lair. She stared at the saloon doors and bit her lip.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
The only other time she’d been in a saloon had been in the company of several suffragettes, and even that protest had been timed to occur during the hours of nonoperation. And it’d ended with her spending twenty minutes in jail before her father had fetched her out.
Truth be told, she’d been rather disappointed with the “grand adventure.” Outside of one picture featuring a scantily clad woman, the saloon had been bland and smelly and not at all the gaudily exciting place she’d expected to see. This building was probably the same. Bland and smelly and sparsely populated with the same people she saw on the street every day. So why was she standing here hesitating?
A movement down the street caught her attention. Terrance. He stood on the sidewalk watching her, hands clenched at his sides. His posture set to run. Clearly, he expected her to chicken out.
Well, he had another think coming. She was a Wayfield. The family motto, longer than most, spoke to noble attributes. But quitting wasn’t one of them. With a lift of her chin and small wave to Terrance, she stepped through the swinging doors.
Her initial thought as the gloom of the place surrounded her was this wasn’t so bad. On her first breath, she started to change her mind. The stench of stale sweat and sour beer hung thick in the still air. By the time her eyes adjusted in the dim light, she was ready to back right out. This was not her world. There was no optimism here. Just apathy reflected in the way a blonde woman dressed in a loosely tied wrapper sat at the long bar and picked at a plate of food. The thud of slamming wood made her jump.
“You lost, ma’am?”
She turned to the barkeep. She couldn’t remember his name, but she’d seen him around town. He had a rather distinctive appearance with that greased back black hair and large waxed mustache.
“No.”
“Maybe she’s looking for a job,” the woman at the bar said. “A person can’t hold body and soul together on what this town pays a schoolmarm.”
The woman was attractive in a blowsy sort of way, but not welcoming. Petunia straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin a notch.
“I’m not looking for a job.”
The woman met her gaze squarely, and took a bite of egg. “A bit of excitement, then?”
Petunia took another step into the room. A drunk she hadn’t noticed at the table to the left eyed her from hat to boot.
“I’d take a turn on her.”
She arched her brow at him. “You would do better to lay off the drink and indulge in a bath, rather than to speculate on a fornication that I doubt you’d be able to perform anyway.”
“What the hell does that mean?” he said looking at her askance, or maybe he was just trying to focus.
The woman at the bar laughed and sat up straighter. The wrapper slipped open exposing an amazing amount of white flesh. “I think you’ve just been accused of not being able to get it up, Jimmy.”
Jimmy huffed. “Hell, there hasn’t been a day since I’ve been born that I haven’t been able to get it up. Hell, I’ll prove it.” He stood up, knocking the table back and shoved his suspenders off his shoulders. When he reached for his belt Petunia decided it was time for her to take charge before the man bared all in an effort to prove something she couldn’t care less about. But just to be safe, she stepped out of his reach.
“I do apologize for interrupting your afternoon, but I’m looking for Ace Parker.”
“Hey, Acey!” A woman leaning over the railing at the top of the stairs screeched. “You’ve got company waiting downstairs.”
The woman looked as tired and as worn as the blonde woman at the bar. But her lung capacity assured Petunia that Ace knew he had a guest. Folding her hands in front of her, she waited. Patiently. For three minutes. But the longer she stood there feeling everyone’s eyes upon her, the more she became excruciatingly aware of the tendrils of hair she tucked behind her ear trying to come loose, the tightness of her bun, the difficulty of keeping a smile on her face and the utter lack of response on Ace’s part.
The blonde at the bar waved a forkful of egg at her. “Doesn’t look like he’s coming.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Does he often ignore company?”
The bartender kept wiping glasses. The blonde popped the bite of egg into her mouth.
“Ace pretty much does what he likes, and it doesn’t look like he wants to do you.”
The edges of Petunia’s temper started to fray right along with her patience.
The drunk from the table by the door shuffled over. Thankfully, he still had his pants on. “I can keep you busy, honey.”
She put her gloved hand over her mouth and nose as he got closer. He reeked of alcohol and other things she didn’t care to identify.
“Could you please call him again?” she asked the lady at the top of the stairs.
“Ace! The lady doesn’t fancy cooling her heels waiting for you any longer.”
Still no response. The woman leaned over the rail, her breasts all but spilling free as she shrugged. “Sorry, honey, doesn’t look like it’s your lucky day.”
“No, it’s definitely not.” Sighing, she gathered up her skirts. “But sometimes you just have to make your own luck.”
When her foot landed on the first stair, the woman at the bar gasped.
“Honey, you don’t want to be doing that.”
Petunia spared her a glance. “No, I’m sure I don’t.” But she kept climbing.
“Ace, you’d better get out here,” the woman at the railing yelled when she reached the halfway point. Whether it was repetition that inspired it or that half octave increase in the woman’s pitch, this time there was a response.
“Stop your caterwauling, Bess. I’m not expecting anyone.”
Petunia reached the landing. Bess blocked her way. This close Petunia could see she was older than she’d thought, maybe in her midthirties, but still pretty in an overdone sort of way.
“Excuse me, please.” The please was a courtesy. One way or another, she was getting down that hall.
Instead of moving, Bess caught her arm. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s not worth your reputation. If you don’t leave now, no decent man will touch you.”
The genuine concern in the woman’s gaze kept Petunia from rolling her eyes. “I’m twenty-nine years old and well and clearly on the shelf. If a decent man was going to touch me, he likely would have done it sometime in the previous thirteen years.”
Bess took her measure, sighed and shook her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Stepping around Bess, she nodded. “Oh, I know what I’m doing.” To herself she muttered, “It’s the results that are in question.”
Bess caught her arm again, drawing her up short. “He’s had a lot to drink.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Honestly? It could go either way.”
Petunia set her shoulders. “Well, if it can go either way, then it might just as well go mine.”
The woman sighed. “It’s the third door down.”
“Thank you.”
Determination kept her feet moving. When she reached Ace’s room, the door was ajar. She knocked.
“Go the hell away, Bess.”
Petunia pushed the door open. Ace was lying on his stomach on the bed in a decadent sprawl, his muscled back, broad shoulders, and lean hips and strong legs were dark against the white sheets.
“I’m not Bess but if I were, I’d take offense at the language you just used.”
Ace went very still. His fingers tightened on the pillow. On a “What the fuck?” he rolled over, grabbing the sheet and pulling it over his lap. His front was just as mouthwatering as his back. The light sprinkling of hair across his chest made her fingers tingle to follow it down over that hard ladder of muscle across his stomach. To follow it beneath the sheet to see where it ended...
“I repeat. Language.”
“I’ll talk any way I want.” He shook the hair out of his eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“You can’t be up here.”
She rather enjoyed his discomfort. “Apparently, I can.”
“Turn around.”
She did, listening as he got out of bed and yanked on his pants. “Of all the idiotic things you’ve done, Pet.”
“My name is Petunia, and to you, Miss Wayfield.”
“Since you’re standing in my room, on the upper floor of a saloon, in what technically is a brothel, I’ll call you any goddamn thing I want.”
“I’d appreciate it if you cleaned up your language.”
“I’d have appreciated it if you’d let me sleep.”
“May I turn around now?”
“Yes.”
She was disappointed to see him shrugging into his shirt.
“We have business to discuss.”
“We have business? The most we’ve ever exchanged is a few insults over a cinnamon bun. And I didn’t even buy you that.”
“Nonetheless, we do.”
He finished buttoning his shirt. “You need to get the hell out of here.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Grabbing his hat, Ace crossed the room and grabbed her elbow. Her pulse leaped. Tingles raced up her arm and over her shoulder, sending goose bumps across her chest. Beneath her jacket, her nipples tightened. What was it about this man that affected her so?
“I’ll thank you to let me go.”
He pushed her toward the door. “I’ll thank you to get the hell out of my room.”
“I did try to speak to you down in the lobby.”
“That’s not a lobby, it’s a saloon.” He shoved her through the door. “Do you know what you’ve done to your reputation?”
“You realize I don’t care?” The dryness of her tone got her a look. “I am, as you pointed out, completely on the shelf.”
“I don’t realize anything except a reputation is a hard thing to replace.”
“I have no intention of rebuilding it. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You’re in a brothel.”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“It’s a brothel!” He shoved her down the hallway. Bess was standing where Petunia had left her. Ace shot her a glare. “What the hell were you thinking, Bess? Letting her up here.”
“What did you expect me to do?” Bess snapped back.
“Trip her and knock her down, throw a punch.”
“She wasn’t looking for me.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “Fucking women.”
Petunia wanted to shout back “Fucking men” but no matter how liberated she was, she hadn’t gotten to the point where she could say words like that.
Ace hustled her down the stairs. Her skirt caught on her heel, tripping her. He hauled her up. “Keep moving.”
“It would be easier if you slowed down.”
“I’m getting you the hell out of here before somebody sees you with me and starts thinking we need to get married.”
“I have no intention of getting married.”
He grunted. “Probably a lot of men grateful for that fact.”
She planted her feet. “Did you just insult me?”
He yanked her forward. “I haven’t begun yet.”
“Should have taken me, honey.” Jimmy lurched toward them. “Seems like he’s not in any too hurry to have you.”
Ace swore. Petunia looked over her shoulder at the drunk and smiled sweetly. “I insisted on clean sheets.”
He hauled her along to the back of the saloon. “I hope nobody saw you come in here.”
“I imagine everyone on the street watched me come in here.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“I don’t know what you’re worried about. Even if they march you down the aisle with a shotgun at your back, I’ll never say I do.”
This time he was the one to jerk them to a halt. “Why the hell not?”
“Because my standards for a husband are a bit higher.”
Pushing her through the back door and into the alley, he snarled. “I bet.”
Letting go of her arm, he faced her. He was still standing too close for Petunia to catch a decent breath. And with his shirt flapping open like that, he was still too much temptation for her mind to focus the way she needed it to. She wanted to run her fingers through the dusting of hair on his chest to see if it was soft or wiry. She also had an incredible urge to bite his right pectoral. To leave her mark on him.
Clenching her fists at her sides, Petunia reached for focus. It stayed just out of reach. The circular scar just to the left of Ace’s breastbone was far more tempting. She wondered how he’d gotten it. She wondered how it’d feel. Were the edges soft or rough? Was his skin warm to the touch or cool? How would he taste?
With a growled curse, Ace yanked his shirt closed. “So what was so important that you had to come storming into my bedroom?”
“I did not storm.”
He sighed. “I’ll rephrase. What was so important you had to wake me from a good sleep and put us both in peril of a shotgun wedding?”
She wanted to stomp her foot. “Will you stop harping on a wedding?”
The muscles in his jaws bunched. His tone when he spoke was more even. “What was so damn important?”
“You were at a card game last night with the father of one of my students.”
“I was in a game last night with a lot of fathers of a lot of kids.”
“Terrance’s father is Brian Winter.”
“Ah, that one.”
“What does ah mean?”
“He drinks too much, has too many tales and bets more than he can afford.”
“That’s why I’m here. I want you to give him back what you won.”
He blinked. “You want me to do what?”
“I want you to give him back what you won.”
“Why in hell would I do that?”
“Because he lost more than he can afford to.”
“Not my problem.”
“He took out his frustration on his son. And without a home the Winters will have to leave...”
Ace’s expression didn’t change.
“Terrance is a good student with an inquisitive mind. He deserves a chance to grow up to be a man who can use that mind.”
“Nobody ever said life was fair.”
Now she wanted to growl. “Life might not be fair, but people can be.”
“And you think it’s fair to ask me to give back my winnings?”
“Yes.”
“You do realize this is how I make the majority of my living?”
“Yes, I realize you make money this way, a lot of it. Enough that you can afford to give him back his.”
Ace leaned back against the building and folded his arms across his chest. It was a position that spoke of confidence and power. Her knees went weak.
“What’s in it for me?”
“The knowledge that you bought a little boy some time.”
“You think because I give this money back, Brian won’t go back to that table again?”
“Giving the money back isn’t enough.”
“Not enough?”
She shook her head. “You can’t gamble with him anymore.”
Another of those slow blinks. “I can’t?”
“No.”
“Honey, I’m a grown man and so is he, and your nose, cute as it is, is sticking where it doesn’t belong.”
That was too much. Very calmly, very precisely she said, “This morning, Terrance, my student, came into my classroom with a black eye and a split lip asking for my help because he’s being put out of his home. That being the case, I’m here to appeal to whatever shred of decency that still exists in your body to give that horrible man back his money so that little boy will have a home tomorrow.”
Ace pushed his hat back and rubbed his forehead. In the late-afternoon light, she could see the paleness of his skin, the tightness of his expression. He was hungover.
He sighed. “That’s a hell of a lot of words to throw at a man before coffee.”
She looked at him. “I’ve got more.”
“Save them.”
“Then just say you’ll do it, and I’ll let you go get your cup of coffee.”
“That’s a fool’s mission.”
“You’re Hell’s Eight and a Texas Ranger. There has to be honor in you somewhere.”
“That’s a common myth.” Taking off his hat, he ran his hand through his hair again before asking, “He beat the boy?”
“He beats Terrance every time you take his money.”
His hands dropped to his sides. “I don’t take his money. He loses it.”
“That’s splitting hairs.”
“Not in my book.”
“Fine, I’ll rephrase. Every time he loses at your table, he takes it out on his son. His eight-year-old son,” she added for emphasis.
“Fuck.”
She really needed to learn to use that word. It conveyed so much with so little. “I’ll thank you not to use that language around me.”
This time the look she got wasn’t so sympathetic. She didn’t push, just waited. After a minute he said, “I’ll do it on one condition.”
She knew better than to say “anything.” “What’s your condition?”
“I want a kiss.”
“A kiss?”
Pushing off the wall, he took a step closer. She took one back.
“Just a kiss.”
The wall brushed her shoulder. She melted against it, her gaze hopelessly dropping to his lips. Just.
The word with all its implications lingered in her mind. Just the feel of his breath on her skin. Just the touch of his lips to hers. Just that slight pressure. That gentle parting. Just that hot claiming...
Ace reached out, and she flinched. He smiled, a devil’s smile that promised so much as his finger grazed her temple in a featherlight caress. In a rough drawl, he murmured, “Don’t.”
Such a soft, seductive order. A shiver snaked down her spine. When she would have leaned away, he shook his head and issued another. “Stay.”
She did for no other reason than he was the one who issued it. He increased the pressure ever so slightly—just enough—drawing his fingertips down her cheek and along her jaw, finding the sensitive skin of her neck. She gasped as sensation gathered. Goose bumps sprang up. His nostrils flared. She didn’t move and, for an instant, neither did he. They just stood there in the alley with the warmth of the sun heating the air between them. “What do you say, schoolmarm? Do we have a deal?”
“I think you want a lot.”
He shrugged. “You’re asking a lot.”
Placing her hand on his chest, savoring the flex of hard muscles and the soft hiss of his indrawn breath, Petunia stood on tiptoe, intending to kiss his cheek. He shook his head and smiled, and that finger, that oh, so tantalizing finger, traveled to the corner of her lip, teasing the delicate skin there, coaxing forth another airy gasp and more goose bumps.
“I want a real kiss.”
The raspy tone melted into the heat of his touch, melted into her. Her gaze dropped to the sculpted beauty of his mouth. That mouth with those full lips she’d always fantasized about sliding over hers, parting hers. Oh, yes, a real kiss... She wanted that, too.
With a subtle pressure, he tipped her face up. She didn’t resist. Why would she?
“Like you mean it,” he added.
That jerked her gaze to his, and she caught something in his expression that challenged everything feminine in her. Doubt. He didn’t think she’d do it, she realized. He probably thought she was too prim, too proper, too much on the shelf to kiss a man. He probably assumed she didn’t even know how. He probably thought he was scaring her. With a shake of her head, she leaned back and smiled.
He had another think coming. Ace Parker was one heck of an inspiration.
