He deserved it, didn't he? Hell, he had given up two weeks' pay on her account, not to mention an outstanding story that would have earned him untold income. If his car got repossessed it would be her fault.
He had been hospitable, providing her safe refuge and fresh country air, meanwhile banishing himself from his own life and all the pleasures it afforded him, namely booze and broads.
She had cost him time, trouble and money.
Was it asking too much for one roll in the hay?
But the Judd Mackie who knew that one roll in the hay with this particular woman would never be enough and who had promised that her secret was safe, forced him to turn and head for the dining room and the waiting typewriter.
Being honorable was new to him. He was bound to suffer a few growing pains, but figured that if he had any character at all, he could endure a few disappointments.
Slightly more than a "disappointment," his wicked side mocked. It cruelly reminded him how much he wanted her sexually by flashing him a mental image of her breasts, flushed and dewy from his mouth's caress.
Look, he argued with his darker self, I've never had to coerce any woman into bed with me and damned if I'm going to start with Stevie Corbett. Besides, I'm going to be so immersed in my book, I won't have time to think without sex.
To which his tormentor cackled, Tell that to your glands, baby.
It rained steadily for two days, forty-eight interminable hours during which they had to tolerate the weather that kept them indoors, each other's fractious mood, the specter of their thwarted lovemaking-which each wanted to diminish in importance but neither could-and the desire that was as tenacious as the inclement weather.
During mealtimes they hardly spoke because when they did the conversations invariably resulted in arguments. To while away one long afternoon, Stevie drove into town and bought the foods necessary to prepare a special dinner, one that would showcase all her epicurean skills.
That turned out to be the evening Judd chose to write through dinner without taking a break.
He asked her to bring him a tray in the dining room. After she had spent hours in the kitchen preparing the sumptuous meal, his simple request was tantamount to a declaration of war.
She told him from the arched doorway that he could fix his own damn dinner tray and then go straight to hell.
They had another argument over the bathroom.
"Please don't leave damp towels on the floor," she said snippily.
"I wouldn't have to if you didn't hang every garment you own on the towel racks and curtain rod." He swatted at the damp lingerie dangling over the tub.
"Where am I supposed to hang them up to dry in weather like this?"
"Ever heard of a clothes dryer?"
"I can't dry my underwear in a clothes dryer."
Her incredulous comeback seemed to make no sense to him whatsoever. With a snarl and a curse, he stamped from the bathroom.
"It wouldn't hurt you to shave, you know," she called after him.
"What difference does it make to you?"
So it went until, finally, around noon of the third day, the rain stopped. An hour later the sun came out. Steam rose off the puddles in the yard, making the atmosphere as humid as a South Seas island.
Stevie ventured outside first to inspect her battered flower beds. The new plants lay in the mud, but she was confident that a few hours of sunshine would revive them.
"Are they on the critical list?"
Judd ambled out onto the porch. He was wearing his standard wardrobe-shorts. The only variation from day to day was the color of them. He no longer seemed to have any self-consciousness about his scarred leg. Most of the time he went without a shirt and shoes. Clasping his hands together, he turned them inside out and raised them high over his head in an expansive stretch.
"They'll make it, I think," Stevie said, averting her eyes from the fine line of dark hair that arrowed into his waistband.
"I think I've grown bunions on my backside from sitting so long." He lowered his arms to absently rub that particular part of his splendid anatomy. "Want to play some tennis this afternoon?"
No suggestion had ever sounded so good. She desperately needed a hard, pounding match to work off her frustration. Maybe then she wouldn't feel as though her skin were shrinking around her, making everything inside her body feel tight and constricted.
"By all means," she told him. "Just say when."
"When. As soon as we get into the proper duds."
"And as soon as you shave."
He rubbed his bearded jaw. "You drive a hard bargain, lady." She stood her ground. Chuckling, he conceded. "Okay, okay, I'll shave."
"Fifteen, forty."
Bouncing the ball in preparation for her next serve, Stevie muttered, "I know the score."
"Sorry," Judd said, cupping his ear, "I didn't catch that."
Raising her voice, she repeated, "I said I know the score, thank you."
"You're welcome."
Gnashing her teeth, Stevie executed her toss and caught the descending ball at just the right angle, putting exactly the right amount of spin on it. Judd shouldn't have been able to return it.
He did. Easily. And because she hadn't expected him to, she was caught falling down on the job. She didn't make it to the corner of the court in time and missed the return by a mile.
"My game," he said cheerfully. "That makes it five to four, my serve. And we switch courts."
"I know the rules, Mackie."
She wrenched the top off the water thermos they'd brought along and tilted it to her lips. He had won the first set. She had barely taken the second in a tiebreaker. With this game, he could win the match. The possibility was untenable.
He was a smug, gloating winner who was enjoying rubbing her nose in her defeat. Oh, he was doing it sweetly, but she was suspicious of that guileless grin, which many times during the course of the match she'd wanted to slap off his recently shaven face.
She mopped her face with a towel and dried off the handle of her racquet before walking back onto the court.
"We're in no hurry," he said to her from the baseline, where he'd been practicing his toss. "If you need more rest time, feel free to take it."
Gritting her teeth, she said, "Just play.
"Okay.
He lobbed the ball like a rank amateur, so that his serve was high and had the hang time of a well-executed football punt. It bounced high.
Stevie had to back up almost to the fence and that destroyed the timing of her forehand swing.
Her return went straight into the net.
"Fifteen, love," Judd chortled.
'Stevie threw down her racquet. "What the hell was that?"
"That was a missed shot."
She saw red. "I mean your serve, Mackie."
"What?" He spread his arms wide, all innocence.
"You seemed a little tired today, off your game. I thought I'd make it easier for you."
"Don't do me any favors, alright?"
"Alright." Then beneath his breath, but loud enough for her to hear, he muttered, "Geez, and I thought McEnroe was temperamental when his game went to crap.''
Stevie tried to ignore him and her own mounting rage, knowing well that it was counterproductive and self-defeating, His serve came in low and hard on her backhand side. She returned it.
They enjoyed a rally, but Stevie ended up with the point when her well-aimed overhead bounced directly in front of his feet.
"Fifteen all," she said with a sweet smile.
"Good shot."
"Thanks."