Hold on Tight

  “Thanks.”

  “Yes. Well. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  Dinah trained her eyes on his golf bag, which was propped by the corner of his desk. The leather had his initials sewn on it in gold letters, she noted. RAM. She wondered vaguely what the A stood for. Aggressive? Aggravating? Since he seemed intent on forcing her to grovel, he was certainly both of those.

  “I’m in town for a regional conference of mayors,” she explained. “I thought I’d just stop by.”

  “Just stop by, huh?” he mimicked, taking a step toward her. She looked up warily, her lips parted, her face burning. “Guess you expect me to take you to dinner tonight, or somethin’.”

  Dinah squinted at him defensively. “You egomaniac.” She hadn’t figured on this taunting from him. He was so stern.

  “Oh, I want to take you to dinner. We’re gonna talk.”

  “The conference won’t end until seven.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “It’s at the Sheraton.”

  “I’ll be in the main lobby.”

  Dinah smoothed her skirt and straightened her shoulders. “I have to go now,” she reported coolly. “Back to the bed—I mean, back to the conference.” Dinah bit her tongue and looked at him solemnly from under her brows. He returned the expression perfectly. She wanted to wrap the Kudzu plant around herself and hide in shame. Bed? What was wrong with her mind?

  “Did I say anything about bed?” he asked innocently. “I’ll walk you down to the elevator, Dee.” He took her arm primly, scooped her purse up, and guided her out of the office.

  At the elevator she turned and looked up at him with wary, searching eyes. “My slip about ‘bed’ wasn’t meant to be Freudian innuendo,” she warned.

  He arched one brow. “Now who’s an egomaniac? I don’t intend to dive into ‘physical temptation’ again, so don’t worry.”

  Her mouth thinned as she recalled the awful insinuation she’d made two weeks ago when she’d implied that their night together was based on lust rather than love. Dinah wanted to tell him that it had been no more than a stupid defensive maneuver. The elevator opened behind her, but she didn’t notice until Rucker gently prodded her. She stepped into it and stood looking at him with a quizzical expression on her face. Aren’t you even going to try to seduce me tonight? she felt like demanding. His neutrality frightened her. She’d kept saying that they weren’t compatible, and now he seemed to believe it too.

  “Seven o’clock,” she said primly, her chin up.

  “Uh-huh. And we’ll go to my house.” Dinah’s aplomb deserted her and she stared at him with her mouth open. As the elevator doors closed he almost seemed to be smiling.

  Neat. His house was neat. And exceptionally clean. And very well decorated in a pleasing mixture of sturdy country styles and early American antiques. Dinah couldn’t get over her astonishment as they walked through the main floor. He waved a frosty mug of beer this way and that, describing how he tussled with the decorator over styles.

  “And I told that lady,” he said sternly, “I said, ‘If you put a Chippendale chair over yonder in that spot, I’m likely to sit in it. And if I bust it, I’ll feel real bad, because it cost a lot of money. Put the antiques out of my way, and put the real furniture where I can enjoy it. And don’t bring any more paintin’s of naked babies with wings!’ ”

  “You mean cherubs?” Despite the strained mood, Dinah wanted to laugh so badly that she almost choked on a sip of wine. She took a firmer grip on her ornate crystal wine glass—another oddity in the unfolding vision of Rucker’s home life. She’d assumed that his crystal consisted of a few Mason jars and cartoon glasses.

  “Yeah, cherubs,” he huffed. “Silly things.”

  They entered a cozy den that overlooked a huge deck, a pool, a Jacuzzi, and a beautifully manicured back yard dotted with big hardwoods. The den had a big stone fireplace with an overstuffed, dark blue couch in front of it.

  “This is a wonderful home,” she told him sincerely. “It has a good, masculine feel to it. It’s comfortable. I like it a great deal.”

  “You haven’t even seen the upstairs,” he said proudly. “But that’s not important.” The front door bell chimed. “Well. Time to eat.”

  She made no comment and took another sip of wine. His bedroom was upstairs, and apparently he didn’t want to get her anywhere near it. That’s good, isn’t it? she reminded herself grimly. “Dinner is being delivered?” she inquired. “Pizza? Girl Scout cookies?”

  He laughed and pointed in the direction of an elegant dining room she’d visited earlier. “Go sit down and be impressed with my fancy china and clean table cloth. I’ll take care of the food.”

  Dinner was provided by a gourmet catering service, as it turned out, and it was splendid. But she noted that Rucker made no attempt to create a romantic atmosphere. The overhead chandelier provided soft but bright light, and he kept up a stream of careful small talk that contained no innuendo. After dinner, they carried cups of coffee into the den. He built a fire while Dinah watched from the couch.

  “It’s really nippy outside tonight,” she commented. “The fire is very cozy. This is good sleeping weather.” Darkness had closed around the house, making the den intimate. Then Rucker switched on a brass lamp near the couch. Drat, Dinah told him silently. What does all this nonaggression mean?

  He sat down a proper distance away from her, leaned forward, stared into the fire, and sipped his coffee. “So,” he murmured, “we’ve gotta talk.”

  “Yes.”

  “That article about Mount Pleasant was bait, and you bit the hook. You comin’ to see me today tells me that you’ve missed me. At least, you’ve missed me in bed.”

  Dinah gave him an angry, hurt look. “Maybe I’ve missed you for general reasons. Maybe I was sorry when you left. Maybe I ought to have my head examined for wanting to see a man who compares me to a fish.”

  “But we’re not compatible,” he said sarcastically.

  “Oh.” She frowned into her coffee cup. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “Plus, I want to write about you and you don’t want me to.”

  “Yes.”

  “Plus, you live in Mount Pleasant and I live two hours away, in Birmingham. Makes it hard to see each other.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that,” she noted dully.

  “But the worst thing is, you don’t trust me. And I can’t bear that, Dee.” The words were spoken simply, without rebuke. “A man and a woman—if they don’t have trust, they don’t have anything. My parents had problems, and lack of trust was one of ’em. My ex-wife …” His voice trailed off. “Well, trust is real important to me.”

  Dinah winced. She looked up and found him studying her, his eyes hooded. Feeling hopeless and distraught, she got up and walked to the fireplace, where she stood with her back turned to him. “I wish you could give me time,” she said in a voice laced with anguish. “I wish you could understand and find a way to be patient.” She smacked the mantel with one hand and spoke in a voice that threatened to shatter. “Damn it! You’re the stubbornest man I’ve ever known!”

  “Good! Good! I don’t want to be like the simperin’, smarmy-butt men you’ve dated all your life!” he retorted.

  “Smarmy b-bu … what in the world?”

  “You can’t ice me over with those blue eyes and you can’t buffalo me with your smarts! I say what I mean and mean what I say! And I’m gonna treat you like a normal woman, not like some princess!”

  He vaulted up and strode to the fireplace, shoved his coffee cup onto the mantel, and faced her with his hands on his blue-jeaned hips. He’d traded his sport coat and shirt for a green, holey pullover sweater. It clung snugly to his chest as he inhaled in anger.

  Dinah jabbed a finger at him. “You want everything your own way! You won’t relent! You won’t give me any privacy—”

  “I will, damn it, if you’ll quit talkin’ long enough to listen!”

  “Me? Who yabber
s nonstop in this duo. You will what? What will you do? Drive me crazy?”

  He grabbed her shoulders roughly. “I will let you keep your secrets!” he yelled. “I won’t write about you! What else do you want me to say?”

  “I … I don’t know,” she stammered.

  “I can have patience, Dee,” he thundered, “if you can do one thing for me!”

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Tell me the truth about what you said two weeks ago! About that ‘physical temptation’ stuff bein’ all that we had goin’! Did you really mean that I’m only important to you in bed?”

  “Oh, Rucker.” She reached up and grabbed his hands in hers. “I never thought that. I never meant to hurt you the way I did.”

  He took a viselike grip of her hands and shook them. “Do you love me? Will you admit that what’s goin’ on between us can already be called love?”

  “All right!” she exclaimed in exasperation. “It is! I’ve never felt anything like it before! It’s unique! Wonderful! Terrifying! I love you, you big oaf! I love—”

  He jerked her into his arms and kissed her roughly. Dinah murmured in surprise and then delight. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back as hard as she could. He slid his lips off hers for a second and said, “We got it, Dee. We got the best thing goin’ in the whole world. I don’t ever want to hear you say that damned word again. Compatible.” He made a grandly derisive sound. “Not ever! Not once!”

  “Done, sir!” She stroked his back with long, desperate movements of her hands, her head tilted back and her eyes half closed. “Do you really mean it? You won’t write anything?”

  “Little lady, I give you my word. And when I give my word—”

  “I understand. Oh, Rucker.” Her voice dropped. “Some day I’ll try to explain why I feel so defensive.”

  “You’re damned right you will.” She looked at him with warning and his voice softened to a comically submissive level. “Uh, whenever you want to.”

  “Big, macho, bossy,” she said with a ragged, affectionate tone, “chauvinistic, domineering—”

  He captured the last words before they fully left her lips, sweeping his mouth across hers. He pushed and she pulled and they sank to the plushly carpeted floor as if on some silent cue, undoing each other’s clothes, murmuring soft, sweet words that gentled the impatient physical and emotional forces between them. When they lay naked in each other’s arms, the carpet formed a delicious dark cushion under Dinah’s bare skin. She felt as if she were glowing with firelight and passion as Rucker braced himself over her. She looked into his eyes and their reckless desire absorbed her. Her hands stroked his chest roughly.

  “You be still,” he ordered, and guided her hands to the carpet.

  “I will not,” she protested lightly.

  “You will too. I have ways, ways of makin’ you be still.”

  He trailed his mouth across her breasts and down to her stomach, where he tormented the silky skin with damp, greedy kisses. Dinah felt her body becoming deliciously heavy, as if it were sinking deeper and deeper into the carpet. She moaned, and Rucker chuckled in a hoarse way that was both smugly victorious and vulnerable. He quickly slid further downward and parted her thighs.

  “I have ways,” he repeated in a languid whisper, and then he was too preoccupied to talk.

  “Oh, yes,” she managed, her head thrown back and her hands tangled in his hair. There was no way to be modest or reserved with Rucker, and for the first time in her life she felt free to react any way she wanted. He drew sensation through her until she begged him without embarrassment not to stop. She knew that he watched her, and she reveled in his encouragement. She dug her heels into the deep carpet and let reality disappear as happiness flowed out of her in second after second of shattering pleasure.

  He scooped her into his arms afterwards and carried her upstairs to his room, where she laughed gently over the rumpled bed and general disarray. This was the real Rucker. “I’ll show you how to mess up the bed even more,” he promised in a gruff voice. And he did, gloriously, so that one by one the pillows tumbled onto the floor and the satiny black bedspread soon followed. Afterwards he lay sprawled in happy exhaustion on his back in the middle of all the ruin, smiling. Dinah snuggled close by his side, held in the possessive embrace of his arm, nuzzling his neck.

  “I know this is love, Dee,” he sighed. “Because I’ll do anything to make you happy. I’ll—why, hell, I’ll even read that Satire boy you’re so fond of.”

  She thought for a moment. “Sartre,” she corrected wryly. “Sartre.”

  “Yeah.” He twisted his head and kissed her nose so that his mustache tickled it. “That’s him.”

  Dinah traced his collarbones with her fingertip. “I’ll … I’ll learn to like country-western music,” she told him sincerely. “And … golf! You can teach me how to play golf!”

  He sighed again, a long, contented reaction that seemed to start at his head and end at his toes. It captured Dinah, and she sighed too. For tonight, at least, the world is perfect, she admitted. And she decided not to worry about anything else.

  Seven

  “More shortening, Dee! Dad burnit, woman, fried chicken is supposed to be greasy! Aaah! What are you doing! Stop that!”

  “It’s just paprika and orégano!”

  “No, hon, no! This isn’t Italian chicken, it’s Dixie chicken! The only thing you put on it is salt and pepper!” Rucker grabbed the herb jars from her and put them back in her kitchen cabinet, then sighed with grand relief. He dumped a large white chunk of lard into the already greasy skillet and nodded happily.

  Dinah stomped one foot in amused protest. “Do you want your arteries to look like the inside of a deep fat fryer?”

  “My grandpa Elmo ate fried chicken almost every day of his life, and he lived to be a hundred!”

  “Ouch!” Dinah jerked her hand away as grease splattered from the huge skillet. She looked at Rucker indignantly as she rubbed a burn on her wrist. “I want combat pay,” she said.

  He wiped his hands on the towel tucked in the band of his gray jogging sweats. “Ooooh, poor darlin’,” he crooned, taking her wrist in one big hand. He raised it to his mouth and licked the injured area with small, gentle movements of his tongue, while his green eyes crinkled at her in laughter. Then he pressed her wrist to his breast, which was covered in a white sweatshirt bearing the logo “Not tonight, dear. I have a deadline.” “Does it feel better now?” he purred. “Poor sweetie.”

  “Oh, don’t patronize me.” Smiling jauntily, she pulled her hand away from him and looked at the skillet crammed with floured chicken pieces. They crackled and sizzled and, she admitted, gave off a wonderful scent. Outside the kitchen window, the October wind made cold whooshing sounds under the eaves, and the night was an impenetrable black shield beneath a rainy sky. But inside, the lights were cheerful and the kitchen warm. The caress of her silky, white nightgown added even more to her sense of being deliciously pampered.

  Rucker had brought the gown to her this weekend in a big, gift-wrapped box from one of the city’s most exclusive women’s lingerie shops. The box also contained garter belts, teddies, and a half-dozen other gorgeous, glamorous, sexy things. They were, he said solemnly, an anniversary present in honor of their first month together. Amazing, she’d thought with tears of pleasure gleaming in her eyes. They’re beautiful. He doesn’t know how to pick out a pair of matching socks for himself, but he’s magnificent at selecting things for me to wear. Whenever she pictured Rucker invading a lingerie shop on her behalf, her eyes grew misty with tender amusement.

  Of course, Dinah thought wryly as she touched the delicate lace of her bodice, I’ll never get a chance to wear this gown or any other to bed with him. He was, in his own words, “a believer in bare bohunkus sleepin’.” She hadn’t the nerve to ask what a bohunkus was.

  Nureyev walked back and forth on his perch, always alert for a handout. The possum was crunching dry cat food from a bowl in the
floor. Rucker finished turning chicken pieces over with a fork and gestured toward his squat gray pet. “I forgot to tell you, Dee! I named my baby!”

  “Oh? ‘Rucker, Junior’?”

  He waved the fork with mock menace. “Hah. Something cultured. Like Nureyev is named after that male ballet dancer.” He paused, nodding for emphasis. “Well, I named the possum Jethro.”

  “Jethro? What cultural figure is that?”

  “Jethro Bodine, from The Beverly Hillbillies. My idol.” He dodged the scrap of biscuit dough she flung at him in a pretense of disgust. “Check the oven,” he commanded. “My cupcakes should nearly be done.”

  Smiling, Dinah bent over her white electric stove and cracked the door open. Two dozen chocolate cupcakes were baking inside. Chocolate cupcakes with raisins and little multi-colored sprinkles embedded in the chocolate. She grimaced. Rucker’s beloved dessert was suitable for a grammar school picnic but not much else.

  “They look fine, relatively speaking.” She slipped an oven mitt on her hand and retrieved the cupcake pans, then put them on the counter beside a bowl of mushy potato salad and a wicker basket of giant biscuits oozing butter.

  “Rucker?” she crooned in an innocent voice. “As you get older are you planning to develop one of those stomachs that hangs over a belt? You know, the hard, pear-shaped kind that pushes your belt buckle down and makes you appear swaybacked?”

  “You smart-mouthed ladybug!” In one quick movement he grabbed her and hoisted her over his shoulder.

  “Rucker, stop it!” He was always trying to break down her dignified reserve, and she knew from experience that he wouldn’t quit this time until he was successful. “This isn’t funny!”

  “Sure ’nuff is funny,” he drawled. “I should know. I write funny stuff for a livin’.”

  Dinah hung upside down with her rump next to his head, and he ran devilish, tickling fingers under the hem of her clingy gown. “You makin’ fun of my good country food,” he demanded, “the way you made fun of me when I got bubble gum in my mustache last week?”