Read Online Jezebel's Blues by Barbara Samuel, Ruth Wind - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Samuel, Ruth Wind
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bad.”
To offset the gloomy sound of that, he picked up his harmonica, but when he blew a few notes, they came out sounding just like his childhood: motherless and full of too much work. He put it down again.
“How long have you played?” Celia asked.
“Harmonica?” he asked before he remembered she didn’t know he’d ever played guitar. “Since I was about twelve or so. An old man gave it to me.”
“Will you play something?”
He held the harp between his fingers for a moment, hesitating. Then he propped his elbows on his knees and bowed into the instrument, drawing softly. He let the notes lead him where they would. It was again a lonely sound that filled the air, a sound of train whistles in the middle of the night, a sound of empty all-night diners and hotel rooms just before dawn.
His lips tightened and he put the harp down, feeling the old hollowness suck all the breath from his lungs. Celia was silent, but he felt her sympathy as clearly as if she’d wrapped herself around him. He didn’t dare look at her. Instead, he ran his thumbs over the engraved silver of the harmonica until the emptiness eased.
How did she know? he wondered. How could she see inside of him the way she did? He didn’t like it, didn’t like anyone coming that close.
He frowned and looked up. Instead of the flow of kindness he’d seen this morning, there was now a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. One corner of her pretty pink mouth curled almost impishly. Without a word, she grabbed the bottle of bourbon and unstoppered it, then poured a hefty measure in the empty cup near his foot.
Then she returned to her original spot, lifted her cup ironically and took a sip. “I can’t help it, you know.”
“Help what?” His tone was gruff even to his own ears.
“Seeing what you play. Seeing that you aren’t that gruff bad boy you’re trying so hard to convince me that you are.” The small curl on her mouth broke into a full smile. “I’ve been teaching for five years. There’s always one like you.”
The easy observation annoyed him. Deliberately, he eyed the smooth, long expanse of white thigh exposed by her new position. And for an instant, he remembered the feel of her body against his this morning, the easy pearling of her nipple against his hand, the small movements she made against her will. Instinctively, he knew she would be unlike any lover he had ever had.
Lifting the whiskey, he drank it all in one quick swallow, then stood up. “I’m no teenager, Miss Moon.”
The glitter of mischievousness in her pale eyes sharpened. She eyed his bared legs and chest, then looked him square in the eye. “I can see that.”
He knew if he wanted it, they could be lovers tonight. She didn’t exactly expect it, but she’d meet him more than halfway if he let down his walls.
He didn’t dare. Not because she’d ask more than he had to give her, not because he didn’t want to use this gentle, trusting woman, and not because he could see that she thought herself to be a little infatuated with him.
He could not take that step toward her and lose himself in the delight of exploring her because Celia Moon saw through him—and if he didn’t get away real soon, she would see exactly what there was inside of him.
Nothing.
So in spite of the delicious length of thigh and the glitter in her wide, gray eyes and the temptation of her mischievousness, he turned away. “I’m beat,” he said, and flopped belly first on the bed, hiding his arousal and his face.
Shutting her out.
Chapter 5
W hen Celia awakened in the morning, it took her a few seconds to realize what was wrong. Then the complete silence of the room penetrated her fuzzy morning brain.
Eric was gone.
She sat up, her heart squeezing painfully. She’d been so sure he’d at least tell her goodbye.
After a moment of piercing—and disturbing—sorrow over his departure, she spied his pack near the window. His clothes had been gathered, his cards and dice and
To offset the gloomy sound of that, he picked up his harmonica, but when he blew a few notes, they came out sounding just like his childhood: motherless and full of too much work. He put it down again.
“How long have you played?” Celia asked.
“Harmonica?” he asked before he remembered she didn’t know he’d ever played guitar. “Since I was about twelve or so. An old man gave it to me.”
“Will you play something?”
He held the harp between his fingers for a moment, hesitating. Then he propped his elbows on his knees and bowed into the instrument, drawing softly. He let the notes lead him where they would. It was again a lonely sound that filled the air, a sound of train whistles in the middle of the night, a sound of empty all-night diners and hotel rooms just before dawn.
His lips tightened and he put the harp down, feeling the old hollowness suck all the breath from his lungs. Celia was silent, but he felt her sympathy as clearly as if she’d wrapped herself around him. He didn’t dare look at her. Instead, he ran his thumbs over the engraved silver of the harmonica until the emptiness eased.
How did she know? he wondered. How could she see inside of him the way she did? He didn’t like it, didn’t like anyone coming that close.
He frowned and looked up. Instead of the flow of kindness he’d seen this morning, there was now a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. One corner of her pretty pink mouth curled almost impishly. Without a word, she grabbed the bottle of bourbon and unstoppered it, then poured a hefty measure in the empty cup near his foot.
Then she returned to her original spot, lifted her cup ironically and took a sip. “I can’t help it, you know.”
“Help what?” His tone was gruff even to his own ears.
“Seeing what you play. Seeing that you aren’t that gruff bad boy you’re trying so hard to convince me that you are.” The small curl on her mouth broke into a full smile. “I’ve been teaching for five years. There’s always one like you.”
The easy observation annoyed him. Deliberately, he eyed the smooth, long expanse of white thigh exposed by her new position. And for an instant, he remembered the feel of her body against his this morning, the easy pearling of her nipple against his hand, the small movements she made against her will. Instinctively, he knew she would be unlike any lover he had ever had.
Lifting the whiskey, he drank it all in one quick swallow, then stood up. “I’m no teenager, Miss Moon.”
The glitter of mischievousness in her pale eyes sharpened. She eyed his bared legs and chest, then looked him square in the eye. “I can see that.”
He knew if he wanted it, they could be lovers tonight. She didn’t exactly expect it, but she’d meet him more than halfway if he let down his walls.
He didn’t dare. Not because she’d ask more than he had to give her, not because he didn’t want to use this gentle, trusting woman, and not because he could see that she thought herself to be a little infatuated with him.
He could not take that step toward her and lose himself in the delight of exploring her because Celia Moon saw through him—and if he didn’t get away real soon, she would see exactly what there was inside of him.
Nothing.
So in spite of the delicious length of thigh and the glitter in her wide, gray eyes and the temptation of her mischievousness, he turned away. “I’m beat,” he said, and flopped belly first on the bed, hiding his arousal and his face.
Shutting her out.
Chapter 5
W hen Celia awakened in the morning, it took her a few seconds to realize what was wrong. Then the complete silence of the room penetrated her fuzzy morning brain.
Eric was gone.
She sat up, her heart squeezing painfully. She’d been so sure he’d at least tell her goodbye.
After a moment of piercing—and disturbing—sorrow over his departure, she spied his pack near the window. His clothes had been gathered, his cards and dice and
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