“Put that bloody thing down. I can take care of whatever’s left tomorrow.”
She cocked the stool against her hip and eyed him with open mockery. “Look at you. Guilt oozing from every pore. You’re not going to start crying, are you? Because, frankly, that’s more than I could stomach.”
“I’ll attempt to keep my tears in check. Now, go to bed. I’ll write you a check in the morning.”
“Darn right you will. And you’re paying me double for overtime. But then two times zip is zip, right? God, you’re cheap. Maybe if you didn’t spend so much money on fancy perfume and Barbra Streisand records, you could pay me what I’m worth.”
“My dear, even I don’t have that much money.”
That stopped her cold. He had the satisfaction of seeing her blink, then frown, as she searched for the hidden insult. He pressed his advantage. “I know this will disappoint you, but tonight was the end of it. We’re even. I’ve officially been avenged for your teenage treachery.”
She rolled her eyes, back in the game. “Are you telling me that little bit of guilt is all it takes to make you tuck your tail between your legs? And you call yourself a man.”
He’d been reading too much Victorian erotica because he wanted to bend her over a chair and . . . do something quite nasty.
She settled on a stool at the counter and hooked a stockinged heel over the rung. “I guess I never told you about this.” She leaned her chin on the back of her hand in a parody of dreamy reminiscence. “The night I made up my lie about you . . . I cried real tears.”
“You don’t say.” She was hurting herself—he could feel it—but he didn’t know how to stop her. Besides, his days of attempting to rescue wounded women were behind him.
“See, I’d had an accident with my Camaro that day—stop signs still bring out the rebel in me—and I was afraid Daddy would take my car keys. So it wasn’t only the fact I hated your guts that made me lie.”
“It’s late, Sugar Beth, and you’re tired.”
“It was funnier than hell. The minute I told Diddie that you tried to feel me up, she forgot all about the dent in the side of that car, and so did Daddy. They didn’t even dock my allowance for the repairs. I still laugh thinkin’ about it.”
She didn’t look like laughing. She looked soul weary and worn out. He walked toward her. “You were a kid, and you’d been spoiled rotten. Stop being so hard on yourself.”
He should have known empathy would be a mistake because she came up off the stool hissing. “Aren’t you just all Christian charity? Compassion and forgiveness pourin’ out of you. Well, I don’t need your pity, Mr. Byrne. I don’t need—”
“That’s enough!” In one swift motion, he scooped her off her feet and carried her from the kitchen. He was done fighting with himself. All night it had been building up to this, and now he was taking her upstairs, dumping her in his bed, and making love with her until neither of them could think straight.
“Well, well, well . . .” She gazed up at him, all tired eyes and provocative drawl. “This is more like it, big guy.”
That stopped him cold.
“What’s the matter, your lordship? Having second thoughts?” She mocked him with her weary coquette’s pout. “Maybe you’re afraid you can’t get it up for a girl.”
Sex and sass were the only weapons she had left. He understood that, just as he understood his solicitude must feel like slow poison to those proud veins, and this was the only way she had left to pay him back.
He was a cynical man aroused beyond bearing, but he’d once had the spirit of a romantic, and somehow he found the willpower to ease her to her feet. Then, because he deserved something for his restraint, he kissed her deeply and thoroughly.
She responded like a temptress—full tongue, breathy moans, hips rubbing against his, all of it phony, designed to let him know what he could do with his pity. Even so, blood throbbed in his groin, and his body demanded more. He needed all of his self-control not to lose patience with her, but he kept his lips soft and coaxing, giving her time to work out her anger. Gradually, the writhing stopped, and her tongue retreated into her mouth. She curled soft and warm against him. He sipped at her lips. They tasted like velvet.
Sugar Beth felt the gentle pull of Colin’s mouth and knew he’d disarmed her, but she was too exhausted to struggle any longer. He was fully aroused, and it startled her to realize she was, too. Beneath her bone-deep weariness, her body had come to life.
He tasted of health and vigor, of the kind of male potency she’d nearly forgotten existed. His kiss deepened. She felt the ropey muscles, the tensile strength of his body. Her lips parted, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. She let her arms drift around his neck. He dallied and stroked. She heard herself sigh as he abandoned her mouth to pick her up again.
But instead of heading for the stairs, he carried her across the foyer, then shifted her in his arms so he could open the front door.
“This may very well be the hardest thing I’ve ever done”—he was clenching his teeth—“but when we make love—and believe me when I tell you we’re going to—it will be about pleasure, not some bloody contest to see who’s still standing at the end.”
It was cold outside. She rested her cheek against his shirtfront. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he carried her across the yard with Gordon leading the way.
“Furthermore,” he went on, “you will be rested. And”—he gripped her tighter—“sweet-tempered.”
“You had more to drink than I thought.” She yawned and closed her eyes. “Go ahead and admit it. You’re afraid of me.”
“Terrified is more like it.”
She burrowed deeper into his chest. “I’m a handful, all right.”
“My worst nightmare.”
The carriage house door stuck, and he had to put her down to open it. Once he got her inside, he kissed her again, but just the lightest brush of his lips, as if he didn’t trust himself to do more. That was when she realized he wasn’t fooling about leaving. She didn’t want him to, but she couldn’t come up with a way to tell him she was lonely, lost, and needed him to stay.
“You have no idea what this is costing me,” he said as he headed for the door, “so don’t expect me to be pleasant when I come to see you in the morning.”
“Who said you were invited?”
“Who said I need an invitation?”
This time when he left, he took her dog with him.
She barely dragged herself upstairs. She dropped her clothes in a heap and somehow managed to brush her teeth, but summoning the energy to sort through her jumbled feelings was too much to ask, and she fell into bed.
Just as she drifted off to sleep, she heard them.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”
At first, she thought she was dreaming, but as she rolled to her back, their calls grew louder.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar Pie . . .”
Cubby Bowmar and his drunken friends were out front, baying for her just like in high school.
You’re going to be a woman for the ages, Diddie had said.
Sugar Beth pulled the pillow over her head and went to sleep.
Winnie awakened to the sound of Ryan showering. Not long after, she heard him rousing Gigi for Sunday school along with her predictable protest.
“I was suspended, Dad. Remember?”
“Not from church.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“She isn’t feeling well.”
“Me either.”
“Get dressed.”
Winnie drifted. She caught the faint scent of coffee . . . dishes clattering in the kitchen . . . a door slamming . . . a car driving away . . . the world going on without her. Finally, she roused herself enough to get out of bed.
She stepped over the black teddy she’d shed last night in favor of an old T-shirt of Ryan’s and a pair of pink sweatpants she’d stashed in the closet for the church collection box. She made her way to the bathroom and managed to brush her teeth, but a shower was beyond her. She gazed at herself in the mirror: puffy-eyed, pasty-faced, hair smashed to one side of her head. Her life was unraveling like the seat of the pink sweatpants, one thread at a time.