Blue Heron: The Perfect Match Part 32

She glanced back. He was sitting in bed, eyes closed, that beautiful, rippling torso begging for a thorough examination. His bruised eye and tattoos gave him an unbearably appealing bad-boy look, and his Saint Christopher medal somehow underscored his ridiculous s.e.x appeal. Who would've thunk Honor Holland would have such a guy ordering her into bed, regardless of the circ.u.mstances?

She turned back and undressed, jacket, skirt and sweaty blouse going over the back of the chair. At least she wore nice underwear. Not that Tom would see, since he'd closed his eyes like a good boy. She unhooked her bra, pulling on her flannel pj's as fast as she could.

When she turned around, Tom's eyes were open, and he was looking steadily at her. No smile.

The air seemed to thicken, and Honor's heart banged against her ribs.

Would that she was closer and could read the expression in his eyes. Or just kiss him.

"Come on, then," he said, pulling back the covers.

She was never going to sleep tonight.

And she hadn't been sleeping well since she moved in here. But now, she was vibrating with nervousness, tingling with awareness, tightening with l.u.s.t and utterly terrified of being sent to jail, all at the same time.

About that l.u.s.t, the eggs said, adjusting their binoculars to get a better look at Tom.

She went to the unoccupied side of the bed and slid in. "Good night," she said, turning away from him.

Tom turned off the light and lay down on his back.

"We'll have to offer her breakfast," he murmured. "Think it'd kill you to be hospitable?"

Honor rolled over to face him, the light from the street allowing her to see his face in profile. "Tom," she whispered, "what if we get caught?"

"We won't, so long as you stop acting like a criminal, darling."

"I can't help it!"

"You said you knew all this before," he pointed out, his voice quiet. "You're the one who told me you were fine with the risks."

"I know, but-"

A knock came on the door, and Honor jolted closer to Tom. "Yes?" they called in unison, his arms going around her.

Bethany opened the door. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she said unconvincingly. "Oh, hi, Spikey-snooks! Are you all comfy there?"

Honor's face was right up against Tom's neck. It was a nice place to be. Or it would be, if she wasn't in ventricular tachycardia. Thank you, Death in the E.R.

"Do you need anything, Bethany?" Tom asked.

"Um, I just wondered if I could get a gla.s.s of water."

For G.o.d's sake.

"Absolutely," Tom said, starting to get out of bed, but Honor pulled him back.

"Help yourself," she said. "Gla.s.ses are next to the sink."

Bethany paused, then sighed. "Great. Sleep well."

The door closed. "Water, my a.s.s," Honor whispered. "She just wanted to see you without your s.h.i.+rt."

"At least someone does," he grumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe it wouldn't be so hard for you to fake a little affection if we were sleeping together."

It dawned on her that she was still pressed against Tom. Intimately. In fact, if she weren't swathed in flannel, the eggs would be quite happy, let's put it that way.

"I thought we were waiting till we got married," she whispered.

"I find that very hypocritical," he muttered. "Since you've already boffed me three times."

"One night. With three, um, sessions."

He didn't answer.

If he kissed her now, she'd offer no resistance. She was exhausted from stress, not to mention weak-willed and l.u.s.tful. And the years were precious. Besides, the memory of his weight on top of her, the hard, thick slide of- "Tell me about being mugged." His voice was quiet.

"What? Oh. Um, why?"

"Because I want to know."

She swallowed. "I already told you."

"Yes. But I was busy yelling." He pulled her closer, so that her head was on his hard and utterly wonderful shoulder. Her hand had nowhere to go other than his chest, and she felt his heart thudding, such a lovely, secret pleasure, that feeling, the marvel of the human body.

Bethany's footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door to the other room opened and closed.

"I was walking home from the library," Honor whispered. "My roomie and I had a little apartment about three blocks off campus, and it was only about ten, so I figured it was safe." Wrong on that count. How many times had her father fussed over the fact that she was in a big city? Warned her about walking home alone?

"All of a sudden, some guy had me by the arm, and he shoved me into this doorway and told me to give him my purse. He had a gun, and I remember looking at him and thinking I had to remember his face, but I couldn't. The details kept sliding away, like my brain couldn't quite grab on to what was happening." She paused, remembered fear making her knees tingle. "So he asked for my money, and I threw my purse over his head and ran. To a police station."

Tom's hand covered hers, and Honor's throat was suddenly tight. "That was very clever," he said, his voice just a soft rumble.

"Thanks," she whispered.

"Why didn't you ever tell anyone?"

She hesitated. "I did. I meant I never told anyone in my family. It was over, and they would've just worried. But I told the police. And, um, a friend." She winced.

"Brogan?"

It was the first time Tom had gotten the name right. "Yes."

"And was he...what's that word you Americans like so much? Supportive?"

"Of course. He was very nice." She paused. "He's a nice man."

"I'm sure." Tom's voice was mild, but it suddenly felt awkward, lying this way. Her neck felt stiff, and the shoulder under her head seemed to have turned to granite.

"Did they ever catch the man who did it?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks. And thanks for asking about it."

"Right. I'm an engineer, after all. It didn't make sense, your hauling off and hitting me like that. I figured there was a cause and effect going on."

A car drove past on the street below.

She wanted to say something more, to address the stew of feelings that seemed to roil and change between them like a Midwestern storm. But maybe that was just her. Maybe Tom wasn't feeling much of anything, just an engineer who liked to understand how things worked.

"Sleep well, Honor," he said.

"You, too."

Honor turned on her side, away from Tom, and closed her eyes, but it was a long time before sleep wrapped her in its soft embrace.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

FROM HER OFFICE, Honor had a stellar view of the vineyard, the fields stretching down to the woods, Keuka glittering a steel-blue this cold day. Weather was on her mind. The cold hadn't let up, not that she expected spring to actually begin on March 21; she'd lived here all her life, after all. The snow had melted for the most part, though there were still large swaths of white blanking the fields. The temperature dropped to freezing each night, only hitting forty-five or so during the warmest part of the afternoon. Then again, she knew well that it could hit seventy later this week. There was little rhyme or reason to the weather of April, the cruelest month for just that reason.

Tomorrow was supposed to be in the fifties, the never-reliable forecasters had sworn. Honor was hoping they were right this time; a little sun might be enough to make more daffodils bloom in time for the Black and White Ball this weekend. Last fall, Faith had planted thousands of bulbs around the Barn, and the bravest had already opened in the patches of ground where the snow had melted, their yellow blooms so bright and hopeful.

The first of the spring weddings to be held at the Barn was later in April. Faith had asked if she and Tom would get married up there as well; Honor knew it would mean a lot to her sister if they did. Then again, the thought made her stomach hurt. Tom certainly had qualities that could make him a great husband-he was so devoted to Charlie, he loved his job and had a great sense of humor. Commitment. Stability. s.e.x appeal, heavens yes. But Honor would be promising to love, honor and cherish him all her life, and while she could definitely see herself doing just that, she was well aware that while he might feel some affection (and definitely grat.i.tude) for her, and while he didn't find her unattractive, well...things weren't balanced.

She could love him at the drop of a hat.

If he felt the same way, he was hiding it well.

Speaking of weddings, Brogan and Dana's engagement had been in the paper this morning. It was still strange, the absence of those two as her constant companions. Especially Dana. Brogan was trying. Still sent her emails with links to articles or a funny cartoon, a postcard from L.A. last week. It was nice, really-he still cared enough to make an effort.

From Dana, there'd been nothing, and that was okay. Whatever loneliness Honor felt was mostly reflex by now. Besides, now she had other people. Faith and she were closer than they'd ever been, which was absolutely lovely. She had Jessica Dunn, who was proving to be a smart and steady employee for Blue Heron. Colleen and Connor, who'd always seemed off-limits as Faith's closest friends, felt more like Honor's friends, too, these days. Of course, there were Dad, Pru and Jack. And Honor still saw Mrs. J. every day at lunch. So she had friends.

And she had Tom.

Sort of.

Speaking of grooms, there was Dad, down in the merlot vines with Pru. Honor smiled and waved, and made Spike wave as well, and they waved back in unison. Peas in a pod, those two, both wearing very similar plaid s.h.i.+rts. No coats. They were Yankees, after all. What was a little cold and wind to a farmer?

"Honor," Ned said, appearing in her doorway, "I'm gonna swing by some of the accounts. Press the flesh, maybe do a tasting here and there, since it's almost happy hour."

"Okay," she said. "Need anything from me?"

"Nope. I'm good." Her nephew smiled.

"Yes. You are," she said. It was true; unlike Dad, Pru or Jack, who preferred to be left alone to tend to their grapes and subsequent fermenting, Ned had the gift of schmooze. "You're a man now, Neddie dear. Which doesn't mean I've forgotten that you sucked your thumb until you were seven."

"Oh, I still do," he said with an easy grin. "Why give up a good thing? See you, Auntie."

Nice to have someone else from the family out there, representing Blue Heron. For twelve years, Honor had done it alone, dragging Dad along once in a while. But Ned liked doing it.

"Hey, Tom," she heard Jessica say. "How are you?"

"Jess, lovely to see you," Tom said.

Honor felt her cheeks fire up and couldn't stop herself from looking at her reflection in the computer monitor. There was just something about that accent that hit her right in the ovaries. Preach it, sister, the eggs agreed. How about getting us a little action here?

Sure, Honor knew s.e.x was on the horizon. Very soon, in fact. She'd almost jumped him the other night when he kissed her hand. So they'd get it on, of course. They had the marriage license, and this thing was happening. And once nooky commenced, Honor had the very strong suspicion that she'd be crazy in love, and a lot more vulnerable to heartbreak.

So what? Beats being celibate forever, the eggs pointed out. Get a move on!

"Yeah, yeah," Honor muttered. "Hang in there. We'll know when the time is right." She could just about imagine them pointing at their tiny watches in outrage.

Word. But Tom had this odd ability to be both wonderful and distant at the same time. Case in point-the discussion of the mugging the other night, as they lay in bed. Oddly intimate, until click, he shut off.

Last night over their mostly quiet dinner, Tom had asked about the Black and White Ball and what it was for, and Honor found herself inviting Tom to tramp around the property. Ellis Farm ab.u.t.ted the rear fields of Blue Heron, so they'd hike up past Rose Ridge and down onto the unused farmland, where soon, Honor hoped, they'd begin work to make the land more accessible. She'd been talking to a bike trail designer for six months now, and had a grant from the state to help offset some costs.

"Hallo, Honor," he said now, poking his head in her door. "How was your day?"

"Great," she said. "And yours?"

"It was good." He smelled like fresh air and coffee. "Brought you a treat." In his hand was a familiar bag-Lorelei's Sunrise Bakery.

"Thanks." She opened and peeked in, and Spike stuck her head right in. Sugar cookies. Very nice.

He wore faded jeans and hiking boots and a battered brown leather jacket. Effortlessly hot. And dang, he was watching her ogle him, a faint smile crinkling his eyes. "You don't dress like a math teacher," she said, clearing her throat.

"I'm not a math teacher." His smile widened, flas.h.i.+ng that slightly crooked tooth, and hope flashed as fast and strong as lightning in her heart.

She could love this guy.

She slipped off her pumps (which Faith had deemed "tragically sensible" but were very comfy, unlike Faith's own complicated, painful and enviably s.l.u.tty collection of footwear) and pulled on her muck boots. "Spike, want to go for a walk?" she said, smiling as her dog's s.h.a.ggy little ears p.r.i.c.ked up at the magic word, then clipped on the neon-pink leash she'd bought the past week. Already, it was frayed from where Spike had been chewing it. This would be the fourth leash since she got the wee terror.

Outside, the wind was sharp, the air growing colder by the minute. This would have to be a quick hike, or her ears would freeze. Even so, crocuses had pushed their way up through the lawn, and the maple trees were red-budded with the promise of spring. They headed up the hill toward the conservation property, birds calling to one another as they swooped and preened.

"This is lovely," Tom said, stopping at the family cemetery.