Honey and Smoke by Deborah Smith
Max craned his head and studied her in amazement. “Why?”
“Because they didn’t want me to turn out like a lot of my friends—lazy, snotty little debutantes with no idea what the real world was like.” She hiccuped again. “I admit, I was headed in that direction.”
“Don’t feel bad. When I was a teenager, I stole cars.”
“How exciting! Did you ever get caught?”
“No. Norma’s son and I used to swipe whatever we could hot-wire, take it for a joy ride, then abandon it on a deserted back road. We were damned good at our little hobby, but we were headed for trouble. I think a lot of people were betting that we’d end up in jail someday. They were relieved when we joined the marines.”
She clucked in exaggerated rebuke. “You sound proud. But would you want your children to steal cars?”
Max grinned. “Only if they were as good at it as I was.”
“Bad! You’re so bad, Maximilian.” She sighed pensively. “You have so much fun. I’m so boring and normal.”
“Thank you for classifying me as abnormal,” he protested solemnly.
She laughed, the sound lovely and warm, then missed her mouth with a potato chip. The chip crumbled on her chin and flakes scattered over her sweater. Max fought a strong urge to pick up the flakes that landed on her breasts.
“What a slob,” she said cheerfully, find popped each broken bit into her mouth.
Max adored her comfortable earthiness. “No manners. I like that in a person.”
“What? No manners? I was schooled in etiquette by Miss Louise Vanagrette of the Greenbriar Cotillion. I have manners out the wazoo, Maximilian.”
She tilted her head so that she could peer up at him. Max looked at her half-shut eyes and flushed cheeks. In the cozy light of a floor lamp her full, wide mouth beckoned him with a crooked smile that was both comical and provocative. If he kissed her right now, she’d probably laugh—but she’d kiss him back.
While he considered the possibilities, he stroked a crumb of potato chip from her lower lip. “I’m glad you’re here. My house feels like it has life in it now.”
“It’s a fabulous old house, Maximilian. Your father left it to you?”
“Yes. Along with a lot of furniture that’s been in the family for decades. Most of it’s stored up in the attic. You’d probably love it, but my taste runs to this.”
He gestured around them at walls hung with bright Japanese wood-block prints. Most showed battles and warriors, but a few depicted wildly costumed Kabuki actors and sprawling Oriental landscapes. His furniture was sparse and simple, all sleek blacks and whites. “I collected this furniture and artwork over the years,” he told her. “But I kept most of it in storage until I had a permanent home for it.” He pointed toward a large, muted tapestry on the wall across from the couch. “I like the lines of those abstract patterns. They’re both peaceful and aggressive. How you interpret them depends on your point of view.”
“I feel peaceful.” She drew a single chip from the bowl on her lap, brought it to her mouth with the slow grace of an unsteady hand, then laid the chip on her tongue. It disappeared between her lips without a sound.
“Very nice,” Max whispered, mesmerized. “I’m thrilled that you like my interior decorating.” He spoke to her in a low, seductive tone guaranteed to keep the kiss-me expression on her face.
She blinked swiftly, as if realizing that she was tiptoeing into dangerous territory. “Oh, I’m bad. I’m so bad. I feel so tempted. I could just go wild.”
“Sssh, Betty, nothing is going to happen until you’re—”
“Take these away.” She handed the bowl of potato chips to him. “Or I’ll keep eating until they’re all gone.”
Max felt disgusted, but had to strangle a laugh. At least she wasn’t worrying about other temptations. Good. Temptation could sneak up on her that way. “Betty, Betty,” he chided softly, setting the bowl of chips aside. “Why are you so afraid of indulging yourself?”
She hiccuped, then turned her face toward him and rested her forehead against his jaw. “You don’t understand,” she murmured. “You don’t have a monogram like mine.”
“A monogram?”
She let her hands settle loosely on her lap. He doubted that she was aware that the fingers of one hand trailed over onto his thigh. He decided to enjoy the torturous little pleasure in noble silence. “My monogram,” she repeated. She sighed. “My parents have terrible notions of what’s funny. My middle name is … is Belle.”
“So? Betty Belle … Quint.” He groaned, then began to smile. “So your initials are B-B-Q.”
“Stop that. Stop it. I can feel you smiling. My forehead can feel your jaw muscles moving. Stop it.”
He raised a hand to the black luxury of her hair and playfully tugged at one of the combs that swept it back from her face. He slipped the comb free. “Relax, Betty Belle.” Max tossed the comb somewhere on the smoky gray carpet behind the couch. He ran his splayed fingers across her temple and into the loosened strands. “Relax. Keep talking.”
“Mmmm. Mmmm. Max. No. Oh, Max. Oh, hell.” She turned a little more toward him, and her willful hand moved an inch across his thigh. “Nice.”
“Talk,” he ordered. His voice was strained with desire. He stared at her hand.
“Ol’ B-B-Q. That’s me. It’s funny now, but when I was a child, it was a horrible name. I was, shall we say, a bit short for my weight.” She cleared her throat and amended drolly, “Oh, let’s be honest. I was a baby whale. Whenever my parents took me on vacation to the ocean, I felt an urge to migrate and search for my herd.”
Max bit his lip and struggled not to laugh out loud. “Babe, if it’s any consolation, you look fantastic now. All that blubber has become one helluva pretty body.”
She patted his thigh heartily. “And I have great fins.”
Max sucked a deep breath. His voice came out a dry rasp. “I hope you remember how to surface for air. It might come in handy when we really get into deep water.”
Her hand lay still again. “So, anyway, I was fat.” Her voice was a little bitter and sad. “And my initials were B-B-Q. I suffered through an awful list of nicknames. Spare Ribs. Pork Belly. Betty Burp. Anytime another kid got mad at me, I heard those names.”
He winced a little and stroked her hair in sympathy. “If we were both ten years old, I’d go out on the playground tomorrow and blacken some eyes on your behalf.”
Her soft giggles were disarmingly pleasant. “Where were you when I needed you?”
“Waiting. Just waiting to meet you.”
They were both silent for a minute. She curled and uncurled her hand atop his thigh, not really squeezing the muscle there, but creating languid waves of sensation nonetheless.
“Max, I didn’t lose weight until I was in college. I started exercising and eating right, and I haven’t had a problem since. But I’ve had a lot of trouble learning to love myself.” She hesitated, then added softly, “I think that’s why I was so vulnerable when I met my musician, Sloan Richards. I still felt like a homely dumpling, and he taught me to feel pretty. He was every daydream I’d ever had come true.”
Max didn’t like the wistfulness in her voice when she discussed the musician. Sloan Richards. He filed the name away for future inspection. “Look at me,” he commanded.
“Bossy.” She raised her head, frowning.
Max caught her chin in his hand and held her still as he searched her heavy-lidded eyes. “Forget the musician. You learned what you needed to learn from him, and that’s all he was good for. You’re beautiful. Believe it.”
Her expression softened. “I’ve already forgotten him.” Her voice was breathless. “Now I’d like to know what I can learn from you.”
She shoved past his restraining hand and kissed him. Her tongue slid inside his mouth like a slow, lazy river, filling him with her erotic energy. Honor was temporarily forgotten as he pulled her to him and clasped the back of her head, urging her to continue.
&nb
This woman was heaven and hell, like no other. Her kisses were bawdy, but from the back of her throat came sweet, almost keening, sounds. Her hand trembled on his thigh, but then moved upward, stroking him through his trousers and feathering excitedly over the part of him that immediately strained toward her caress.
Honor. It taunted him. Her mouth held the poignantly sweet taste of grape juice, and he thought of the damned Grape Surprise, with its enormous volume of moonshine. She’s drunk, he reminded himself fiercely. You can’t let her do something she really will regret.
Oh, but for a minute longer he did, until he had to push himself away from her eager mouth and take her hand in his for self-protection. “We don’t want to do this tonight,” he told her, but silently cursed the lack of conviction in his voice.
Disappointment filled her eyes. “Parts of us certainly do.”
“Those parts don’t have brains. What happened to your determination to stay away from me?”
Her face flamed with embarrassment, and she frowned sadly, looking confused. “I know; I’m being irresponsible.”
He shook her gently. “You’re not irresponsible. You’re human. I don’t want you to avoid me, but I don’t want to wake up in the morning and have you tell me that what we’ve done is a mistake.”
“I … I know that you’re not right for me.” She shut her eyes, making an obvious and painful-looking effort to think clearly. When she looked at him again, tears shimmered on her lower lashes. “But you’re so wonderful. Why do you have to be so wonderful, you jackass?”
Her combination of regret and devotion nearly tore him apart. “I just can’t help myself,” he said grimly. He blew a long breath, trying to exhale his own confusion and self-rebuke.
It would be simple to sweep away the only obstacle that was keeping them apart. All he had to do was change his mind about marriage; all he had to do was tell her that someday, yes, he could imagine signing a formal document that pledged his life to another person. He wouldn’t even have to tell her that he wanted to pledge his life to her specifically. She’d be satisfied with just knowing that he wasn’t against marriage in general.
He started to say that he’d reconsidered, but his conscience burned the words before they could leave his throat. It was a lie. If he said that he’d changed his mind, he’d be lying to himself as well as to her. And she deserved better than that. He wanted her to have the best, or at least what her convictions told her was the best. He wanted her to be happy. He’d never wanted so badly to protect someone else’s ideals at the expense of his own needs.
Max twisted away from her, pulled his feet from the coffee table, and smiled sarcastically. Very damned noble, he told himself. Now suffer. He raked his hands through his hair and stared at the floor. Slowly she rearranged herself, holding the couch’s overstuffed upholstery for support, until she was seated as he was, facing forward, both feet firmly on the floor.
“I feel like a tease,” she whispered miserably. “It’s a first.”
“You were ready to go for broke, babe. That wasn’t teasing.”
“Then why do you have an evil, Jack Nicholson-playing-the-devil smile on your face?”
“Because I’m contemplating my life.”
“Don’t. It looks painful.”
“I should never have left the marines. The choices were simpler there.”
“What choices?”
“Exactly.”
He stood up, frustrated by a self-examination that led back to the same answer as always. He had lost the ability to take leaps of faith. Oh, he was flexible in the small ways, the everyday things, but he couldn’t buck the big issues. For two decades he’d had a front-row view of the world’s insanity, and he’d lost his vision of paradise forever. Happiness for him would have to be based on what he could see and hold find measure each day without questioning whether it would exist the day after.
Max pivoted toward her angrily. “ ‘Come into my guest room, said the spider to the fly.’ ” He tried to ignore her sorrowful, yearning gaze. “In the morning you can load your hangover onto the barbecue bus and drive home. Will the mutant cat survive the night without you?”
After a second her expression became resigned. “Yes. She has lots of food and water, and a fresh kitty litter box.”
“Ah. What more could a creature want?” He smiled tightly, thinking of too many answers to that question as he looked down at her.
She staggered to her feet and listed sideways. Max caught her arm and drew her close. She raised her big silver eyes and nearly dissolved his restraint with a look of poignant affection. “I like chicken salad. Do you like chicken salad?”
“No. I ate canned chicken salad once in ’Nam and almost died from food poisoning.”
“Oh.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re still hungry? You ate two peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches and half a bag of potato chips.”
She blinked owlishly. “I like to read those big family-saga books where everybody plots against everybody else.”
“That’s nice,” he crooned. There was no point in aiming for logic in this conversation. She was endearing and sincere, but fading fast. “Come on and get in bed, and I’ll tell you a good-night story.”
“I’m just trying to find out what we have in common. What do you like to read?”
“Guerrilla Warfare Weekly,” he joked.
She sputtered with laughter. “You like gorillas? We should visit Zoo Atlanta.”
“I read magazines and newspapers. Current affairs.”
Her eyes showed desperation. “How about this current affair?” She launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him wildly.
Max stepped back with a barely concealed groan. “Dammit, we’ve already discussed this. You’re pie-eyed, so I forgive you. But don’t push me too far.”
“Maybe I don’t want to listen to my common sense anymore.” She clasped his shirtfront. “Maybe I’m so lonely that I can barely stand my own company. Maybe I think that I’ll go crazy if I don’t get you out of my system. You have to do something, Maximilian.”
The short fuse on his control burst into flame. “You asked for it,” he said angrily. He picked her up so swiftly that she yelped. Holding her tightly against his chest, he carried her through the living room and down a short hall, where he kicked open the door to the guest room.
“Max, Max, I’ll take a chance on being sorry in the morning,” she whispered raggedly as he crossed a room that still contained the pleasant, unassuming old furniture his father had left there. “I need you tonight.”
Cursing under his breath, a little hurt, he laid her on a double bed, then jerked the quilt and sheet from under her. The bed’s wooden frame creaked in rhythm with his movements. The darkness was thick, but when his fingers found the fastenings on her slacks, he moved with nimble speed. Within a few seconds he dragged the slacks over her legs and feet.
He threw the garment on the floor behind him and again found her with his hands. She gasped, not in surprise but in pleasure. Touching her made his head swim with desire; he gritted his teeth and stroked her through her panties, kneeling over her on the bed as he did.
The moans that cascaded from her throat were even more erotic because he couldn’t see her. He could only feel her, her body incredibly aroused as he slid his fingers under the panties and between her legs. She reached for him, frantically stroking his knees and the arm he braced beside her.
“Max, I want to kiss you,” she cried. “Don’t stay there. Please, don’t stay so far away. Lay down beside me.”
He shivered in agony and lay down, sighing as he received the wild hunger of her mouth. Her body arched and trembled; he heard himself making hoarse sounds in the back of his throat because his intimate touching revealed the delicacy and
“Need you, want you,” she called out, and then she seemed to focus all her power as she burst into soft mewling sounds and went very still, shuddering. He felt her sweet delirium with his hand, and wretchedly bent his head to her shoulder.
She quieted, relaxing. Her hands rose in the darkness and cupped his head, stroking his hair and face while she made gentle, tired noises. “Max, oh, Max,” were the only coherent words she managed, and they were so filled with adoration that a knot rose in his throat.
“You’re sleepy,” he whispered, as if trying to hypnotize her.
“Max.” Her hands moved lovingly, stroking the heart out of him, making him want to forget honor and take her as quickly as he could undress himself.
He thought of her reaction in the morning, when all she would remember was a drunken coupling with a man she had tried very hard to avoid. Max pushed himself away and stood beside the bed, then grabbed blindly for the covers and pulled them over her. This way, at least, he would leave their friendship unharmed, with the possibility of real passion someday, shared not from groggy desperation but from a sober change of heart—hers.
“Max … why?” she asked sadly, but her voice was sluggish with fatigue.
He leaned over her and brushed tangled hair from her forehead, crooning husky sounds to her while she sighed with pleasure at his slow caress. “Good night, babe,” he whispered gruffly.
“Why?” she insisted, but even that brief word trailed off before she finished it.
He listened to her deep, even breathing. Then he placed a very light kiss on her mouth, whispering as he did, “Because, unfortunately for both of us, I love you.”
She knew that if she opened her eyes, reality would sneak into her brain and confirm what she remembered from the night before. Betty fought for a moment, then took a deep breath and banished sleep.
Her head throbbed. She lifted it from the pillow and squinted at a lovely old room filled with Victorian wicker. Thin white drapes on an eastern window let a narrow band of sunshine peek under their hem. Her gaze found her black slacks folded neatly across a chair. Her black leather flats sat beside it. From the way they gleamed. Max might have polished them.