Harmony (32 page)

He didn't listen to the rest. That part about her hips had gone straight to the part between his hips. Because she started swaying hers notably. Forward. Sideways. Backward. Sideways. Faster. Bell jingling. Swaying. Seductively. Pivot. Pivot. A mathematical equation popped into his head: silky times whispers equals petticoats. The hoop began to slip down to her undulating hips. She rotated them faster. Forward. Sideways. Backward. Sideways. Bell jingling.

Tom hadn't realized he'd been pressing his fingers tightly on the desk's edge to keep him from lunging. He would have jumped into that damn hoop with her in the next second.

Thwack!

The book fell off her head and slammed onto the floorboards. Her attention challenged, she lost momentum. The hoop came down next, but she struggled with a valiant effort to keep it rotating with a shimmy, shimmy, and a shimmy, but to no avail. It continued to descend. Hips to thighs, knees to full skirts, finally resting at the tips of her shoes after whirling around her, then coming to a wobbly landing.

“Jesus,” Tom swore, using his sleeve cuff to wipe the sweat that had beaded on his forehead. “That's no posture equipment. That's . . . that's . . . just not.”

“Of course it is. This hoop came with excellent references from the company and quite a testimonial printed in the
Boston Monthly.”

Her lips in a frown, she bent and picked up the hoop. Then she stuffed her hem into it, not without a hang-up in the front that provided a provocative view of stockinged calves. Finally she managed to slip it up the full hem of her skirt.

“Bet you wish you were in your underwear,” he commented, taking a bite out of another apple. He had to put something in his hand or he'd be putting it all over
her soft curves. “Then you could really give the thing a run for its money.”

With a sigh of aggravation, she replied, “When you say things like that, you exasperate me.”

He was a little cloudy on what
exasperate
meant but he took it that he'd made a bull's-eye remark because her eyes sparkled with that prideful determination of hers and her lower lip grew faintly rosy from the light snag in which she'd caught it with her teeth.

“I'll exasperate you whenever I want to,” he drawled, then took another bite from the apple and slowly chewed.

She shot him a sideways scowl, which was overtaken with an expression of determination. The book went back on her head. The hoop was fitted at her waist. She started over. That swaying of hips that nearly made him choke on the fruit sliding down his throat.

If she were in her underwear, he wouldn't be accountable for his actions. As it was, he could barely stand to watch her. Didn't she realize this was making him go crazy? Forward. Sideways. Backward. Sideways. Faster. Hips thrusting, arms held out, breasts pushed up.

Edwina times bell hoop equals suggestive thoughts from Tom.

He had half a mind to knock the book off her head so she'd stop. But the cat intervened for him. Honey Tiger bounded onto the desk in front of Edwina, then promptly batted at the hoop as it sped within reach of its paw. The book plopped to the floor. Distracted by the cat, she let the hoop come to a slow revolution at her feet.

As soon as she stepped to the desk's side, the cat brushed its long whiskers against her waist. Cradling the feline in her arms, she reprimanded it. “No, no, no, angel kitty. This isn't your toy. No touch. Only Mama.” The cat rubbed its head thoroughly over her breasts where she held it close. The cat's paws gingerly kneaded into the soft mounds, pushing lightly as it nuzzled. “No loving, Honey Tiger. I have to practice something right
now.” This was spoken in a sugar tone. More kneading and whiskers rubbing on breasts.

Feeling like his skin was itching from the inside, Tom couldn't stop himself from saying, “The cat was weaned too soon. It has nipple anxiety.”

Her chin flew up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ah, hell.”
Damn cat.
“Never mind.”

He ate the rest of the apple and kept quiet while she reassured Honey Tiger, then set her “precious,” after much cooing and scratching beneath its chin, on the bookshelf.

“Well,” she said, hands efficiently on hips, “I've deduced that the book isn't necessary. The hoop can achieve its purpose by working alone.” She reached for the circle on the floor.

“You're not going to do that again.”

“Certainly I am.” She fit it over her head this time, the hair in the back sort of dragging on her collar, a curl tumbling down her back. “It's kind of fun.” Then her face brightened and she reached for another hoop from the box. “Here. Try it.”

“The hell I will.” He raised his hands.

She shoved the hoop into his palm. “You're always telling me to try things. I ask you to use a simple child's toy and you're . . . well, you're . . . afraid it will insult your male . . . whatever it is you have that's male.”

Eyes narrowed. “All of me is male.”

“Yes, I'm sure it is.”

Brows lifted. “I could show you.”

She laughed. Dammit all.
She laughed.

“What the hell's so funny?”

“You are when you get that look on your face.”

“What look?” he asked self-consciously.

“Just that look.”

Her vagueness exasperated him. Yeah, that's what it did. It exasperated him. He liked the word.

“Come on. Now you do it like I did. Put it over your head.”

That shiny curl kept easing down her back, lower
toward her waist, until the pin keeping it in with the rest of the mass shot out and fell to the floor. She was oblivious to the metal
plunk
, too intent on showing him how to make an ass out of himself.

“On the count of three,” she said. “And remember, it's all in the hips.”

How could I forget?
“I know.”

She gave the call and began wiggling. Giggling.

If it were anyone else asking him, Tom wouldn't have done it. But he let the hoop go and started to shimmy his hips like a dancing girl. If anyone ever found out about this . . .

Her window shades weren't closed.

But that slipped his mind when he looked at Edwina, watched her moving in such a seductive way that he ached all the way to the marrow of his bones. His hoop fell onto the floor. He wasn't concentrating. Other things ribaldly fogged his head: breasts, hips, hair falling down, blushing cheeks, parted lips, panting, giggles.

When Edwina's hoop spun down to her feet, she paused. The bow above her upper lip was a little dewy. Her eyes were unusually green and bright and her high cheeks the color of iced roses. The smile she gave him had his heart racing. “Don't you want to do it—”

He couldn't let her finish; his thoughts had been pinpointing in one direction, on one thing. “I'll tell you what I want to do.” He cut the distance between them with one big step. “No. I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to show you.” His arms slid around her and pulled her tightly against him. Then he kissed her solidly on the mouth. Practically sucked the startled breath right out of her.

She was pliant beneath his exploring hands. He smelled flowers, no rose sachet powder. The fabric cloaking her shoulders felt satiny instead of like simple warm cotton. His fingers wove through her hair and gave the other curls their freedom.

For the briefest of moments, she hesitated. Then she kissed him back. Her frantic breath touched his face; her
arms went around his neck. He intensified the kiss, moving his lips over hers. Harder. Every muscle and bone inside him felt like hot iron. The pressure of her mouth on his had him cupping the back of her head to bring her closer. But it was impossible. She was already inside him—not physically, but in his mind, his heart.

His tongue edged her lips farther apart, met with hers, teased. This was no flirtatious porch swing kiss. This was fire and passion. This was unlike anything he'd ever experienced with a woman. It was total, a total engulfment of every part of him.

“You taste like apple,” she said through his smothering lips. “Sweet. I like it.”

“You're too sweet.” His voice was a growl. “Smell too good.”

They backed into her desk; something clattered to the floor—pencils. Kisses kept them together; neither cared. God, he could lean over her, open her legs, press himself next to her. A loose ribbon; a slide of linen. Then in her. It would be easy, so easy, but a bittersweet satisfaction. She deserved better than to be taken on a desk. He knew it. And that left him in turmoil: sexually aroused more than he had ever been in his life, but knowing there would be no gratification.

He should stop. He knew he should. In just a moment. But first, he had to steal what he could, imprint the feel of her body into his memory.

“I can't do this . . . not here.”

Her rasping words slammed him in the gut.
Not here.
Did that mean she'd wanted more? Was willing to give him more? He would never ruin her and walk away. Not Edwina. Never her.

“You're right,” he said against her damp lips. “I shouldn't have . . .”

“. . . We
shouldn't have.”

Heartbeats still tattooed against one another. Chest to breast. Hard and flat, soft and rounded. Different. Exquisite.

Her head fell back slightly, her eyes closed and her
lips parted. “I . . . I can't believe this. Me. It's me. I know it is . . . I'm . . . I'm just . . . trouble.”

“You're anything but trouble.” He couldn't resist kissing the column of her neck. It was so bare. So inviting. Then exhaling, he made her straighten and look at him. “We're playing a game, Edwina. Give a little, take a little. Stop. Start.”

Through quick pants and a slow shake of her head, she whispered, “I know.”

“What do you want to do?”

She gazed down and pressed fingers to her temple. “I don't know. I just don't know. You make me feel . . . but then I can't . . . Dammit all . . . I can . . . I have been . . .” The thought was left incomplete. Another slow shake of her head. “I just don't know.”

Tom let her talk until she ran out of words. Then he gave her a moment in case she wanted to add anything more, hoping that she would say she'd had a void in her life until he'd shown up. But she didn't. And after she fell quiet, he spoke.

“When you decide, Edwina, you tell me. I'll be waiting for you.”

The moment would have been poignant, tender, endearing—all of those romantic things that had eluded him all his life with women. But the cat—that damned cat—pounced onto the desktop and purred against her back. The spell broke and she turned to take the creature into her arms. He sensed she'd reached out to a lifeline. Something familiar. Safe.

He might have been able to salvage the mood if it hadn't been for Barkly. He came into the school by way of the storeroom. Tom had left his closet door open in the store. It was how he got to Edwina's for his lessons so he wouldn't track in snow on her floor. Barkly had just discovered the route.

The dewlap on the hound's neck swayed as he lumbered forward, nose stuck to the floor to make sure he didn't miss any scents. When he picked up Tom's, that mournful expression he often wore lit into his red eyes.
The hound looked laughable. His lips were working on something and causing quite a lather on his muzzle. White suds were everywhere.

Edwina caught sight of him and snuggled the cat deeply into her arms as if to shield it from his dog. “Oh my God! He's foaming at the mouth! He's got rabies! Tie him up! He'll get vicious!”

“It's not rabies,” Tom said reassuringly; then with irritation, he admonished the hound. “Barkly, damn you. Quit eating soap.”

“Soap?”

“He's been finding pieces of it here and there ever since Halloween. After the kids were done soaping windows, they must have pitched the cakes in bushes and flower beds. Because he's been gorging himself on soap for weeks.”

“Soap?”
she squeaked for the second time.

Tom shrugged. “His favorite is Colgate. But he's not picky. He'll eat any kind.”

“How did he get inside the store?”

“He knows how to open the door.”

“A soap eater and a lock picker.”

“I didn't lock it. He just knows how to turn open knobs.”

The cat squirmed, its four feet pushing and fighting. The gold in its eyes diminished as the black irises grew big and round. The look was feisty, a don't-mess-with-me signal. Barkly's wet nostrils twitched. He'd gotten a whiff of what he couldn't see. A deep and resonant bark echoed inside the walls, soap foam splattering from the effort. Then came a growl, a dribble of soap onto the floor, a distracted lick of chops—and a burp.

In spite of Edwina's possessive hold, the cat took off out of her arms, spitting and hissing, then bounded up the bookshelf and perched on the highest possible ledge. Its hair stood on end and it bared needlelike teeth, then gave a prissy spit.

“Get control of your dog!” Edwina said, backing away from Barkly, who in spite of his ominous rumble, was wagging his tail.

Tom took hold of his scruff and dragged him toward the door, a difficult task. The dog weighed eighty-some pounds. “Outside.” Before he released him, he opened the store's door and turned the lock, then shut it so Barkly couldn't get in again. Left on the snow, the hound sat. “Stay outside.” From Barkly's hang-dog expression, it was clear he was insulted.

Tom went back into the school, and it felt like the cold air had come with him. Edwina had packed her cat in the basket, from which issued muffled meows, and was moving through the room as if he weren't there. The closet door was shut. The coals in the heater had been tamped. She retrieved the rod for the lamp; she pulled it down and turned the wicks. They sputtered into the hot oil. Then darkness fell. The only light came in from what young moonlight reflected off the snow through the windows. He could see her silhouette as she threaded her way between the desks. He kept quiet until she had everything put away, her coat and gloves on, the hat pinned over unbound hair that had been tucked down the back of her wrap.