The Wild Side Page 13

  “You see?” She waved her arm in a frantic arc, breath heaving in dry sobs. “This is what you wanted so much. This anger, and all this hurting between us. You think this is better?”

  He nodded slowly, pulling himself out of his strange despair. “Yes. I think it’s better.”

  “Well I hate it. It’s ugly and painful.”

  He leaned toward her, willing her to accept and understand. “Because it’s real. This is what life feels like sometimes, Rose. You talk about not cheating yourself out of your mother, while all along you’re cheating yourself out of you.”

  She drew in a sharp breath, then burst into bitter laughter; her expression changed to one of contempt that would have chilled him except for the anguished confusion behind it.

  “I don’t need to learn what my life feels like from you, Michael Slater. You’re not my Master, I’m not your ‘Little Grasshopper.’ You’re just another man. And frankly, I am sick to death of men.” She turned, wrenched open the door and disappeared out into the woods, bounding between the trees like a frightened deer.

  Slate lunged to the door, then stopped, hands spread against the jamb, watching her disappear. He’d gone too far. Pushed her beyond anywhere he had a right to push her. If he followed right now he’d lose her.

  He turned back into the house, feeling like middle age had gotten a jump start on his thirty-three years. Rose had to do this alone. Make a decision out there in the woods and come back, either open and free or shut away from him permanently.

  All he had to do—all he could do, damn it—was wait.

  ROSE SPRINTED DOWN the long-unused road in the woods behind Slate’s house, pushing her body to its limit. Her feet pounded on the hard pebbled tracks or sank into patches of moss. Cobwebs collected on her face, stuck by invisible threads that resisted her clawing attempts to remove them. She couldn’t stop. Her lungs protested, muscles ached, breath came in raspy gasps. Her foot twisted on an exposed root; pain shot through her ankle. Don’t stop. Can’t stop. She hopped a few steps until the pain eased and she could run on.

  To the left. A path to the shore. Rose veered off and followed it, slowing to push past overgrown, scratchy spruces, her panting half sobs absorbed into the indifference of the forest. She burst into a tiny clearing, thick with sprouting alders, blackberries and cheerful red bunchberries nestling up to fallen trees.

  She ran on toward the shore. She needed to escape the confinement of the woods and the cabin and Slate’s demands; needed to embrace the wide-open vista of the sea.

  He wanted too much from her. Too much. She scrambled down a steep eroding bank, sending an avalanche of dirt and pebbles down around her. He wanted everything, promised nothing. Thought he could pry her open like an old tin can to see if what he found inside was worth the trouble. She stumbled over the unstable rocks to the edge of the water and stood looking out, heaving air into her lungs, fighting the tears that would show weakness she didn’t want even the gulls and the waves to see.

  He was driving her crazy. Crazy with anger, crazy with longing. She was crazy tempted by everything about him. His eyes, his body, his gentleness, his quiet determination to get from her what he thought was best. He was the most seductive man she’d ever known, because everything about him shouted safety, trust, integrity. A guy you brought home to Mom and then stayed up all night with, doing things Mom never dreamed of.

  Even from the depth of his own hurt and grief—grief for his mother, hurt Rose had inflicted—he’d pulled himself out to encourage her, to put her ahead of himself, to fight for who he believed she was.

  Why wouldn’t he leave her alone?

  Tears came in a horrible blinding rush, contorted her mouth into a mask-of-tragedy grimace. What if she couldn’t be what he wanted? What if what he saw in her wasn’t even there?

  “Why won’t he leave me alone?” She cried the words out into the bay. A flock of cormorants bobbing in the water lifted off in panic. Her sobs mixed with hysterical laughter. God, what a picture she must make. Dusty and dirty, running nose, dripping makeup, not sure if she was laughing or crying…

  The son of a bitch. He did this to her. Shattered her calm, her composure, her control. The first man who ever could. The son of a bitch.

  On impulse she picked up a small rock, hurled it into the water and watched it land with a satisfying splash. Son of a bitch. She picked up another, and another larger one, hurled them farther, faster, kept up a steady stream until she was laughing, panting, swearing, calling him every name she could think of. Splash after splash until her arms ached, her hands and forearms bled from barnacle scratches, and sweat joined the dust and tears to stain her face.

  Finally a rock so big she could barely lift it. She tottered to a nearby ledge, stumbled, nearly slipped, hoisted it, muscles straining, bellowed out a war cry and let it fall with a tch-thunk that pulled all her anger down with it. Swallowed into the green icy water in a fizzy rush of bubbles.

  She backed up shakily, caught her foot on a rock and sat down hard. A far-off gull indulged in wild maniacal squawking. The ocean smoothed over after her assault on its surface. Cormorants returned and settled huffily back into place. The breeze stilled to an occasional whisper.

  The son of a bitch. She was crazy about him.

  A lone bird soared across the sky, heading toward its nest on Jonas island. Rose shaded her eyes and peered out to watch it, no more than a flapping black blob above the horizon. They mate for life. One male, one female…for their whole adult lives.

  Rose let her head fall back, managed a long, calming breath. Falling in love was supposed to be that simple. Full of natural joy and blushing acceptance. Not this twisted agony of fear and mistrust.

  She stood, muscles in her legs and arms trembling, and picked her way carefully back to the bank, scrambled up, loosening more dirt to add to the layer already on her clothes and skin. She pushed her way through the trees, back to the road, and trudged on in the same direction she’d been running in. Sooner or later she’d go back and face him. But not now, not yet. Not until she managed to make sense of all the emotions, all the factors, all the risks.

  Another path led off the road up a small mossy hill, up to his family’s well. She followed it slowly, grunting as she struggled up a ledge, her body as beaten and weary as her mind. Somewhere along this path was an old hand pump, still hooked up, but hardly used since gasoline motors had replaced it. Slate’s parents had left the old-fashioned version in place for emergencies and sentimental reasons.

  One more scramble up, around a cluster of birches, and the pump came into view in a small clearing, freshly painted black, mounted on a gray wooden platform as if it were a shrine. Rose stepped up carefully and caught hold of the handle. Up. Down. The metal screeched in protest, but resistance told her water would come soon. Up. Down. She slapped at a mosquito, then another, attracted by her sweat and heat. Up. Down. Up. Down. Then a clear stream of water. She put a hand under it and laughed out loud. Cold. Clear. From the earth.

  Up. Down. She filled her hand, splashed it up on her face. Up. Down. Up. Down. The stream was stronger now, more constant. She put her whole head under, scrubbed at her face with her free hand, gasping at the icy cold, and laughed again.

  Water dripped down into the collar of her shirt. She stood and stared at the pump. Her head felt clean and cool, her body stained and hot.

  The urge came on her quick and frantic; her fingers flew to the buttons of her sweater. She tore it off, kicked it away, feverishly unbuttoned her shirt and flung it to rest on the grass and moss. Unhooked her bra, sent it spinning; shed the rest of her clothes and took hold of the pump handle again.

  The cold water took her breath away. She gasped and shivered, gave a little scream and ducked under again, rubbing her body to take away the sweat and dirt, the blood from her arms. Then stood under the water and let it flow over her shoulders, her breasts, her back, her legs until she felt clean and light and glowing from the cold.

  She rinsed her
clothes next, laid them to dry on a rock in the strong sunshine, and stretched out beside them on the moss. The clear air warmed her, dried her, caressed her. She let herself think again of Slate. One male, one female…for their whole adult lives. What was it about him that made that sound so noble, so idyllic, so tempting? Was it just the spell of this amazing place? The spell of that amazing man that made her life in Boston—her cherished, man-littered life—seem so inadequate, so artificial?

  One male. One female. Was that what he wanted from her? Could she risk finding out if she could give him that much? What if, after all this, she wasn’t what he wanted at all? Stripped of her makeup, her charms, her mystery…what was left? After you gave yourself to someone so completely, what the hell was left?

  The sun beat down on her skin, warmed her, made her feel alive and whole and safe here in the woods. She thought again of Slate, how he’d held her that night in her bed, as if she were his precious child. How he’d kissed her, standing down on the rocks, as if she were his ultimate fantasy of woman. How he’d looked to her with pleading eyes that morning, as if she could fix everything wrong in his world if she’d only try.

  She lay there as her clothes dried and the morning turned into afternoon, then finally sat up, stood, feeling clean and clear and slightly sunburned. Clean and clear as the sweet air around her, cleaner and clearer than she’d ever felt in her life.

  And she decided. Stood up, got dressed in her still-damp, wrinkly clothes with hands that shook, and walked back through the sunlit trees and leaf-strewn boulders to the house where she knew he waited.

  SLATE EMERGED from the shower for the second time in four hours, towel wrapped around his hips, muscles protesting every movement. He’d spent the morning clearing brush, cutting down dead trees, digging out alders and chopping firewood at a frenzied, vengeful pace, one eye always to the woods, to the path, watching for Rose. Then he’d stopped, showered, eaten a few bites of what was supposed to be lunch, sat on the porch for a good six or seven seconds, picked up the chainsaw again and worked himself until he was coated once more with sweat, sap and sawdust.

  Where the hell was she? He knew she needed time, space and whatever else to work through her feelings about him and about herself. But was the decision that hard? After so many hours had she decided he wasn’t worth the risk?

  Had she been turned off by his admittedly heavy-handed attempt to get through to her? Could she not see past his clumsy attempts to the honest depth of feeling that drove them?

  Or was she not even making a decision? Maybe he’d read the entire situation wrong. Maybe she’d hitchhiked back to Boston to find another man who wouldn’t ask so much. Maybe he hadn’t gotten to her as deeply as he imagined—or maybe she’d been more afraid than he knew.

  Maybe she’d meant what she said about being sick of men. Maybe she’d become a nun. Or a lesbian.

  Maybe she’d gotten lost in the woods. Maybe she’d fallen and she couldn’t get up…

  Slate rolled his eyes and shut off his rattling brain. A mess. He was a god-awful jittery mess who’d cut enough firewood to last about seven years. If she didn’t come back soon there’d be no forest left. Just piles of neatly cut logs, crushing the ferns and grasses underneath.

  He trudged up the stairs and pulled on a clean pair of pants, a clean shirt, wanting to look decent when she returned. Just wanting her to return. He hadn’t felt this chewed up since he’d left Sue and gone overseas, since he’d gotten her letter saying that there was someone else and thanks for the memories.

  No woman had gotten to him that way until Rose. Now here he was again, with his emotional fate in female hands. He hated it. He hated it just as much as the first time, if not more, now that he wasn’t an idealistic kid anymore. Now that he knew what he could have and that he might want it with Rose.

  Why couldn’t he fall for some sweet, uncomplicated girl-next-door? Someone he could relax around, have kids with, support in balancing family and career. Someone not plagued by demons, not afraid to be herself. Someone who hadn’t built a life around working her way through the male population of Boston.

  He was halfway down the stairs when he heard her out in the woods, the steady tramp and crackle of twigs and leaves compressed under her weight. He made it down the stairs and stood facing the door, knowing he looked like some ridiculous sentinel father and not caring. She’d come back. That simple fact filled and stilled him into watchful silence.

  She came in quietly, caught his eye and held it, her gaze direct and questioning, a tremulous smile curving her mouth. All the makeup was gone from her face, the careful mask stripped away. Something very, very sweet and hopeful started singing in his brain. She was ethereal; she glowed with inner light, like a damn Christmas angel lawn ornament.

  He was nuts about her.

  She closed the door quietly behind her, folded her hands, stood alone and vulnerable in front of the pale pine walls like the sexiest version of pure innocence he’d ever seen. He waited, wanting her to speak first, to confirm the transition he sensed and saw in her.

  “My name is Alice Rose Katzenbaum. I was born in Normal, Illinois in 1975. My dad left when I was two. My mom took in whatever male company she could for as long as she could. I was a lonely kid, with not many friends, no dates. I survived by writing stories, ideas, journals, whatever I could put down on paper. I went to Boston when I was eighteen because I didn’t know what else to do. I got a job as a secretary at Harvard and did freelance writing work—articles, stories—and found I was good at it. I also found I was as good as my mom with men, only I didn’t let myself need them the way she did. I didn’t let them have as much of me as she did. I kept the power to me, to myself. I worked hard for that. That was all-important.” She faltered, looked away, then drew herself up and met his gaze again. “Until now.”

  He moved slowly toward her, unsure how to proceed, but determined to show how much her gift meant, that it was safe with him. “Rose…”

  “This is me.” She gestured clumsily, up and down her body. “This is me. I can’t be any more ‘me’ than this. I don’t know if it’s what you want.”

  He swallowed the emotion in his throat. “Is it what you want?”

  “Oh, Slate.” She gave a tiny choked laugh and gestured helplessly. “You are relentless. Yes, it’s what I want.”

  He reached for her, touched her smooth clean face, her clear natural skin, kissed her mouth, warm and soft and tasting of blackberries, kissed her again, gathered her close against him and laughed for the sheer joy of holding her, fresh and natural and willing in his arms.

  “Alice Rose Katzenbaum.” He tipped her face up and grinned into her fabulous unadorned, dark-lashed blue eyes. “You have no idea how good it is to finally meet you.”

  10

  RILEY KNOCKED ON Melissa’s door and moved restlessly; the paper surrounding the red roses cradled in his arms crackled loudly in the silent hall. He’d called her a few hours ago and suggested they meet in her apartment. The overly colorful anonymity of Rose’s place had served its purpose in the beginning, but if he wanted Melissa to deal with the reality of the two of them together, he’d have to start by gently cutting away her safety nets. The pause on the other end of the line at his request had lengthened to ridiculous proportions before she grudgingly said okay.

  Riley smiled now in her hall as he’d smiled at the sound of her acquiescence. Letting him into her apartment wasn’t the same as letting him into her body or into her life, but it was a good starting point.

  She opened the door with the smile that always seemed to chip part of him away and make it hers. Instantly he registered a change, and studied her harder to pinpoint the source. She wore a tiny black skirt that stretched across her thighs and molded to her hips the way he wanted to. Her off-white top was full and sleeveless and showed off the firm contours of her slender arms. Nothing new there. But something steely and determined sparked in her eyes; she sported new purpose and confidence in her bearing.


  Intriguing, as most everything about her was.

  “For you.” He presented her with the roses, their color a vivid accent against her outfit.

  “Oh, gosh. These are…” She blushed nearly the color of the flowers and sent him a bemused and speculative glance. “These are lovely. Thank you. I’ll put them in water.”

  He grinned at her confusion, her embarrassment and the damn fabulous view of her thighs disappearing under the back of her skirt as she hurried to the kitchen. He moved into the living room, taking in the muted colors, the restrained elegance of the decor. About as different from Rose’s riotous collection as you could get. More along the lines of his own place, now that he thought of it, but with a distinctly feminine flair.

  Melissa returned from the kitchen, roses spilling out of a cut crystal vase, which she put on a side table. Their rich red color was like an intrusion into the neutral beige, gray and cream tones in the room. He’d chosen well.

  Melissa stared at the flowers, glanced around her room as if she was seeing it for the first time, and gave a tiny shrug. “I love them. They’re beautiful.”

  “Like you.” He moved forward, drew his hands down her shoulders and bent until his lips were hovering over the smooth skin on her neck. The roses had done their job. He had to proceed slowly now, to show her with whatever means possible that she could want more from him than sex. Balance the romantic with the carnal. Little by little, advance and then retreat. Two steps forward, one back.

  “Where do you want to do it?” He whispered the question into her skin, deliberately coarse, trying to keep her off balance, trusting in the end she’d get more of what she wanted than she knew how to ask for.

  She stiffened, then relaxed and turned to face him, seductive confidence back in her eyes and movements.

  “Bedroom.” She pointed back over his shoulder. “That way.”

  He grinned, his body reacting already, reached and pulled her tight against him. “I’m ready.”