Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [48]
He breathed in the touch of cinnamon that always hovered when she came close and suddenly had an irrepressible yearning to taste of it. He wondered how long it had been since he’d kissed a woman. How long it had been since he’d found one even worth kissing.
Too long, he decided. And all rationales, all wisdom, all thoughts—but one—flew from his brain. Slowly, giving her time to pull back, he lowered his head. Her eyes widened, then drifted shut.
She tasted of cinnamon, and peaches, and something indefinable. Sliding his arms around her, he pulled her close and explored her lips, her jaw, her ear.
She tilted her head back, a tiny sigh at the back of her throat. Without hesitation, he partook of the newly exposed skin. It was his own groan which brought him to his senses.
Resting his lips against the crook between her neck and collar, he kept his eyes closed, knowing he needed to release her, but lingering for just a moment more. His hands rode up her back, then down to her waist, learning, memorizing, relishing.
She turned her face to his, searching for his lips. He allowed her to find them, but when desire began to override good sense, he reluctantly pulled back.
She stood still as a marble column but warm as sunshine. Eyes closed, head back, throat exposed, she took rapid breaths. Cupping her neck, he ran a thumb from the tip of her chin to the indentation between her collarbones.
She opened her eyes. “Now I know why cats purr.”
His reaction was swift and immediate. Releasing her, he stepped back. “You hate cats.”
She gave him a lazy smile. “Only when they’re after my birds.”
He waited, knowing it wouldn’t be long.
Sure enough, her brows crinkled and she straightened. “Are you still going to the tournament?”
Lifting a tendril of hair resting against her shoulder, he rubbed it between his fingers. “I am, but I’m not entering.”
Pleasure touched her face.
“Not because I don’t want to,” he clarified. “I do. Very much. But I’ve decided it’s too costly.”
“For the birds?”
“For my pocket.”
Disappointment replaced the pleasure. She pulled back, her hair slipping from his fingers.
“The switchboard is down.” She waved a hand toward it. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but no calls are coming in.”
“Maybe everybody’s headed to the tournament.”
“No. There’s something wrong. There are drops down, but I can’t answer anyone.”
Skirting around her, he looked into the bowels of the machine. A jumble of wires overlapped each other like a pot of spaghetti noodles.
He had no idea how the thing worked, but there were a couple of exposed wires coming up from the bottom. He glanced at her.
She quickly looked away and unfolded the Brenham Banner. He had no business trifling with her. Without family to advise and protect her, she was more vulnerable than most. His disregard for her susceptibility didn’t sit well with him. But somehow the wanna-dos were overriding the should-dos.
He turned his attention to the switchboard. “Anything interesting in the news?”
“Not really.” She fingered the edge of the first page. “The tournament is taking up the whole thing.”
“Not the whole thing, surely.”
“Well . . . it does say Grayson and Camp counties went dry after a local option election on Saturday.”
Opening his pocketknife, he carefully cut the paraffin and insulation around one wire.
“Helen Keller is appealing to the Massachusetts legislative committee for relief of the adult blind.”
“That ought to be effective.”
“One would hope.” She turned the page. “Listen to this: ‘Ottfried Millinery has prepared a feast of style and price lowness that will gladden the hearts of all callers. Miss Julia Wilson has just returned from a two-week trip selecting all the very newest and most correct up-to-date millinery. Come examine the styles. Be sure to bring bird parts for a chance to win an exquisite Easter bonnet.’ ” A low rumble sounded in her throat.
He started on the next wire.
Snapping the page over, she continued scanning. “Oh, my goodness. Over a thousand dollars in diamonds were stolen in Brownsville.