Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) Read online

  They were the sweetest after-love words he’d ever heard. Not only did they tell him that she savored the continuing contact, they also said something about her feelings toward what they’d just shared.

  They reassured him, too. He hadn’t performed in a particularly skillful way. He hadn’t coaxed her, caressed her, teased her into a state of arousal. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t even kissed her. But she’d been ready.

  Because she’d needed him. Because she hadn’t had a man in a long time. Because it had been more than sex. And because she, too, had felt its uniqueness.

  He didn’t say anything when he felt the tremors in her body and realized that she was crying. He spoke with his hands, curving one around her neck to keep her pressed close, using the other to gently stroke her hair. He knew why she was crying, and he felt it, too. But he felt more—a protectiveness that kept his movements steady and soothing until, at length, she cried herself to sleep. Only then did he close his eyes as well.

  * * *

  CONSCIOUSNESS CAME SLOWLY to Leah the next morning. She was first aware of being delightfully warm. Drawing her knees closer, she snuggled beneath the thick quilt. With a lazy yawn, she discovered that she felt rested. And satisfied. Her limbs were relaxed, almost languid, but there was a fullness inside that hadn’t been there before.

  Then she realized that she was wearing nothing from the waist down, and her eyes opened.

  Garrick was sitting on the side of the bed. On her side. He was fully dressed. And he was watching her.

  Not quite sure what to say, she simply looked at him.

  Gently and with a slight hesitance, he smoothed a strand of dark hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t hurt you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Any regrets?”

  She spoke as softly as he had. “No.”

  “I’m glad.” His hand fell back to the quilt. “Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “Could you eat some pancakes?”

  “Very easily.”

  A tiny smile broke out on his face. She would have reached for her glasses to better see and enjoy it, but she didn’t want to move an inch.

  “How ‘bout I make a double batch while you get dressed?”

  “Sounds fair.”

  He squeezed her shoulder lightly through the quilt before leaving to fulfill his half of the bargain. Only when she heard busy sounds coming from the kitchen did she pay heed to her half. Rooting around between the sheets, she found and managed to struggle into her thermal bottoms. Once in the bathroom, she showered and dressed, then returned to the main room, where Garrick was adding the last of the pancakes to high stacks on each of two plates.

  “Real syrup,” she observed after she’d sat down. “This is a luxury.”

  He watched her dribble it sparingly atop the pancakes, then ordered quietly, “More.”

  “But it’s too good to waste.”

  “There’s no waste if you enjoy it. Besides, this is last year’s batch. The new stuff will be along in another month.”

  Leah turned the plastic container in her hand. It had no label. “Is this local?”

  “Very.”

  “You made it yourself?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have the equipment.”

  “I thought all you had to do was to stick a little spigot in a tree.”

  “That’s true, in a sense. But if you stick one little spigot in one tree, then take the sap you get and boil it down into syrup, you get just about enough to sprinkle on a single pancake.”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly. What you have to do is tap many trees, preferably have long hoses carrying the sap directly to a sugar house, then boil it all in huge vats. There are many people in the area who do it that way. I get my syrup from a family that lives on the other side of town.”

  “Do they make syrup for a living?”

  “They earn some money from it, but not enough to support them. The season’s pretty limited.”

  She nodded in understanding, but her appreciation wasn’t as much for the information as for the fact that he’d offered it willingly. Up until now they’d exchanged few words. She realized that, living alone, he wasn’t used to talking. Still, while she’d been showering she’d wondered whether there would be awkward silences between them, given what had happened last night. She’d meant what she’d said; she had no regrets. But she hadn’t asked him if he did.

  From his relaxed manner, she guessed that he didn’t, and it pleased her. Turning her attention to her pancakes, she cut off a healthy forkful. Her fork wavered just above the plate, though, and she stared at it.

  “Garrick?”

  His mouth was full. “Mmm?”

  “I just wanted to say … I wanted to tell you … what happened last night … well, I haven’t ever done anything like that before.”

  He swallowed what was in his mouth. “I know.”

  Her eyes met his. “You do?”

  “You were tight. You haven’t made love in a long time. Not since your divorce?”

  Cheeks pink, she shook her head in affirmation. “I wanted to make sure you knew. I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression. I mean, I don’t regret for a minute what we did, but I’m not the kind of woman who just jumps into bed with a man.”

  “I know—”

  “But I wasn’t sex starved—”

  “I know—”

  “And it wasn’t just because you were there—”

  “I know—”

  “Because I don’t believe in casual affairs—”

  “I know—”

  Setting down her fork, she curved her fingers against her bangs. “This is coming out wrong. Now it sounds as though I’m rigidly principled and expect something from you, but that isn’t it at all.”

  “I know. Leah? If you don’t eat, the pancakes will get cold.”

  “I’m not a prude or a sex fiend. It’s just that last night I needed you—”

  “Leah…” He focused pointedly on her plate.

  She gave up trying to explain and set to eating. All she could do was hope that he’d understood what she’d been trying to say. She cared what he thought of her, and though part of her was sure he’d known what she’d been feeling last night another part was less confident.

  Confidence was something she lacked where relationships with men were concerned. She’d thought she’d known what Richard had wanted, and she’d been wrong. But that was only one of the reasons she’d avoided men since her divorce.

  She avoided them because she was independent for the first time in her life and was enjoying it. She avoided them because she always had and always would detest the dating ritual. She avoided them because none of the men she met sparked the slightest romantic interest. And she avoided them because she had a fair idea of what a man had in mind when he asked out a thirty-three-year-old divorcée.

  Yes, she cared about what Garrick thought of her, but before that—and more so now than ever—she cared what she thought about herself. She wasn’t a tramp. She wasn’t out for gratuitous sex. She liked to think of herself as a woman of pride, a selective woman. She liked to think that when she did something, she did it with good reason.

  That had been the case in bed last night. From the first she’d felt an affinity for Garrick. Above and beyond what Victoria had said, her instincts had told her much about the kind of man he was. He wasn’t a playboy. Just as he’d known she hadn’t made love in a while, she knew the same about him. There was nothing in his cabin—no leftover lingerie, no perfume or errant earrings stuck in a corner of the medicine chest—to suggest that he’d had a woman here. The urgency with which he’d entered her and so quickly climaxed was telling.

  Indefinite periods of celibacy notwithstanding, he was all man, ruggedness incarnate. From the way his sandy-gray hair fell randomly over his brow, to the way his bea
rd grew, to his pantherlike gait, to his capacity for chopping and carting wood, he was the kind of macho hero too often limited to the silver screen.

  Macho ended, though, with his looks and carriage. He was a three-dimensional man, capable of gentleness and consideration. Those qualities were the ones that had gotten to her first. They were, ironically, the ones that had evoked such a tremendous surge of emotion within her—emotion that had, in the final analysis, been the reason she’d made love with him.

  It hadn’t been simply because he was there. If he’d been cruel or unfeeling, repulsive either physically or emotionally, she’d never have climbed into his bed, much less made love with him, regardless of the depth of her need. No, she’d sought comfort from him because he was Garrick. He was a man she could probably love, given the inclination and time.

  Of course, she had neither, and thought of the time brought her back to the present. Swishing the last piece of pancake around in the remaining drops of syrup, she brought it to her mouth and ate it, then put down her fork and looked toward the window.

  “It’s still raining, isn’t it?” She’d gotten so used to the sound on the roof that she practically didn’t hear it.

  Garrick, who’d finished well before her, had his chair braced back on its rear legs. He was nursing the last of his coffee. “Uh-huh.”

  “No sign of a letup?”

  “Nope.”

  It occurred to her that she wasn’t as disappointed about that as she might have been, and she felt guilty. Despite all that had happened, she was still imposing on Garrick. “No hope of getting to my car?” she forced herself to ask.

  He shrugged. The front legs of his chair met the floor with a soft thud, and he stood, gathering the dishes together. “I was thinking of making a try later. You’d probably like some other clothes.”

  He hadn’t said anything about freeing the car or getting rid of her. She smiled and, looking down, plucked at the voluminous folds of his sweater. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to get used to this. It’s comfortable.”

  Garrick wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to how great she looked. When he’d first seen her in it, he’d thought she looked adorable. Now, having had the intense pleasure of being inside her, he thought she looked sexy. That went for the way she looked in his thermal long johns, too. He hadn’t thought so at first, but he’d changed his mind, and his body wasn’t about to let him change it back.

  Taking refuge at the sink, he began to clean up with more energy than was strictly necessary. It helped. By the time he was done, he had his libido in check. He didn’t want to frighten Leah or act as though she should pay for her keep by satisfying his every urge. And it wasn’t as if his every urge was for sex, though after last night, he had a greater inclination toward it than he had in years.

  Last night … last night had been very, very special. It was sex, but it wasn’t. It was so much an emotional act, rather than a physical one, that he didn’t have the words to describe it. Yes, if there were to be a repeat, the emotional element would be present, but he knew that there’d be more. He knew that this time he’d want to touch her and kiss her. This time he’d want to explore her body and get to know it as completely as, in some ways, he felt he knew her soul. Her mind, ah, that was another matter. He wanted to get to know it, too, but … probably that wasn’t wise. When the ground dried up, she’d be leaving. He didn’t want to miss her.

  Which was why he reverted into the silence with which he’d grown increasingly comfortable over four years’ time. He didn’t ask her any of the million questions he had. He told himself he didn’t want to know the details of what made Leah Gates tick. If he didn’t know it would be easier to pretend that she was shallow and boring. Easier to tell himself, when she was gone, that he was better off without her.

  Leah spent the morning much as she had her waking hours the day before. She finished one book and started another. She made frequent notes on a pad of paper when she encountered a word or concept in her reading that would translate into a crossword. She doodled out nonsense puzzles, but the puzzle that commanded her real interest was Garrick.

  He was an enigma. She knew that they had at least one need in common, and she knew, in general, the type of man he was. The specifics of his day-to-day life, though, were a mystery, as was his past.

  Mentally she’d outlined a crossword puzzle. Garrick’s name was blocked in, as were certain other facts pertaining to their relationship, but she needed more information if she hoped to find the words to complete the grid.

  It was late morning. They were each sitting in what she’d come to think of as their own little corner of the sofa. Garrick had gone outside for a while, though not to the car, he’d told her when she’d asked. He hadn’t elaborated further, and she’d been loath to press. It was his home. He was free to come and go as he pleased. She couldn’t help but be curious, though, particularly when he returned after no more than thirty minutes.

  After letting him dry off and settle in with his book for a while, she ventured to satisfy her curiosity.

  “I hope I’m not keeping you from doing things.”

  “You’re not.”

  “What would you be doing if I weren’t here?”

  “On a day like this, not much of anything.”

  Which was precisely what he was doing now, he mused a tad wryly. He’d gone to the back shed, thinking that working with toothpicks and glue, making progress on the model home he’d been commissioned to make, would be therapeutic. But if the therapy had been intended to take his mind off Leah, it had failed. Even the book that lay open on his lap—a novel he’d purchased the week before—failed to capture him.

  Leah broke into his thoughts. “And if it weren’t raining?”

  “I’d be outside.”

  “Trapping?”

  He shrugged.

  “Victoria said you were a trapper.”

  “I am, but the best part of the trapping season’s over for the year.”

  She let that statement sink in, but it raised more questions than it answered. So a while later, she tried again.

  “What do you trap?”

  He was crouching before the fire, adding another log to the flames. “Fisher, fox, raccoon.”

  “You sell the furs?”

  He hesitated, wondering if Leah was the crusader type who’d lecture him about the evils of killing animals to provide luxury items for rich people. He decided that there was only one way to find out.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve never owned a fur coat.”

  “Why not?” He turned on his haunches, waiting for the lecture.

  “They’re too expensive, for one thing. Richard—my ex-husband—thought I should have one, but I kept putting him off. If you walk into a restaurant with a fur, either you’re afraid to check it in case it gets stolen, or the management refuses to let you check it. In either case, you have to spend the evening worrying about whether your fruits de mer au chardonnay will spatter. Besides, I’ve always thought fur coats to be too showy. And they’re heavy. I don’t want that kind of weight on my shoulders.”

  It wasn’t quite the answer Garrick had feared, but it was a fearful one nonetheless, for it had given him a glimpse of her life—at least, the one she’d had when she’d been married. Her husband had apparently been well-to-do. They’d gone to fine French restaurants and had kept company with women who did worry about spattering sauce on their furs. If he could tell himself that Leah was as turned off by that kind of life-style as he was, he’d feel better. He’d also feel worse, because he’d like her even more.

  “I see your point” was all he said, returning to the sofa and lowering his eyes to his book in hopes of ending the conversation. Leah took the hint and said nothing more, but that bothered him. If she’d pushed, he might have had something to hold against her. He hated pushy women, and Lord, had he known his share.

  Lunchtime came. Halfway through her bologna sandwich, Leah set it down gently. “Did I o
ffend you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I said that I didn’t like fur coats?”

  He’d been deep in his own musings, which had gone far beyond fur coats. It took him a minute to return. “You didn’t offend me. I don’t like them, either.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head.

  “Doesn’t that take some of the pleasure out of your work?”

  “How so?”

  “Having someone turn the product of your hard work into something you don’t like? I know I’d be devastated if someone used my page of the paper to wrap fish.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “I’ve never witnessed it personally, but I’m sure it’s been done more than once.”

  “If you did see it, what would you do?”

  She considered for a minute, then gave a half shrug. “Rationalize, I suppose.”

  “How?”

  “I’d tell myself that I enjoyed creating the puzzle and that I was paid for it, but that … that’s the end of my involvement. If it gives someone pleasure to wrap fish in my puzzle—” she hesitated, hating to say the next but knowing she had to “—so be it.”

  He grinned.

  She winced, then murmured sheepishly, “If it gives someone pleasure to wear a fur coat, so be it.…” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Do you enjoy trapping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It takes skill.”

  “You like the challenge.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you learn how to do it?”

  “A trapper taught me.” He stood and reached across the table for her plate. “All done?”

  She nodded. “A local trapper?”

  “He’s dead now.” Stacking the plates together, balancing glasses and flatware on top, he carried the lot to the sink. “I thought I’d make a stab at reaching your car. If you tell me what you want, I’ll bring back as much as I can.”

  She rose quickly. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.”

  “Two pairs of hands are better than one.”

  He turned to face her. “Not in this case. If I have to hold you with one arm, I’ll have only one left for your things.”

  “You won’t have to hold me.”