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Her heart lurched in her chest. Her throat closed, and her face flushed, with a heat so sudden and fierce she wondered she didn’t burst into flames.
In front of her, Joe Carpenter, a lean, rangy male who’d been born with attitude to spare, attitude he’d apparently passed on to his son, rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder and smiled gently down at the child who’d wrapped himself around his leg. “So, Oliver, reckon you’re still determined to have this tree, huh?”
“Yeah.” Clutching tree and man, the boy fastened one arm around Joe’s waist and leaned against him. “This is the biggest tree. The best A humdinger. Our tree. Right, huh?” He slanted a quick look at Gabrielle and before smiling blissfully at his father.
Gabrielle wondered if she could simply walk away, invisible, into the darkness, disappear behind tree branches, vanish. Anything so he wouldn’t see her.
And then Joe Carpenter looked right at her, wicked amusement gleaming in weary brown eyes. “We’ve got to quit meeting like this, Gabby.” He didn’t smile, but the bayou brown of his eyes flashed with light and mischief.
As memory spun spiderwebs between them, she wished she were anywhere but kneeling at the feet of Joe Carpenter.
Knuckling his son’s brown hair, hair only a few shades lighter than his own, Joe wrinkled his forehead. “Let me see. It’s been what...?” One corner of his mouth gave a teeny-tiny twitch she almost missed in her embarrassment.
In spite of the past, a past embodied in Joe’s son, a past made up of eleven years of creating her own life, she knew to the day and the month how long it had been. And he remembered, too, she decided as she watched his face and willed her own to fade from Christmas red to boring beige.
May 17. Saturday. Prom night Out of place and miserable, she was fifteen years old and younger than her date’s senior friends.
“Hey, pretty Gabby,” he’d said that night, edging his motorcycle right up to the break wall behind the country club.
Water slapped against the dock while he surveyed her, the rumble of his cycle throbbing between them in the humid spring night.
“What are you doing out here? The dance is inside.”
He motioned to the club behind them, with its faint bass beat and blaze of lights.
“I know.” She turned her head and swiped away angry tears.
“So, you going to tell me why the prettiest girl is out here all by her lonesome? Or you going to make me guess?”
Gabrielle knew she wasn’t the prettiest girl. She knew exactly who and what she was. She was the good girl, the one who chaired school committees, worked on the homecoming floats, went to church every Sunday. The girl everybody could count on. The girl who took everything too seriously.
Oh, she knew what she was. She wasn’t the prettiest girl, not by anybody’s definition, but she liked being precisely who she was, and now Joe Carpenter was teasing her, or making fun of her, or flirting with her. Whatever he was doing, she didn’t know how to respond, and she wanted him to stop.
But she wanted even more for him to keep talking to her in that deliciously husky voice that raised the hairs on her arms.
That deep voice vibrated inside her, creating a hunger so unfamiliar that she felt like someone else, not a bit like Gabrielle O’Shea.
Joe Carpenter made her feel—wild.
And curious.
So she drew up her knees under the pale chiffon of her slim skirt, tried not to sniff too loudly and stared out at the shimmer of moonlight on the water. Better to watch the glisten of the water than to think about what Joe Carpenter might mean, because good girls knew better than to be alone with Joe. Even if they wanted to.
Even when their bodies hummed to the tuning fork of Joe Carpenter’s voice.
Especially then, she decided, and wrapped herself tighter in her own arms.
He waited for a moment, but when she stayed silent, he kicked down the motorcycle stand, turned off the engine and walked over to her, his boots squeaking against the wet grass. “The prettiest girl should be inside, dancing the last dance. The one where they finally turn down the lights real low and everybody snuggles up and pretends all that touchin’ is accidental.”
Thinking about the kind of touching he meant, she shivered, and her barely there breasts tingled interestingly.
His voice burred with a kind of teasing she wasn’t able to return, and he stepped nearer. “You know what I mean, Gabby. The kissing dance. That’s what you’re missing. I bet Johnny Ray’s looking all over for you. He’d want to dance real slow, real close, and see if your hair smells as pretty as it looks.”
He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the bay and took one more step closer, his thighs bumping her stockinged toes. “Because I’ve been wondering. Does it, Gabby? Does it smell like rain shine and night jasmine?” With the tip of his finger, he brushed the top of her head, and her toes curled hard against the cement break wall.
She didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Not even when he ran one callused finger down her shoulder, slipping under the cap sleeve of her dress and tracing the veins of her inner arm. She didn’t speak even when he touched her wrist, gently, lightly, a butterfly touch that made her pulse skip and stutter. With a half smile she would wonder about for years, he lifted her arm, holding it up. Moonlight glinted on the thin band of her bracelet, on her skin, turning everything silver.
“Aw, what the hell,” he muttered. “Johnny Ray’s not here, but I am. Too bad for ol’ Johnny Ray,” he said, and tucked her arm around his neck. “Damned if I’m not going to find out for myself what rain shine smells and tastes like.” His gaze never leaving hers, he lifted one of the curls that had cost her thirty-five dollars at Sally Lynn’s salon and, shutting his eyes, stroked the curl against his mouth. “Delicious, that’s what,” he whispered, his dark eyes filling her sight. “Who could have guessed?”
And then the baddest of the bad boys kissed her, and she kissed him right back, a great big smooch of a kiss, tongues and lips and bodies touching in that silvery light Oh, Lord, the touching. All down the stretch of his tough, hard body, her fifteen-year-old self melted, and there had been touching.
She liked feeling wild and wicked and out of control. She liked the hum of her body against his, liked the powerful drumming of his heart against her hand.
But just when she felt like soda pop fizzing out of control, his breath buzzing into her ear and making her insides quiver, he’d murmured, “You may be jailbait, sweet pea, but I swear to God it would be worthwhile. Except—”
He pushed her away from him, leaving her skin cold and hot and aching all at the same time. Stepping away with a grin that promised heaven or hell—she’d never been able to decide—he straddled his cycle and left her in a squeal of tires against pavement while she tried to decide if she wanted to call her daddy to come and pick her up or steal the car keys from her football-hero, drunk-as-a-skunk prom date.
For the rest of that night, her mouth, her body, her skin—everything—had ached and burned with that cold heat, and for the next two years she’d dreamed about Joe Carpenter.
Of course, she hadn’t seen him again after that night.
He’d vanished, leaving Bayou Bend with its own kind of buzz as rumors floated, eddied and finally died away, leaving unexplained the mystery of nineteen-year-old Joe Carpenter’s disappearance one month shy of graduation.
Now, staring up the length of his legs and thighs, Gabrielle swallowed. Even in the darkness of this Christmas tree lot, eleven years later, her entire body flushed with that memory.
No wonder he’d been the town’s bad boy.
Well, she didn’t want those disturbing dreams haunting her again. It had taken too many sleepless nights, too many confused days for her to erase Joe Carpenter from her dreams, her memories.
“So how long has it been?” he asked, his voice low and rumbly, goading, baiting her. “Let me think if I can remember the last time I saw you, Gabby. It must have been—”
“A while,” she said grimly, struggling to her feet and catching one flat-heeled shoe on slippery needles and mud. “That’s how long. A while.” Her foot skidded forward and her arms windmilled crazily. Flailing, she saw her purse sail into the darkness.
“Whoa, sweet pea.” Joe’s warm hand closed around her elbow and braced her, his still-callused fingers sliding down her wrist as she balanced.
Even through the silk of her blouse, Gabrielle felt that warm, rough slide. His hand had been warm that night, too, warm against her bare skin. She shivered.
“Cold?” Amusement glittered in his eyes. Heat was in the depths, too, as he watched her.
He knew what he was doing, as he had eleven years ago, eleven years that had vanished like smoke with his touch. He knew, but she was darned if she’d give him the satisfaction of going all giddy and girlish.
She was twenty-six years old, too old for girlish. Giddy and girlish had never been her style, not even at fifteen. “It’s the damp. That’s all,” she muttered. “I’m not used to it anymore.”
“Sure that’s all it is?” His question, below the raucous rendition of the chipmunks and their version of “Jingle Bells,” tickled the edge of her cheek where he bent over her, still supporting her.
“Absolutely.”
“You moved away from Bayou Bend?” He clamped a hand under her elbow and steadied her.
“I’ve been living in Arizona. Same rattlesnakes. Less humid.” She dusted off her red velour skirt, shot Oliver a smile and a “so long” and slung her shoulder strap over her arm. “Nice to see you again, Joe. Merry Christmas to you and your son.”
She was almost safe. One second more, and she would have been up the walkway and gone, out to her car, away from the slamming of her heart against her chest, away from memory and the sizzle of his touch. One second. That’s all she needed.
Out of the darkness of the next aisle, Moon Tibo lumbered, bumping into her and pitching her straight into Joe Carpenter’s arms. “Okay, folks, let’s haul this tree up front and get you on your way. I mean, you only got twenty-four days to the big event. Y’all gonna want time to hang up them ornaments before this year’s over, right?”
“Right.” Joe’s laugh gusted against her ear, and Gabrielle felt her toes curl in memory. “Give me a minute, Moon. Got a damsel in distress here.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. How ya doin’, Gabrielle? Your dad feelin’ better?”
“Much.” She was all tied up with her purse strap and Joe’s arms, and she twisted, pushed, while Joe’s chest shook with laughter against her. Over its broad slope, she finally angled her face in Moon’s direction. “Dad’s cooking jambalaya tomorrow night, in fact. For after we decorate the tree. Come on over. He’d enjoy seeing you.”
Six foot five and built like a mountain, Moon gifted her with one of his rare smiles. “Might do that. Sure like your dad, I do.”
She tugged again at her strap, which had flicked over Joe’s head and bound them together. Mumbling under her breath to Joe, whose only help so far had been to keep her from landing face first in pine needles and mud, she said, “Give me a hand, will you? I can’t do this alone.”
“You got it, sweet pea. Lots of things aren’t any fun done alone. I like lending a helping hand.” His half smile could have lit up the town of Bayou Bend for a couple of blocks, and even Gabrielle’s forehead blazed with heat. Lifting the strap, he ducked under it, his thick hair brushing up against her mouth, and stepped back. “I’m ready to help out. When I can.” His palm was flat and firm against the hollow of her spine. “How’s that?”
“Peachy. Thanks.” Gabrielle untangled herself from Joe’s clasp and blushed back her hair. Joe Carpenter would flirt if he were wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy. “This has been—special.”
“Absolutely.” He plucked a pine needle twig from her hair and handed it to her. “A memento, Gabby. For old times’ sake.” His voice was light, amused, and his eyes teased her.
But behind the gleam, deep in their shadowy depths, she thought—no, imagined—she saw regret, a regret that made no sense, and so, surely, she must be imagining that rueful glint.
“We never had old times, Joe.” She mustered a smile and let the twig fall to the ground.
“No?”
She shook her head and hoped her own regret didn’t break through. “Not me. You must be thinking of someone else.” Anyone else, she reminded herself. Joe’s track record with adolescent hearts in high school had been gold-medal worthy.
But if she were honest with herself, and she tried to be, she knew her regret ran ocean deep because she’d never, ever felt that wildness with anyone since. She wasn’t fifteen anymore, and she could handle Joe Carpenter’s teasing. Sure she could, she thought as his eyes narrowed intently for a moment.
“Well. If you say so. Must not have been you I was remembering outside the country club.” He shrugged and let his hand rest on Oliver’s head. “It was real good seeing you again.” His gaze sharpened as he gave her a last glance. “Nice, that red skirt and silky blouse.” He smiled, and again that flicker of regret appeared in his eyes. “You look like a shiny Christmas present, Gabby.”
The weariness unraveling his voice and slumping his shoulders was real, and she hesitated, knowing she was making a mistake, knowing she’d be a fool to open her mouth when she had her exit line handed to her on a plate. Say goodbye and walk away. That’s all she had to do.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. She would be asking for more trouble than she wanted, needed. And then, looking down at the boy, Joe’s son, she spoke. “Come for supper. Tomorrow night.” Joe’s sudden stillness told her the invitation surprised him as much as it did her.
She would have taken the words back, but they hung in the air, an invitation she hadn’t intended, an invitation she wished she could take back the minute she spoke.
“Why doncha, Joe? Milo sure wouldn’t care. You know how he is. More the merrier, that’s what ol’ Milo says.” Moon hoisted the tree up with one hand and strode up the aisle toward the shed where the trees were trimmed and netted.
Gabrielle stared after him. She might have known, Moon being Moon, he would stick his two cents in. Trapped, she added politely for appearances’ sake, “Dad makes a big pot. He wouldn’t mind.”
“Jambalaya, huh?” Joe rubbed his chin. “Milo makes good jambalaya.”
“How would you know?” She closed her mouth, stunned. To the best of her knowledge, despite Moon’s blithe assertion, Joe Carpenter had never met her father.
“Oh, I’ve had a plate or two of your pa’s cooking.” Running a hand through his hair, Joe glanced at Oliver, back to her, and then said, so slowly she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, “Thanks. I reckon we’ll take you up on your offer. It’s a good idea.”
Oliver, who’d been strangely silent throughout the whole incident, glared up at her, his face as fierce as it had been the first time she’d seen him, but he didn’t say anything. Taking a sideways step, he plastered himself against his father and stayed there, a scowling barnacle to Joe’s anchor.
Uneasiness rippled through Gabrielle as she saw the boy’s hostility return, and she wished, not for the first time in her life, that she’d counted to ten before speaking. She was trapped, though, caught by Moon’s interference.
Judging by the expression on his face, Oliver was trapped, too. As she looked away from his frown, her words tumbled out. “Good. Company will be great. That’s what the season is all about. Family, friends. Get-togethers. Eggnog.” Mumbling, Gabrielle scrabbled through her purse for a piece of paper and a pen.
“Right.” The corner of Joe’s mouth twitched. “Eggnog’s always sort of summed up Christmas for me.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “Eggnog do it for you, Oliver?”
“No.” Oliver worked his scowl into a truly awesome twist of mouth and nose. “Eggnog stinks.”
Joe’s hand stilled on the boy’s head. “Mind your manners, Oliver,” he said softly and then spoke to Gabrielle. “We’ll be there.”
Retraining her impulsive nature, she bit her bottom Up. Her instinct was to reassure Oliver, but faced with his ferocious grimace, she stopped. Oliver’s likes and dislikes were Joe’s concern, not hers.
Even though the boy’s anger was clearly directed toward her, she knew enough about kids not to take it personally. She didn’t know anything about this particular child. Whatever was going on between him and his father would have to be settled between them. She wasn’t involved.
She pulled out a small cork-covered pad and flipped it open. “All right, then. Let me write out the address.”
“I know where you live, Gabby.” Joe’s hand covered hers, and yearning pierced her, as sweet and poignant as the smell of pine on the cool evening air.
It was all she could do not to turn up her palm and link her fingers with his.
“Unless you’ve moved?”
“No.” Her voice sounded strangled even to her own ears. “Dad hasn’t moved.” Unnerved by the thought that he knew where she lived, she flicked the notebook shut, open. “Oh,” she said, dismayed as a sudden thought struck her. She looked up, made herself meet his gaze straight on. “And bring your wife, too. As Moon said, Dad likes a crowd.”
“I’m not married, Gabby.” Joe’s bare ring finger passed in front of her. He closed her notebook, his hand resting against the brown cork. “What time?”
“What?” Her mind went blank. Nothing made sense. Joe Carpenter, the Harley-Davidson-riding outlaw who could seduce with a look, had a son. Joe Carpenter knew her dad.
Joe Carpenter, whose kiss could melt steel and a young girl’s heart, was coming to her house for jambalaya and tree trimming.
And eggnog.
Sometime when she wasn’t paying attention, hell must have frozen over.
Even in Bayou Bend, Florida.
Chapter Two
“The time, Gabby?” The tip of Joe’s finger tapped gently against her chin, snapping her out of her bemusement.
“What time shall Oliver and I come caroling at your door?”
“Eight, I suppose. That might be late for your son, though.” She hoped Joe would pick up the hint and let her off the hook.
Joe Carpenter, of course, didn’t. “Not a problem. Oliver doesn’t start school until after the holidays.”
Gabby sighed, a tiny exhalation. Joe had a plan. She couldn’t imagine what was possessing him to take her up on her invitation, an invitation offered only out of politeness, not for any other reason.
