Part 14 (1/2)
”I'm not mad. I'm just taken aback a bit. You never cease to amaze me.”
Marilyn had no idea where Jackson was going with this vein of conversation. If he wasn't upset that she'd tipped the canoe, then why was he suddenly withdrawn?
He was both an enigma and an open book to her. He seemed totally honest, yet there was something about him that perplexed her, and she couldn't quite nail it.
Jackson was like the river itself, swift yet slow, cold yet warm, forever changing course on her, keeping her off-balance.
”Show me you're not mad and that you forgive me.” She lifted her head and looked towards the sh.o.r.eline.
Jackson was silent but nodded and helped guide the canoe into a small nook sheltered by the towering rocks.
”We could tip the boat over if we're not careful.” He remained where he was seated but looked at her with a deep concentration that shook her.
”So tie the canoe to one of the rocks.” To help, Marilyn picked up a length of rope attached to a metal hook on the canoe and tossed it to him.
Jackson did as she asked yet stayed where he was until she motioned for him to meet her in the middle of the canoe. Once they were face to face she placed her arms around his neck and drew him closer for a kiss. She hoped he didn't see the gesture as a conciliatory movement on her part but more as simply an expression of tenderness. She really was sorry for having dunked him, and she was already regretting the childish action. But she wanted to feel his lips on hers, to sink her body close to his and thrill to his touch more than anything.
She couldn't believe that this would soon all be over and she'd never see him again except at maybe a publis.h.i.+ng function or book fair of some sort. The idea that she'd come so close yet so far from establis.h.i.+ng any kind of personal rapport with him crashed against her like a canoe slamming against the rocks.
Her fingers slid through his damp hair as their lips touched, and the fire in her torso flared when his tongue speared hers, sending hot darts of desire straight to her p.u.s.s.y. For the first time since meeting him, she realized that his flesh pressed against hers, his arms about her-none of it was enough. Desperation made her quiver for more of him, and she put all she had into the kiss.
Jackson responded by holding her long and hard and by deepening the kiss. He seemed as reluctant as she to end it, and when it was over, they sat staring at one another, as if memorizing each other's features.
”We'd better get back to camp before the next shower.” He broke the gaze and released the rope's hold on the rock, leaving Marilyn to retreat to her previous position, near him yet so far away.
Chapter Thirteen.
Creek & Cherokee Fried Green Tomatoes Ingredients: 2 pounds of green tomatoes 4 eggs 1 1/4 cups cornmeal 3/4 cup water 1/4 cup minced chives 1 tablespoon salt (cut to 1 teaspoon if too salty for you) 1/4 teaspoon pepper, fresh ground 1/4 cup b.u.t.ter or margarine Slice the tomatoes 1/2 inch thick, but do not peel or core. Drain well on paper toweling until most of the
moisture of the tomatoes is absorbed. While the tomatoes are draining, make a batter by beating the eggs until light then mixing in the cornmeal, water, minced chives, salt and pepper. In a large, heavy iron skillet, heat the b.u.t.ter or margarine until bubbly. Dip the tomato slices into batter and brown quickly on both sides. Serve at once. Jack couldn't help but marvel at the woman sitting ahead of him in the canoe. She'd burst into his life, pus.h.i.+ng, shoving and demanding until she got her way, completely taking his breath away by both her beauty and her brains. Yes, she was a thorn in his side...more like a pain in his a.s.s. She maneuvered situations to her own benefit, but at the same time she always had his best interests in mind. And while he was more than agreeable to furthering his career and becoming more involved with his own publicity, he wasn't aware until she'd dunked him how well her quirky personality meshed with his more settled one.
The way her body moved with his was nothing less than magical. One sly grin from her, and his c.o.c.k was aflame. Now she was infiltrating his thoughts on a regular basis, challenging the way he thought, expanding his viewpoints, insinuating herself into his psyche like a favorite, naughty indulgence he craved.
His cousin obviously liked her. The quiet Indian rarely tolerated, much less initiated, conversation with outsiders, yet Daniel had seemed to truly enjoy Marilyn's company.
Jackson couldn't help but wonder whether Daniel and Caroline's marriage would have been strong enough to survive had she not wound up in a coma after a fall from the cliffs. Daniel and Caroline had married in haste and against her family's wishes. City girls made great diversions but rarely good companions for river rats. So why was Jackson even contemplating asking Marilyn to stick around after the week's events were over? Better yet-why would she want to?
The questions he'd asked himself last time they made love surfaced, reminding him that he too held secrets, and the longer he held onto them the worse it would eventually be.
f.u.c.k. If he told her now that he could cook, she'd think he was just doing a one-upmans.h.i.+p on her. If he didn't, and she found out later, she'd just think he was a s.h.i.+t for deceiving her so long. He couldn't win.
The memory of their last kiss lingered on his lips and in his mind, and for the first time since meeting her, he was sad. She'd stirred a range of emotions within him, taking him from one hilarious h.e.l.l to another, all interlaced with bouts of pure elation during their lovemaking, guilt when he pa.s.sed up the opportunities to tell her his secret and put her out of her misery and delight with just her company.
Now a new problem surfaced. Could he give her up when the contest was over?
Back inside her cabin, Marilyn hugged herself. Daniel Red Feather was nothing like the Delacroix bunch. He'd given her a tour of his home, a cabin made of polished timber that he'd built himself. And he'd let her see one of his own family cookbooks, a rough, leather-bound single edition that Jack had made for him years earlier.
”Think you'd be interested in publis.h.i.+ng that one?” she'd asked Jack on their way home once the rain had stopped.
”No. That was a present for Daniel, something for him to pa.s.s down to his own children. Not for public consumption.”
Marilyn had spent a wonderful afternoon with the two men, gleaning information about Jack at every turn, seeing a side of him she'd never have been able to witness if she hadn't made the trip.
The writer in her couldn't help but notice what a fascinating character he'd make for a biography, but she knew what he meant about not for public consumption, because the thoughts and feelings she'd have put into such a book were extremely private. Not because she was afraid of exposing anything about Jack, but because she was afraid of exposing what was forming in her own heart.
”Wow!” she murmured. That was why his books were so darned good. He wasn't afraid of expressing himself and showing his vulnerability, which was that he cared deeply for his family and their traditions. He didn't see his lack of cooking skills as an issue. He wasn't a fraud-he was a gem. He'd most likely make a terrific father some day to a large brood of children with dark hair, snappy eyes and killer smiles.
”Don't do this!” she warned herself aloud as she finished showering and dressing. ”Don't go there-the man has terminal bachelor-eye-tis...all he sees is himself living unenc.u.mbered and single. What in h.e.l.l are you even thinking?”
”Did you say something?” Colette asked, coming from their living room.
Marilyn put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on her hair and shook her head. ”No. Yes. I'm talking to myself.”
Colette grinned. ”He's gotten under your skin, hasn't he?”
”You could say that. No. Don't say that. I'm just nervous because my dad and uncle will be here tomorrow.”
Colette nodded and gave a delicate snort. ”If you say so.” She pointed at Marilyn's bare feet. ”Don't forget your shoes. Unless you want to become a true river rat like Jack.”
Too late, Marilyn thought. She was already starting to hear the patter of little river rat feet, and she'd only been naked with the man a few times.
She shook off the feelings that threatened to overwhelm her.
This is ridiculous. I am a cold, no-nonsense business woman, she told her reflection in the mirror silently. I have no use for rivers, river rats or easy living.
She'd go stark raving mad without a nearby mall, a business luncheon or the ability to travel whenever she felt like it. Settling into an office job for her father had been punishment enough for giving up her nomadic writing career. What the h.e.l.l did a backwater campsite in Oklahoma have to offer someone like her?
Keep telling yourself that, her reflection seemed to answer. You love being near your dad and you were tired of being a nomad anyway, and now... Now you care about someone else enough to give up who you thought you were.
When had she morphed from solitary journalist to sedentary editor and then to wannabe river rat?
Jack pressed his teeth together and groaned throatily, ”Oh, my G.o.d.” He'd attempted many dishes within the privacy of his own home, but never this one. What in h.e.l.l had made him think he could do it now?
He gave the saute pan an incredulous glance then looked at the bowl of freshly washed cherries on the table and finally the bottle of brandy in his left hand.
”How're you doing?” Chuck called from the front porch.
Jack listened to the women's laughter in the background. Did he really want to call Chuck back in here? His friend had said making cherries jubilee would be easy.
”You all right?” Chuck asked, standing in the doorway.
”Peachy. Just peachy,” Jack replied grumpily.
”You know, the dish doesn't really require the flames. Flaming can be dangerous.”