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Alice gave Ben a grateful smile. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the guests.”
As Ben left, Emily wondered why he was here on a Wednesday, so early in the evening. Shrugging, she rolled up her sleeves. “What can I do?”
Alice surveyed the kitchen. “Might as well start in here. Then we can see about the damage in the dining room.”
They began by tossing the trashed food into barrels, and went on to clean up appliances and countertops. They were about half finished when they heard banging in the dining room. “Oh, dear,” one of the volunteers said. “Do you think the vandals are back?”
Everybody in the kitchen stood still. Finally, Jimmy crept to the swinging doors, cracked one and peeked through. Smiling, he pushed the door all the way open. “Way to go Ben,” he called out.
There were about a dozen men straightening tables and righting chairs. Emily scanned the dining hall where graffiti had been scrawled on walls in ugly black lettering: epithets, four-letter words, boasts including I Am the King!
In an hour, both rooms were set to order. Ben entered the kitchen just as they finished mopping the floor. “Alice, got a sec?”
“Sure, Ben, for you.”
When she returned a few minutes later, she was grinning like a proud grandma. “He’s got a crew organized to stay tomorrow night and paint after we serve dinner.”
“How sweet,” Emily said. “I’m going to go thank them all.” But when she hurried into the dining room, Ben was gone.
The next night, Emily shared a quick meal with her father, and though it wasn’t one of her regular shifts to volunteer, she changed into old jeans spattered with paint, a T-shirt she’d bought on a trip to Italy, which read Ciao, Bella, and ancient tennis shoes. She arrived at Cassidy Place just after the painting had begun.
Standing in the doorway, she watched Ben direct the cleanup as if he’d been leading men all his life, as if he had experience being in charge. As she reached him, she noticed he wore low-riding jeans, a black T-shirt and battered sneakers, but he might as well have been dressed in a thousand-dollar suit for his commanding presence. “Hi. What can I do?”
He obviously hadn’t seen her come in. His smile was brilliant—for a moment—then the Mr. Leave-Me-Alone mask fell into place. “You don’t volunteer on Thursdays.”
“Not normally. But I knew you were painting so I came to help.”
He eyed her outfit. “I see you’ve had some experience.”
“Yep. Put me to work.”
“Alice and Pat can use help over in the entryway.” He handed her a paintbrush. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
His whimsy warmed her as much as his grin—as much as his uncensored reaction to the puppies. Given a different situation, this man would enjoy life. He probably had at one time. More than ever, she wished she knew his background.
There were nearly two dozen workers, so it only took a few hours to give the dining hall a couple of coats of paint. By the time they finished, Emily’s shoulders ached. But her heart was full. Humming softly, she cleaned her brush. When she finished, she looked for Alice, who was talking to Ben near the kitchen.
“The place needed a new coat of paint anyway. Looks good, don’t you think, Alice?” There was pride in Ben’s voice.
“Yep. Don’t guess it had been painted since Cassidy Industries did it years ago.”
“No, it hadn’t been.”
Alice focused her shrewd gaze on him. “How do you know that?”
Flushed, Ben caught sight of Emily. “Well, looks like we’re all cleaned up. I’ll be going.” He scanned the room. “Jimmy seeing you to your cars?”
Alice nodded. “Uh-huh.”
When he started to walk away, Emily said, “Ben, wait. Let us give you a lift home.”
“No thanks,” he called over his shoulder. “See you Monday.”
She frowned after him. “He shouldn’t have to walk home after doing this for us.”
Squeezing her shoulder, Alice said, “Watch it girl, you’re playing with fire.”
Alice’s words echoed in Emily’s head as she climbed into her car, waved Jimmy off and drove out of the parking lot. Damn Ben. He could at least accept a ride as payment for his help. Annoyed by his foolish pride, she cruised the few blocks near the soup kitchen. Hell, she was thirty-four years old and she could drive downtown if she wanted.
Ten minutes later she was about to give up when she spotted him, stopped for a light at Andrews Street. Emily was touched by the loneliness of the figure, silhouetted in the streetlight. His head was down, his shoulders slumped and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. As she swerved to the curb beside him, he glanced toward her car and did a double take. For a moment, he stood still. Then he stalked to the Taurus. Given his now-rigid stance, she had a fleeting thought that maybe coming after him wasn’t such a good idea.
BEN WAITED FOR THE LOCKS to click—at least she’d taken that precaution—then yanked open the door. He slid in, relocked the car from the passenger side and counted to ten. Then he switched off the engine and grabbed her shoulders. “Damn it, Emily. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Wide-eyed, she trembled in his arms. “Looking for you.”
“Down here? At this hour of the night?”
“If it’s that dangerous, you shouldn’t be walking about alone, either.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“So can I.”
“Princess, you don’t have a clue.” He wanted to shake her and kiss her at the same time. The scent of her hung delicately in the car, and her slender form, under his hands, felt good. Damn, he wouldn’t do this. He saw her wince when his grip tightened. Immediately he gentled his hold, but didn’t let go.
“Why are you treating me this way?” she asked, her voice throaty. “I was just trying to do something nice for you. Like you did tonight for Cassidy Place with the cleanup and painting. Like you routinely do for everybody there.”
“You’re always trying to do something nice for me. What does a guy have to do to discourage you?”
She sucked in a breath and, in the moonlight, he could see moisture well in those huge eyes. “I—I didn’t know I was…” A few renegade drops trickled down her cheeks. She sniffled. “Let me go. I get the point. I didn’t realize…” Her words trailed off in sob.
“Aw, shit,” he said and drew her to him.
She cuddled into him like she was meant to be there, which she wasn’t. She grasped his shirt and buried her nose in his chest. His hand creeping to her hair, he pulled out the tie and tunneled through the heavy mass. Its flowery scent wafted up to him and he breathed her in.
“I’m sorry I made you cry. Please, Emily, stop.”
“Okay,” she mumbled. Then, after a moment, she added, “I’m embarrassed.”
“Why?”
She shook her head, her face hidden in the folds of his shirt.
He set her away so he could look at her. The bright streetlights, combined with the glow from the sliver of moon overhead, gave him a glimpse of her blotchy skin and eyes, red-rimmed. “Why are you embarrassed?”
“Paul said I didn’t know men. Didn’t know how to read them, please them,” she choked out. “I didn’t mean to impose myself on you.”
His body, taut as a wire, tightened impossibly more. “Paul’s your ex, right?”
She straightened her shoulders and nodded. “Leave me some dignity, Ben. I won’t bother you anymore.”
He couldn’t let the comment go. “Listen, lady, and listen good. Paul is an idiot. First off, to let a perfect woman like you go, and second, for filling your head with that nonsense about you and men.”
He could tell she didn’t believe him. “That’s nice of you to say, but you’re just being polite.”
Polite? Holy hell, his body was about to combust from wanting her and she thought he was being polite. It was all too much. He lowered his mouth to hers. She started and he thought she might pull away.
Then she melted into him. Her body seemed to liquefy as she inched closer. Once Ben had her in his arms, rational thought fled. He was steeped in the feel and scent of her. Easing back into the seat, he tugged her onto his lap. She went willingly. His hand slid to her waist as his lips moved over hers. She responded in kind—opened her mouth and touched her tongue with his. He tasted her as deeply as he could. He caressed her breast; she was full and heavy in his hand. She moaned, and so did he. The kiss, the embrace, got hotter, deeper. A horn beeping and a screech of tires down the road shocked him back to conscious thought. Because he was afraid he might take her right there on Andrews Street in the front seat of her car, because he was afraid she might let him, he tore his mouth away.
“Sweetheart, we have to stop.”
“No.” She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder.
“Emily, please. You’re killing me.”
Slowly she drew back and looked at him, owl-eyed. “Really?”
He grinned and tucked her tousled hair behind her ear. “Really. Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
She smiled Jezebel’s smile and shifted on his lap. “Hmm. Some idea.”
“We have to stop,” he repeated.
“No.” The word was forceful, reminding him she could be a tough cookie when needed. He’d witnessed it at the soup kitchen. “Come home with me, Ben. Make love to me there.”
His jaw dropped open. He started to object, but months of loneliness silenced him. She was offering him a night’s respite from everything that had happened in the past two years.
FOR THE ELEVEN MONTHS he’d been frequenting the soup kitchen, Ben had tried hard to keep from getting to this place. Emotionally and physically. Emily’s bedroom was painted a pale peach and filled with finely crafted oak furniture. Impressionist prints decorated the walls and a thick peach-and-blue flowered rug covered most of the plank-wood floor. As Ben waited for Emily to come out of the bathroom, he sank onto her queen-size bed.
Problem was, it felt natural. It felt right to be here. Still, if he was a truly good man, he’d get up and leave before she came out of the bathroom. But he wasn’t going to do that because he was no longer the man he used to be. Lammon Mackenzie had seen to that. Instead, Ben unbuttoned his shirt, slid it and his T-shirt off and removed his boots and socks. He’d just gotten the snap of his jeans undone when the bathroom door opened.
Moonlight streamed into the bedroom through slatted blinds, catching Emily in its silvery net. She’d switched on a dresser lamp, and her hair shimmered in the light. Moved by her ethereal beauty, he swallowed hard and stood. Only inches away, she waited. She’d put on a sea-green little slip of a thing with barely there straps. He leaned down and kissed a strap. Her skin was so silky it made his body snap from hungry to voracious. He fisted his hands to gain control.
She didn’t help—running her fingers up his chest, licking his nipples. He manacled her wrists to stop her. Instead of devouring her, he planned to taste, to relish, to enjoy with epicurean delight, but his body was thrumming with need and he had to pace himself. When she raised her head, her eyes were wide and luminous.
“Do you have any idea how much I want this?” he whispered softly.
A blush crept up from the scoop of the silk to her neck. “I do, too.”
“You are so lovely.” His fingers slid from her shoulder to elbow, raising her gooseflesh.
“I want to be, for you.”
He lowered his head, starved for this kind of contact, for her. Pushing aside the strap, tugging on the top of the gown, he exposed a generous swell of her breast. Then a nipple. He closed his mouth over it. She started before letting out a soft moan. He suckled, fed on her body, let it nourish his soul. Soon though, he became greedy. Less gently, he pulled off the other strap, gave a yank so that she stood there naked, bathed in soft light like a Degas painting.
He forced himself to go slowly, to savor the experience. To that end, he brushed his lips down her throat, over her chest. Kneeling, he tantalized the silken skin of her abdomen. He felt her shiver, tremble with desire, so he linked his hands with hers and continued his slow exploration of the most beautiful female body he’d ever seen.
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