Part of the Bargain Page 8

  “You won’t take me home?” Her voice was small.

  He sighed. “Do you want me to?”

  Libby considered, lowered her head. “No,” she said after a long time.

  The inside of Jess’s house was spacious and uncluttered. There were skylights in the ceiling and the second floor appeared to be a loft of some sort. Lifting her eyes to the railing above, Libby imagined that his bed was just beyond it and blushed.

  Jess seemed to be ignoring her; he was busy with newspaper and kindling at the hearth. She watched the play of the muscles in his back in weary fascination, longing to feel them beneath her hands.

  The knowledge that she loved Jess Barlowe, budding in her subconscious mind since her arrival in Montana, suddenly burst into full flower. But was the feeling really new?

  If Libby were to be honest with herself—and she tried to be, always—she had to admit that the chances were good that she had loved Jess for a very long time.

  He turned, rose from his crouching position, a small fire blazing and crackling behind him. “How do you like my house?” he asked with a half smile.

  Between her newly recognized feelings for this man and the way his jade eyes seemed to see through all her reserve to the hurt and confusion hidden beneath, Libby felt very vulnerable. Trusting in an old trick that had always worked in the past, she looked around in search of something to be angry about.

  The skylights, the loft, the view of the mountains from the windows beyond his desk—all of it was appealing. Masculine. Quietly romantic.

  “Perfect quarters for a wealthy and irresponsible playboy,” she threw out in desperation.

  Jess stiffened momentarily, but then an easy grin creased his face. “I think that was a shot, but I’m not going to fire back, Libby, so you might as well relax.”

  Relax? Was the man insane? Half an hour before, he had blithely brought her to climax in a hot tub, for God’s sake, and now they were alone, the condition of their clothes necessitating that they risk further intimacies by stripping them off, taking showers. If they couldn’t fight, what were they going to do?

  Before Libby could think of anything to say in reply, Jess gestured toward the broad redwood stairs leading up to the loft. “The bathroom is up there,” he said. “Take a shower. You’ll find a robe hanging on the inside of the door.” With that, he turned away to crouch before the fire again and add wood.

  Because she was cold and there seemed to be no other options, Libby climbed the stairs. It wasn’t until she reached the loft that her teeth began to chatter.

  There she saw Jess’s wide unmade bed. It was banked by a line of floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the impression that the room was open to the outdoors, and the wrinkled sheets probably still bore that subtle, clean scent that was Jess’s alone….

  Libby took herself in hand, wrenched her attention away from the bed. There was a glass-fronted wood-burning stove in one corner of the large room, and a long bookshelf on the other side was crammed with everything from paperback mysteries to volumes on veterinary medicine.

  Libby made her way into the adjoining bathroom and kicked off her muddy boots, peeled away her jeans and shirt, her sodden underwear and socks. Goosebumps leapt out all over her body, and they weren’t entirely related to the chill.

  The bathtub was enormous, and like the bed, it was framed by tall uncurtained windows. Bathing here would be like bathing in the high limbs of a tree, so sweeping was the view of mountains and grassland beyond the glass.

  Trembling a little, Libby knelt to turn on the polished brass spigots and fill the deep tub. The water felt good against her chilled flesh, and she was submerged to her chin before she remembered that she had meant to take a quick shower, not a lingering, dreamy bath.

  Libby couldn’t help drawing a psychological parallel between this tub and the larger one at the main house, where she had made such a fool of herself. Was there some mysterious significance in the fact that she’d chosen the bathtub over the double-wide shower stall on the other side of the room?

  Now you’re really getting crazy, Kincaid, she said to herself, settling back to soak.

  Somewhere in the house, a telephone rang, was swiftly answered.

  Libby relaxed in the big tub and tried to still her roiling thoughts and emotions. She would not consider what might happen later. For now, she wanted to be comforted, pampered. Deliciously warm.

  She heard the click of boot heels on the stairs, though, and sat bolt upright in the water. A sense of sweet alarm raced through her system. Jess wouldn’t come in, actually come in, would he?

  Of course he would! Why would a bathroom door stop a man who would make such brazen advances in a hot tub?

  With frantic eyes Libby sought the towel shelf. It was entirely too far away, and so was the heavy blue-and-white velour robe hanging on the inside of the door. She sank into the bathwater until it tickled her lower lip, squeezed her eyes shut and waited.

  “Lib?”

  “Wh-what?” she managed. He was just beyond that heavy wooden panel, and Libby found herself hoping…

  Hoping what? That Jess would walk in, or that he would stay out? She honestly didn’t know.

  “That was Ken on the phone,” Jess answered, making no effort to open the door. “I told him you were here and that I’d bring you home after the rain lets up.”

  Libby reddened, there in the privacy of that unique bathroom, imagining the thoughts that were probably going through her father’s mind. “Wh-what did he say?”

  Jess chuckled, and the sound was low, rich. “Let me put it this way— I don’t think he’s going to rush over here and defend your virtue.”

  Libby was at once pleased and disappointed. Wasn’t a father supposed to protect his daughter from persuasive lechers like Jess Barlowe?

  “Oh,” she said, her voice sounding foolish and uncertain. “D-do you want me to hurry? S-so you can take a shower, I mean?”

  “Take your time,” he said offhandedly. “There’s another bathroom downstairs— I can shower there.”

  Having imparted this conversely comforting and disenchanting information, Jess began opening and closing drawers. Seconds later, Libby again heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  Despite the fact that she would have preferred to lounge in that wonderful bathtub for the rest of the day, Libby shot out of the water and raced to the towel bar. This was her chance to get dried off and dressed in something before Jess could incite her to further scandalous behavior.

  She was wrapped in his blue-and-white bathrobe, the belt securely tied, and cuddled under a knitted afghan by the time Jess joined her in the living room, looking reprehensibly handsome in fresh jeans and a green turtleneck sweater. His hair, like her own, was still damp, and there was a smile in his eyes, probably inspired by the way she was trying to burrow deeper into her corner of the couch.

  “There isn’t any brandy after all,” he said with a helpless gesture of his hands. “Will you settle for chicken soup?”

  Libby would have agreed to anything that would get Jess out of that room, even for a few minutes, and he would have to go to the kitchen for soup, wouldn’t he? Unable to speak, she nodded.

  She tried to concentrate on the leaping flames in the fireplace, but she could hear the soft thump of cupboard doors, the running of tapwater, the singular whir of a microwave oven. The sharp ting of the appliance’s timer bell made her flinch.

  Too soon, Jess returned, carrying two mugs full of steaming soup. He extended one to Libby and, to her eternal gratitude, settled in a chair nearby instead of on the couch beside her.

  Outside, the rain came down in torrents, making a musical, pelting sound on the skylights, sliding down the windows in sheets. The fire snapped and threw out sparks, as if to mock the storm that could not reach it.

  Jess took a sip of the hot soup and grinned. “This doesn’t exactly fit the scenario I outlined in the car,” he said, lifting his cup.

  “You got everything else right,” Lib
by quipped, referring to the bath she’d taken and the fact that she was wearing his robe. Instantly she realized how badly she’d slipped, but it was too late to call back her words, and the ironic arch of Jess’s brow and the smile on his lips indicated that he wasn’t going to let the comment pass.

  “Everything?” he teased. “There isn’t any fur rug, either.”

  Libby’s cheekbones burned. Unable to say anything, she lowered her eyes and watched the tiny noodles colliding in her mug of soup.

  “I’m sorry,” Jess said softly.

  She swallowed hard and met his eyes. He did look contrite, and there was nothing threatening in his manner. Because of that, Libby dared to ask, “Do you really mean to…to make love to me?”

  “Only if you want me to,” he replied. “You must know that I wouldn’t force you, Libby.”

  She sensed that he meant this and relaxed a little. Sooner or later, she was going to have to accept the fact that all men didn’t behave in the callous and hurtful way that Aaron had. “You believe me now—don’t you? About Stacey, I mean?”

  If that off-the-wall question had surprised or nettled Jess, he gave no indication of it. He simply nodded.

  Some crazy bravery, carrying her forward like a reckless tide, made Libby put aside her carefully built reserve and blurt out, “Do you think I’m a fool, Jess?”

  Jess gaped at her, the mug of soup forgotten in his hands. “A fool?”

  Libby lowered her eyes. “I mean…well…because of Aaron.”

  “Why should I think anything like that?”

  Thunder exploded in the world outside the small cocoon-like one that held only Libby and Jess. “He was…he…”

  “He was with other women,” supplied Jess quietly. Gently.

  Libby nodded, managed to look up.

  “And you stayed with him.” He was setting down the mug, drawing nearer. Finally he crouched before her on his haunches and took the cup from her hands to set it aside. “You couldn’t leave Jonathan, Libby. I understand that. Besides, why should the fact that you stuck with the marriage have any bearing on my attitude toward you?”

  “I just thought…”

  “What?” prodded Jess when her sentence fell away. “What did you think, Libby?”

  Tears clogged her throat. “I thought that I couldn’t be very desirable if my o-own husband couldn’t…wouldn’t…”

  Jess gave a ragged sigh. “My God, Libby, you don’t think that Aaron was unfaithful because of some lack in you?”

  That was exactly what she’d thought, on a subliminal level at least. Another woman, a stronger, more experienced, more alluring woman, might have been able to keep her husband happy, make him want her.

  Jess’s hands came to Libby’s shoulders, gentle and insistent. “Lib, talk to me.”

  “Just how terrific could I be?” she erupted suddenly, in the anguish that would be hidden no longer. “Just how desirable? My husband needed other women because he couldn’t bring himself to make love to me!”

  Jess drew her close, held her as the sobs she had restrained at last broke free. “That wasn’t your fault, Libby,” he breathed, his hand in her hair now, soothing and strong. “Oh, sweetheart, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it was!” she wailed into the soft green knit of his sweater, the hard strength of the shoulder beneath. “If I’d been better…if I’d known how…”

  “Shhh. Baby, don’t. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  Once freed, Libby’s emotions seemed impossible to check. They ran as deep and wild as any river, swirling in senseless currents and eddies, causing her pride to founder.

  Jess caught her trembling hands in his, squeezed them reassuringly. “Listen to me, princess,” he said. “These doubts that you’re having about yourself are understandable, under the circumstances, but they’re not valid. You are desirable.” He paused, searched her face with tender, reproving eyes. “I can swear to that.”

  Libby still felt broken, and she hadn’t forgotten the terrible things Aaron had said to her during their marriage—that she was cold and unresponsive, that he hadn’t been impotent before he’d married her. Time and time again he had held up Jonathan as proof that he had been virile with his first wife, taken cruel pleasure in pointing out that none of his many girlfriends found him wanting.

  Wrenching herself back to the less traumatic present, Libby blurted out, “Make love to me, Jess. Let me prove to myself—”

  “No,” he said with cold, flat finality. And then he released her hands, stood up and turned away as if in disgust.

  Chapter 6

  “I thought you wanted me,” Libby said in a small, broken voice.

  Jess’s broad back stiffened, and he did not turn around to face her. “I do.”

  “Then, why…?”

  He went to the fireplace, took up a poker, stoked the blazing logs within to burn faster, hotter. “When I make love to you, Libby, it won’t be because either one of us wants to prove anything.”

  Libby lowered her head, ashamed. As if to scold her, the wind and rain lashed at the windows and the lightning flashed, filling the room with its eerie blue-gold light. She began to cry again, this time softly, wretchedly.

  And Jess came to her, lifted her easily into his arms. Without a word, he carried her up the stairs, across the storm-shadowed loft room to the bed. After pulling back the covers with one hand, he lowered her to the sheets. “Rest,” he said, tucking the blankets around her.

  Libby gaped at him, amazed and stricken. She couldn’t help thinking that he wouldn’t have tucked Monica Summers into bed this way, kissed her forehead as though she were some overwrought child needing a nap.

  “I don’t want to rest,” Libby said, insulted. And her hands moved to pull the covers down.

  Jess stopped her by clasping her wrists. A muscle knotted in his jaw, and his jade-green eyes flashed, their light as elemental as that of the electrical storm outside. “Don’t Libby. Don’t tempt me.”

  She had been tempting him—if he hadn’t stopped her when he did, she would have opened the robe, wantonly displayed her breasts. Now, she was mortally embarrassed. What on earth was making her act this way?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  Jess sat down on the edge of the bed, his magnificent face etched in shadows, his expression unreadable. “Do we have to go into that again, princess? Nothing is wrong with you.”

  “But—”

  Jess laid one index finger to her lips to silence her. “It would be wrong if we made love now, Libby—don’t you see that? Afterward, you’d be telling yourself what a creep I was for taking advantage of you when you were so vulnerable.”

  His logic was unassailable. To lighten the mood, Libby summoned up a shaky grin. “Some playboy you are. Chicken soup. Patience. Have you no passion?”

  He laughed. “More than I know what to do with,” he said, standing up, walking away from the bed. At the top of the stairs he paused. “Am I crazy?”

  Libby didn’t answer. Smiling, she snuggled down under the covers—she was just a bit tired—and placidly watched the natural light show beyond the windows. Maybe later there would be fireworks of another sort.

  Downstairs, Jess resisted a fundamental urge to beat his head against the wall. Libby Kincaid was up there in his bed, for God’s sake, warm and lush and wanting him.

  He ached to go back up the stairs and finish what they’d begun that morning in the hot tub. He couldn’t, of course, because Libby was in no condition, emotionally, for that kind of heavy scene. If he did the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, she could break, and the pieces might not fit together again.

  In a fit of neatness, Jess gathered up the cups of cold chicken soup and carried them into the kitchen. There he dumped their contents into the sink, rinsed them, and stacked them neatly in the dishwasher.

  The task was done too quickly. What could he do? He didn’t like the idea of leaving Libby alone, but h
e didn’t dare go near her again, either. The scent of her, the soft disarray of her hair, the way her breasts seemed to draw at his mouth and the palms of his hands—all those things combined to make his grasp on reason tenuous.

  Jess groaned, lifted his eyes to the ceiling and wondered if he was going to have to endure another ice-cold shower. The telephone rang, startling him, and he reached for it quickly. Libby might already be asleep, and he didn’t want her to be disturbed.

  “Hello?”

  “Jess?” Monica’s voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of cold fury. “Did you take my car?”

  He sighed, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Yeah. Sorry. I should have called you before this, but—”

  “But you were busy.”

  Jess flinched. Exactly what could he say to that? “Monica—”

  “Never mind, Jess.” She sighed the words. “I didn’t have any right to say that. And if you helped yourself to my car, you must have had a good reason.”

  Why the hell did she have to be so reasonable? Why didn’t Monica yell at him or something, so that he could get mad in good conscience and stop feeling like such an idiot? “I’m afraid the seats are a little muddy,” he said.

  “Muddy? Oh, yes—the rain. Was Libby okay?”

  Again Jess’s gaze lifted to the ceiling. Libby was not okay, thanks to him and Stacey and her charming ex-husband. But then, Monica was just making polite conversation, not asking for an in-depth account of Libby’s emotional state. “She was drenched.”

  “So you brought her there, got her out of her wet clothes, built a fire—”

  The anger Jess had wished for was suddenly there. “Monica.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “All right, all right— I’m sorry. I take it our dinner date is off?”

  “Yeah,” Jess answered, turning the phone cord between his fingers. “I guess it is.”

  Monica was nothing if not persistent—probably that quality accounted for her impressive success in political circles. “Tomorrow night?”

  Jess sighed. “I don’t know.”

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence. “We’ll talk later,” Monica finally said brightly. “Listen, is it okay if I send somebody over there to get my car?”