"To brood?"
"No, because melancholia is exhausting."
He smiled crookedly. "Personally I think there are a lot of sins far more wicked than self-pity.
Want me to enumerate a few I've engaged in, just so you'll feel better?"
"Thank you, no. I'll pass."
He pressed her shoulders between his hands and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "Say your prayers. And close your door so the typewriter won't bother you."
"It doesn't bother me."
She stood looking up at him, feeling lost and lonely. She wished for something. For what exactly, she wasn't sure. For starters she wished that his good-night kiss had been placed on her mouth rather than her forehead. She wished it had been deep and lingering instead of light and quick. She wished his caress hadn't been so fraternal and that he hadn't removed his hands from her shoulders so soon.
She was seized by a strange and powerful yearning that she couldn't put a name to. It was silent and internal, but as strong and overwhelming as a waterfall. She longed to rest her cheek against Judd's chest and feel the safe sanctuary of his arms closing around her. She wanted to hear his husky voice whispering encouragement into her ear, even if all he gave her were platitudes.
Before she submitted to the impulses tugging at-her, she needed to put space between herself and Judd. He might mistake her unnamed need for weakness. "Goodnight."
"G'night, Stevie."
She couldn't sleep. The day had been cloudy and muggy. Ordinarily her room was cool enough, thanks to the droning oscillating fan that stirred the evening air. She hadn't missed air conditioning a bit. Indeed, she liked watching the sheer curtains on the open windows billow and float on the breeze.
But tonight the curtains were hanging limply in the windows. There was no breeze. Even if the curtains had been doing their entrancing dance, she doubted it could have lulled her to sleep. She was restless. Her body needed sleep, but her mind wouldn't cooperate and let it come.
Suddenly it occurred to her why she couldn't sleep. Judd's typewriter wasn't clacking. Contrary to what he thought, the sound of its metallic tapping didn't keep her awake when he worked well into the early morning hours. It had become a reassuring sound, an indication that for once she wasn't spending the night alone in an otherwise empty house.
Throwing off the light muslin sheet, she padded over to her bedroom door, which was always kept open to allow the air to circulate through the house-a lesson she had learned from Judd, one which he remembered from spending summers on the farm with his grandparents when he was a boy. She listened. Nothing.
A quick peek into his bedroom revealed that he hadn't gone to bed yet. She moved to the head of the staircase and looked down. The light was burning in the dining room. He was still up, probably just taking a break. But she waited for several minutes, and he didn't resume typing.
Curious, and somewhat worried, she crept down the stairs and silently approached the dining room.
She caught him deep in thought. His pose was what she considered to be very "authoresque."
He sat, staring at the page in his typewriter, his hands folded over his mouth, elbows propped on the card table.
The sleeves of his white T-shirt had been cut out, though it looked more like they'd been chewed out. The armholes were ragged. He was wearing a pair of navy blue shorts.
His hair looked as though it had been combed with the yard rake she used in the flower beds around the house. One damp, dark lock had fallen over his brow. His feet, in laceless tennis shoes, were resting on the lowest rung of the straight chair. His spine was bowed.
Not wanting to disturb him, she backed away and turned toward the stairs without making a single sound.
"Stevie?"
She came up short and stepped back into the light of the open archway. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to distract you."
"Obviously you didn't."
"The muses aren't being kind tonight?"
"Those bitches." With his hair falling across his forehead, his face shadowed from above by the lamp on the table and below by his sprouting beard, he epitomized disreputability.
He looked temperamental and dangerous and… gorgeous. Something deep inside Stevie stirred and stretched, like a seed that had been planted in fertile soil and was now on the brink of germination.
"Why aren't you asleep?" He took a slurp of coffee she knew must be stone cold.
"I don't know." She lifted her hands awkwardly, then let them drop back to her sides. "I think I missed the sound of the typewriter. And the humidity is oppressive. As long as I'm up, I'll be glad to make some fresh coffee."
"No thanks. I've had enough." He looked her up and down. "You okay?"
"Yes."
"No problems?"
"No."
"I don't believe you. If you were okay, you'd be asleep."
She came farther into the room. Her nightgown had been one of the purchases she'd made in the dry goods store. It was sleeveless, had a tucked-and-pleated lace-trimmed bodice, and was modest enough for a nun. Although a nun probably wouldn't have worn a nightgown made of cotton that was so soft and sheer that light could shine through it.
Unaware that her body was silhouetted against the fabric, she extended her arms at her sides.
"See? I'm fine."
"Well, I'm not," he muttered grouchily. "Sit down and keep me company for a while."
She glanced around. "There's no place to sit."
"Sure there is." He swiveled his legs from beneath the table, reached for her hand and pulled her onto his lap.
She felt his bare thighs against the backs of hers. The contrast was so thrilling she uttered a soft cry. "Judd!"
Nuzzling her neck, he snarled, "Did I ever tell you that white cotton nighties make me as horny as hell?"
"No!"
"Well, they don't. I just wondered if I ever told you that."
"Oh, you!" she remonstrated, giving his shoulder a push.
Chuckling, he raised his head, but loosely linked his hands around her waist. His eyes moved over her. "I couldn't seduce you now even if you'd let me.
"Why?"
"Because you look about twelve-years-old, that's why. With your hair down and wearing your sweet, prim nightie."
Smiling, he ran his index finger down the row of tiny buttons until it came up against a neatly tied satin bow between her breasts. By then, he was no longer smiling. He lifted his eyes to hers.
Their gaze melded.
Stevie's pulse was pounding in her ears. He had already teased her once about her rapidly beating heart, and she wondered if he could feel it now. She could scarcely breathe.
Before things got out of hand, she had to bring the subject back around to his writing. "Is it terribly hard?"
"It's getting there," re replied roughly "How long will it be?"
"Long enough, baby.
"What's it about?"
"Huh?" 'It's getting there," he replied roughly.
'How long will it be?'
'Long enough, baby."
What's it about?"
"Huh?"
"Your book."
"Book? Oh, my book. We're talking about my book."
He dropped his head forward and blew out a pent-up breath. For several moments he breathed deeply with his eyes shut. When he raised his head again, there were lines of strain around his mouth.
"'Book' is a polite euphemism for 'pile of crap.'" He nodded toward the pages turned facedown on the table.
"I'll bet it's not crap at all. You've been working so diligently, it can't be all bad."
"Hopefully not." He took her hand in his and studied it. Turning it palm up, he ran his thumb across the calluses left by her tennis racquet. His touch was a further aggravation to her already chaotic system and increased her awareness of the warmth emanating from his lap up through her thighs.
Hastily she withdrew her hand and made to stand. His arms tightened around her. "Where are you going?"