Smooth Talking Stranger by Lisa Kleypas
“Oh.” She frowned.
“I have a boyfriend in Austin,” I volunteered. “I’m moving back there in about three months.”
Sonya’s frown cleared. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”
We reached my door, and I pushed the combination on the keypad. While Jack held open the door, I wheeled the stroller inside and lifted Luke out. “Thanks again,” I said, watching Jack set the grocery bags on the coffee table.
Sonya cast an admiring glance around the apartment. “Great decorating.”
“I can’t take any credit for that,” I said. “But Luke and I are making our contribution.” With a wry grin, I gestured to the corner of the room, where a large cardboard box and rows of wooden and metal pieces had been laid out.
“What are you putting together?” Jack asked.
“A crib with a changing table attachment. I bought it at Rice Village the other day when I was out with Haven. Unfortunately, they charge a hundred bucks extra if you want it assembled, so I said I’d rather do it myself. The delivery guys brought this box of parts with some instructions, and so far I’m still trying to figure it out. I think it would be easier if I could read the manual. So far I’ve found the Japanese, French, and German pages, but nothing in English. Now I sort of wish I’d gone ahead and paid the extra hundred bucks.” Realizing I was chattering, I smiled and shrugged. “But I like a challenge.”
“Let’s go, Jack,” Sonya urged.
“Right.” But he didn’t move, just looked from me and Luke to the pile of crib parts. The odd moment of expectant silence caused my heart to lurch with an extra thud. His gaze returned to mine, and he gave me a brief nod that held an implicit promise: Later.
I didn’t want that. “You two go on,” I said brightly. “Have fun.”
Sonya smiled. “Bye.” Taking Jack’s arm, she tugged him from the apartment.
THREE HOURS LATER LUKE WATCHED FROM AN INFANT bouncy seat while I sat on the floor surrounded by crib parts. I was finished with dinner, which had consisted of spaghetti with tomato sauce, ground beef, and fresh basil. When the leftovers were cool, I was going to freeze them in individual-size portions.
Having grown tired of Mozart and the sock puppets, I had hooked up my iPod to the speakers. The air was filled with the raw, sexy purr of Etta James. “The thing that’s great about the blues,” I told Luke, pausing to sip from my glass of wine, “is that it’s about feeling, loving, wanting without the brakes on. No one’s brave enough to live that way. Except maybe musicians.”
I heard a knock at the door. “Who could that be? Did you invite someone without telling me?” Rising with my wineglass in hand, I padded barefoot to the apartment entrance. I was wearing a set of pajamas the color of pink cotton candy. I had taken out my contacts and put on my glasses. Standing on my toes, I looked through the peephole. My breath quickened as I saw the familiar outline of a man’s head.
“I’m not dressed for company,” I said through the door.
“Let me in anyway.”
I unlatched the door and opened it to reveal Jack Travis, now wearing jeans and a white shirt, holding a small canvas case that was frayed from heavy use. His gaze coursed slowly over me. “Got that crib put together yet?”
“Still working on it.” I tried to ignore the heavy pounding of my heart. “Where’s Sonya?”
“We had dinner. I just took her back home.”
“Already? Why didn’t you stay out later?”
He shrugged a little, staring at me. “Can I come in?”
I wanted to refuse him. I sensed there was something between us, something that required negotiation, compromise . . . but I wasn’t ready for it. I couldn’t think of a reason to keep him out. I took an uncertain step back. “What’s in the bag?”
“Tools.” Jack walked inside the apartment and closed the door. His movements seemed cautious, as if he were venturing into some new environment that might present hidden dangers. “Hey, Luke,” he murmured, lowering beside the baby. Gently he set the bouncy seat bobbing, and Luke gurgled and kicked enthusiastically. With his attention remaining on the baby, Jack said, “You’re listening to Etta James.”
I tried to sound flippant. “In assembly-required situations, I always play the blues. John Lee Hooker, Bonnie Raitt . . .”
“You ever listen to any of the Deep Ellum boys? Texas blues . . . Blind Lemon Jefferson, Leadbelly, T-Bone Walker?”
I was slow to respond, my attention snared by the way his shirt had tightened across his broad shoulders and powerful back. “I’ve heard of T-Bone Walker, but not the others.”
Jack glanced up at me. “Ever heard ‘See That My Grave Is Kept Clean’?”
“I thought that was a Bob Dylan song.”
“No, that was just a cover. It came from Blind Lemon. I’ll burn a CD for you—he’s not always easy to find.”
“I wouldn’t have thought a River Oaks boy would know so much about the blues.”
“Ella, darlin’ . . . the blues is all about a good man feelin’ bad. Plenty of that in River Oaks.”
It was crazy, how much I loved his voice. The baritone drawl seemed to reach inside and linger in impossible-to-reach places. I wanted to sit on the floor beside him and run my hand over the thick, efficiently short layers of his hair and let my fingers rest against the hard nape of his neck. Tell me everything, I would say. All about the blues, and the time your heart was broken, and what scares you the most, and the thing you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t yet.
“Something smells good,” he said.
“I made spaghetti earlier.”
“Is there any left?”
“You just went out to dinner.”
Jack looked aggrieved. “It was one of those fancy places. I got a piece of fish the size of a domino, and maybe a spoonful of risotto. I’m starving.”
I laughed at his pitiful expression. “I’ll fix you a plate.”
“While you do that, I’ll work on the crib.”
“Thanks. I laid out all the pieces according to the diagram, but without the directions in English—”
“No need for directions.” Jack glanced at the diagram briefly, tossed it aside, and began sorting through the painted wood pieces. “This is pretty straightforward.”
“Straightforward? Did you see how many different kinds of screws are in that plastic bag?”
“We’ll figure it out.” He opened the canvas bag and pulled out a cordless power drill.
I frowned. “Do you know that forty-seven percent of all hand injuries are caused by using power tools at home?”
Jack expertly inserted a drill bit into the chuck. “A lot of people get hurt getting their hand closed in the door, too. But that doesn’t mean you should stop using doors.”
“If Luke starts crying because of the noise,” I said sternly, “you’ll have to use a regular screwdriver.”
His brows lifted. “Doesn’t Dane use power tools?”
“Not usually. Except one summer when he helped build homes in New Orleans with Habitat for Humanity . . . and that was because he was three hundred and fifty miles away and I couldn’t reach him.”
A slight smile rose to his lips. “What’s your problem with electric drills, darlin’?”
“I don’t know. I’m not used to them, that’s all. They make me nervous. I didn’t grow up with a brother or a father who used stuff like that.”
“Well, you missed out on some important protocol, Ella. You can’t stand between a Texan and his power tools. We like them. Big ones that drain the national grid. We also like truck-stop breakfasts, large moving objects, Monday night football, and the missionary position. We don’t drink light beer, drive Smart Cars, or admit to knowing the names of more than about five or six colors. And we don’t wax our chests. Ever.” He hefted the drill. “Now let me do the guy stuff while you go to the kitchen. Trust me, it’s a perfect arrangement.”
“Luke’s going to cry,” I said darkly.
“No, he won’t. He’ll love it.”<
To my disgust Luke didn’t make a sound, watching contentedly as Jack built the crib. I heated a plate of spaghetti and sauce, and set a place for Jack at the kitchen island. “C’mon, Luke,” I said, picking up the baby and carrying him into the kitchen. “We’ll entertain Cro-Magnon while he has his dinner.”
Jack dug into the steaming pasta with gusto, making appreciative noises and finishing at least a third of it before coming up for air. “This is great. What else can you cook?”
“Just the basics. A few casseroles, pasta, stew. I can roast a chicken.”
“Can you do meat loaf?”
“Yep.”
“Marry me, Ella.”
I looked into his wicked dark eyes, and even though I knew he was joking, I felt a wild pulse inside, and my hands trembled. “Sure,” I said lightly. “Want some bread?”
After dinner, Jack was back on the floor, putting together the crib with a deftness born of vast experience. He was good with his hands, confident and capable. I had to admit, I enjoyed watching as he rolled up his sleeves over hair-dusted forearms and knelt in front of the wooden frame, his body athletic and superbly conditioned. I sat nearby with a glass of wine and handed screws to him. Every now and then he got close enough that I caught the scent of him, a sexual incense of male sweat and clean skin. He swore a couple of times as a couple of screws were stripped, the fluent profanity immediately followed by a beg-pardon.
Jack Travis was a novelty in my experience, an old-fashioned man’s man. None of the boys I had gone to college with had been anything more than that, just boys trying to figure out who they were and what their place in the world was. Dane and his friends were sensitive, environmentally aware guys who rode bikes and had Facebook accounts. I couldn’t imagine Jack Travis ever blogging or worrying about finding himself, and it was pretty certain that he didn’t give a damn about whether or not his clothes were sustainably produced.
“Jack,” I said thoughtfully, “do you think of women as equals?”
He fitted a support bar against the frame. “Yes.”
“Do you ever let a woman pay for dinner?”
“No.”
“Is that why the room-service meal wasn’t on my hotel bill?”
“I never let a woman pay for my food. I just said dinner was on you because I knew it was the only way you’d let me stay.”
“If you think of women as equals, why didn’t you let me buy you dinner?”
“Because I’m the man.”
“If you had a choice between hiring a man or a woman to manage one of your projects, but you knew the woman was childbearing age, would you choose the man over her?”
“No. I’d choose the best person.”
“If they were equal in every way . . . ?”
“I wouldn’t hold the potential for pregnancy against her.” Jack gave me a quizzical smile. “What are you trying to find out?”
“I’m wondering where to put you on the evolutionary scale.”
He tapped a screw into place. “How high have I gotten so far?”
“I haven’t decided yet. What’s your stand on political correctness?”
“I’m not against it. But a little goes a long way. Hold on a minute—” The drill whirred and screeched as Jack attached a frame bracket. He paused and looked up at me with an expectant grin. “What else?”
“What are you looking for in a woman?”
“Someone who’s loyal. Loving. Likes to spend time together, especially outdoors. And I sure wouldn’t mind if she hunts.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier with a Labrador retriever?” I asked.
It seemed to take Jack no time at all to finish the crib. I helped to hold the large sections together while he attached them and even added extra reinforcing. “I think a baby elephant could sleep in that crib without breaking it,” I said.
“Want it here or in the bedroom?” Jack asked.
“The bedroom’s so small, I’d rather keep it in here. Is that weird, having a crib in the main room?”
“Not at all. It’s Luke’s apartment, too.”
With Jack’s help, I moved the crib beside the sofa and put a sheet over the mattress. Gently, I lowered the drowsy baby into the crib and covered him with a blanket, and started a mobile playing overhead. Bears and honeypots circled slowly, accompanied by a gentle lullaby.
“Looks comfortable,” Jack whispered.
“Doesn’t it?” Seeing how cozy Luke was, how safe, I felt a rush of gratitude. The dark city was seething outside, scored with traffic, people swarming, drinking, dancing, while the ground slowly released the heat of the day. But we were tucked away in this cool, protected place, everything as it should be.
I needed to fill Luke’s bottles, and get ready for the night. We had a routine. I found something deeply comforting in the rituals of bath and bedtime.
“It’s been a long time since I was in the habit of taking care of a child,” I said, barely aware I was speaking aloud. My hand gripped the top of the crib rail. “Not since I was a child.”
For reply, Jack slid his hand over mine, engulfing it with warm pressure. Before I could look up at him, he let go and went to pack up his tools. Methodically, he dumped all the scraps of cardboard and plastic into the flat rectangular box the crib had come in. Lifting the box with one hand, he carried it to the door. “I’ll take this out for you.”
“Thank you.” Smiling, I went to see him out. “I appreciate this, Jack. Everything. I—”
The wine must have eradicated every last atom of common sense I possessed, because I reached up to give him a hug in the same way I would have done with Tom or one of Dane’s other friends. A buddy hug. But every nerve from head to toe screamed “Mistake!” as soon as the front of my body met his, adhering like wet cottonwood leaves.
Jack’s arms went around me, clasping me against a wall of muscle, and he was so big and warm, and it felt so scary-good that I stiffened all over. The hot drift of his breath against my cheek made my heartbeat go crazy, and instant arousal filled the space between every thump. I gasped, ducking away, my face crammed against his shoulder.
“Jack . . .” I could hardly speak. “I wasn’t making a pass at you.”
“I know.” One hand slid to the back of my head, fingers lacing through the silky-fine locks. Gripping gently, he guided me to look at him. “It’s not at all your fault that I’m taking it that way.”
“Jack, don’t—”
“I like these,” he murmured, touching the rectangular rim of my glasses, carefully grasping an earpiece. “A lot. But they’re in the way.”
“Of what?” I tensed as he pulled off my glasses and set them aside.
“Hold still, Ella.” And his head lowered.
ELEVEN
IF I’D BEEN THINKING RATIONALLY, I NEVER WOULD have allowed it. Jack’s mouth brushed slowly over mine before settling with gentle pressure. I moved against his unyielding weight until I found some perfect, unexpected alignment that sent heat jolting through me. My knees gave out, but it didn’t matter because he was holding me so securely. One of his hands came up to my jaw with extreme care.
Every time I tried to finish the kiss, he pressed harder, coaxing me to stay open, tasting slowly. This was so different from what I was accustomed to, it seemed like something other than kissing. I realized that my kisses with Dane had become a form of punctuation, the quotations or the hasty dash at the end of a conversation. This was softer, more urgent and relentless. Wild, fresh, tumbling kisses, eroding my balance. I groped Jack’s shoulders, my fingers curving over the hard nape of his neck.
He took a quick breath and reached down, his hand sliding over my pajama bottoms as he coaxed my hips high and tight. The full-on pressure of him was stunning, galvanic. He was unbelievably hard. Everywhere. He was in control, infinitely stronger, and he wanted me to know it.
He kissed me until the sensations flowed in directions I couldn’t go, spilling and sliding darkly. As I felt a desperate ache cambe
Shaking, I pushed at him and managed to turn my head long enough to gasp, “I can’t. No. That’s enough, Jack.”
He stopped at once. But he kept me against him, his chest moving hard and fast.
I couldn’t look at him. My voice was hoarse as I said, “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“I’ve wanted this since the first second I saw you.” His arms tightened, and he bent over me until his mouth was close to my ear. Gently he whispered, “You did, too.”
“I didn’t. I don’t.”
“You need some fun, Ella.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “Believe me, I don’t need fun, I need—” I broke off with a gasp as he pressed my hips closer to his. The feel of him was more than my dazzled senses could handle. To my mortification, I hitched up against him before I could stop myself, heat and instinct winning out over sanity.
Feeling the reflexive response, Jack smiled against my scarlet cheek. “You should take me on. I’d be good for you.”
“You are so full of yourself . . . and you would not be good for me, with your steaks and power tools and your attention-deficit libido, and . . . I’ll bet you’re a card-carrying member of the NRA. Admit it, you are.” I couldn’t seem to shut up. I was talking too much, breathing too fast, jittering like a wind-up toy that had been wound to the limits of its mechanism.
Jack nuzzled into a sensitive place behind my ear. “Why does that matter?”
“Is that a yes? It must be. God. It matters because—stop that. It matters because I would only go to bed with a man who respected me and my views. My—” I broke off with an inarticulate sound as he nibbled lightly at my skin.
“I respect you,” he murmured. “And your views. I think of you as an equal. I respect your brains, and all those big words you like to use. But I also want to rip your clothes off and have sex with you until you scream and cry and see God.” His mouth dragged gently along my throat. I jerked helplessly, muscles jolting with pleasure, and his hands gripped my hips, keeping me in place. “I’m gonna show you a good time, Ella. Starting with some take-no-prisoners sex. The kind when you can’t remember your own name after.”