“SO YOU WON’T EVEN EAT gravy?” Mark was asking Trixie as Rachel approached shyly with her own plate.
“Nope,” said Trixie, “Rach prepares it out of the drippings of little baby animals.” As she spoke she moved over to make room for her hostess on the couch. “Sit in the middle, Mark,” she added with a shudder. “I can’t look at carcasses.”
Used to Trixie’s theatrics, Rachel sat next to her son, who cast a longing glance at her roast lamb before scraping the gravy off his vegetables. But she knew not to interfere in affairs of the heart.
“There’s pavlova and ice cream for dessert,” she consoled him, and he visibly brightened.
Across the lounge, Devin perched on a stool, still swamped by students, and she was grateful. It was hard enough acting natural around Mark without Devin’s keen powers of observation making her nervous. Trixie noticed the direction of her gaze. “You do realize you’re going to be inundated with first-years once it gets out he’s been here?”
Rachel shrugged and turned to smile at her son. “I hope you’ll come again, too, Mark.”
“Sure,” he said, looking at Trixie.
Trixie opened her mouth, no doubt to tell him she was only here because her washing machine had broken down and she needed somewhere to do free laundry. Rachel cut her off. “So how are your studies going, Mark?” Maybe his cock-eyed plan was to give up school?
“Great. Got my first A on an assignment last week.” He finished his last roast potato and reluctantly speared a carrot.
“Do you know what you want to do with your degree yet?”
“Well, it’s kind of a backup if a career in music doesn’t go anywhere. It was a deal I made with my parents.” He pulled a face, but it might have been due to the carrot.
“How cool that you’ve got Devin as a mentor,” said Trixie.
“Yeah, but I’m trying not to take advantage of that, y’know? I think he’s had enough people using him in his life.”
Rachel felt a prickle of unease but dismissed it. Her relationship with Devin had moved beyond Mark. Yeah, and into a gray area. So she’d be more scrupulous about keeping a distinction.
“Have you and Devin done the wild thing yet?” said Trixie.
“That question’s really not appropriate.” Rachel concentrated on cutting her lamb.
“Why, because of Mark? I’m sure he knows the facts of life. He grew up on a farm.”
Cheeks burning, Rachel tried desperately to change the subject. “What kind of farm was that, Mark?”
It was his turn to look panicky. Puzzled, Rachel watched color creep up his cheeks, then the penny dropped and she came to the rescue. “Did I tell you about this study on dairy cows they did at Leicester University?”
Within thirty seconds, Trixie’s eyes glazed over and she stood up. “Run for cover,” she advised Mark. “It’s one of her Wikipedia anecdotes.”
When she was out of earshot, Rachel looked at Mark. “It’s a beef farm, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He ducked his head. “But if Trixie finds out she’ll stop speaking to me…or beat me up.”
“It could be worse. Imagine what she’d be like with iron in her diet.” She met her son’s eyes and they burst out laughing.
DEVIN WAS GETTING recommendations on Pacific hip-hop artists from a Samoan student named Selei when the sound of Rachel’s laughter made him look across the room. He liked watching her laugh, liked the way it animated her face and made her eyes glow. She and Mark sat side by side sharing a joke, heads together like conspirators.
He was glad he’d had the idea of seeking her advice about…A preposterous idea entered his mind as he stared at them. Laughing, they had a striking similarity in the tilt of their chin and the way their eyes crinkled.
No. He had to be imagining things.
“I’ve got a compilation CD in my car, Devin,” said Selei. “I’ll lend it to you.” He left the room in the wake of the other students, who were making a rush to the kitchen for dessert.
Casually, Devin wandered over to Rachel and Mark. “What’s pavlova, that it causes a stampede?” he asked.
Beryl and Kev’s hometown was Matamata. “Near Hamilton,” Rachel had said, “where I grew up.” Mark’s birth mother had been from Hamilton.
“A cake-size meringue smothered in cream and strawberries,” said Rachel.
And she was thirty-four. Around the right age.
“New Zealand and Australia still squabble over who invented it,” Mark added. “It was made in honor of some ballerina who toured Down Under a couple of centuries ago.”
“Actually, it was only eighty odd years ago,” Rachel corrected. “Anna Pavlova, in 1926…Devin, why are you looking at us strangely?”
“I was thinking how odd it was to fight over ownership of a dessert.” He reached for Rachel’s empty plate, telling himself this was all coincidence. “The food was great, thanks.”
“Here, I’ll take that.” Mark stood and stacked the plate on top of his own, still half-full with carrots and broccoli. “You want me to get you some pav? Rachel?”
“I’ll come with you. Devin, stay and enjoy the peace for a few minutes. You’ve earned it.”
He sat on the couch, trying to think. The math worked, but Rachel wasn’t the type to have had a teen pregnancy. Why was he so emphatic about that? Devin smiled. Because he couldn’t imagine anyone taking advantage of her.
But he was thinking of the grown woman. What would she have been like at sixteen, seventeen? The corners of his mouth lifted again. A Goody Two-shoes without a doubt. Earnest and probably naive. But still uniquely Rachel.
Devin couldn’t categorize her. Yes, she was conservative, at least compared to him, but she surrounded herself with people who were outsiders, or rebels like baby Goth. Yes, Rachel was sensible and pragmatic, but last night she’d surrendered-briefly-to passion and spontaneity.
Searching his mind for facts, not feelings, Devin came up with very few. Busy protecting his own privacy, he’d never appreciated that she was doing the same. What did he know about Rachel, really? Only what she’d wanted him to.
No wonder he couldn’t get her out of his head.
He remembered how opposed she’d been to his friendship with Mark a few weeks back; in hindsight, her concern had an almost hysterical quality. But then, she looked out for new students. Hell, she had a houseful right now.
Through the open doorway, Devin watched her cluck over her brood like a mother hen. This woman wouldn’t have given up a child. He was wrong. Things could stay simple. Simple was how he needed them.
TWO HOURS LATER Rachel was on the doorstep saying goodbye to students when Trixie came out with Mark.
“I’m taking him to the new health food store in Grey Lynn and stocking him up on whole foods.” Rachel noticed he was carrying Trixie’s bag of clean laundry. Mark caught her eye and grinned self-consciously.
Whatever his cockeyed scheme was, it wasn’t serious. From their conversation, she’d learned that Mark wasn’t planning to leave school. He probably wanted to date Trixie, and hoped Devin would get some pointers from Rachel. Unfortunately, he was doomed to disappointment. Trixie might consider dating a younger man but she stuck to her own kind. Hopefully, the crush didn’t run too deep.
“Drive carefully,” she said to Trixie.
“Yes, Mom. C’mon, Mark, let’s leave the lovebirds to it.”
Rachel blushed. Why did Trixie keep doing this to her? “Our relationship hardly warrants that description,” she began, and was pulled back into a hard male body.
“Yet,” said Devin. His breath on her nape sent a shiver down her spine. “Thanks, guys, we’d appreciate it.”
Rachel finished waving them down the street before she turned on him. “You’re taking far too much for granted, mister.”
“You just don’t like someone else taking charge,” he said mildly. “But what’s that got you in the past? Guys like Paulie you can’t respect.”
“I respected Paul,” she said defensively.
“Notice how you put that in the past tense?” Devin rubbed his thumb between her eyebrows, making her aware that she was frowning. “Besides, if I let you dictate the pace you’ll end up thinking about it for another month, laying down rules and parameters and basically taking all the fun out of it.” Devin slid his thumb down her jawline, then brushed it across her mouth. “Do you really want me to let you do that?”
His broad chest was very close. In answer she stepped forward and laid her cheek against it, then felt his arms close around her. The trouble was, around this guy she couldn’t think. He smelled so good-rugged, clean, masculine. “You have pheromones in your aftershave, don’t you?”
A chuckle rumbled under her cheek. “I haven’t shaved for a couple of days.”
She checked; he was right. Funny how she’d stopped noticing him as scruffy and disheveled. Lifting a hand, she ran her fingers through the stubble. It highlighted his mouth, wide, firm and tempting.
And his hair was soft, too. Somehow all those vibrant red highlights made her expect it to be springy, but it was baby-fine. “It’s getting long again,” she commented. She could lose her hand in all that rich, wild color.
“You think I should get another haircut?”
She hesitated. “No.”
Something started to hum between them, like the charge in the air before an electrical storm. He freed her hair from the ponytail. “You smell good, too. Like roast lamb and gardenias.” He kissed her, and she closed her eyes, suddenly weak with desire. “And you taste of strawberries,” he said when he came up for air.
“I might have eaten a couple in the preparation,” she admitted, smiling.
“Is that why you served yourself so little, or did you go short so the fledglings could have second helpings?” He looked at her with a frank affection he didn’t bother to hide. He had no business looking at her that way, as though they had the possibility of a real relationship, a future. It took her dangerously close to needing him, and Rachel had spent her life making sure she didn’t need anyone.
“You have the most expressive face of anyone I’ve ever met,” he said. “And you’ve just gone AWOL on me. Why?”
Rachel swallowed. “That’s silly,” she said, and kissed him.
The kiss was different, distant. Devin let her go. He’d had enough casual sex to last him a lifetime, and it wasn’t what he wanted from her. The realization was a shock; now he was the one who needed some time to think.
“I didn’t get to eat much, either,” he admitted. “How about we grab a cold lamb sandwich?”
“Good idea, there’s still plenty of meat on the bone.” She didn’t seem the least disappointed by his withdrawal, dammit, leading the way to the kitchen, hauling out the leftovers, the bread, the chutney. The librarian never reacted how he expected. It was one of the most infuriating and charming things about her.
“Put the kettle on,” she said. “We’ll have tea.”
“I’ll make iced. It’s too hot for the Kiwi version.”
“Trixie left some wine in the…sorry, I forgot. Yes, iced tea would be lovely.” She started building the sandwich-meat, mustard, tomato. “Do you miss alcohol?”
Devin preferred to have the subject out in the open. “For years I thought alcoholism was a problem I could be cured of, so I could go back to drinking.” He found ice in the freezer, a lemon in the fruit bowl. “But when it finally came down to life or death…well, it clarified my priorities. No, I don’t miss it.”
“And you’ll always have your music.”
He concentrated on stirring in the sugar. “I haven’t had an idea in months. I’m beginning to think I can’t write songs sober.”
“Performance anxiety,” said Rachel. “You’ll get over it.”
“Oh, will I?” Devin was torn between amusement and irritation. “As the first woman I intend to sleep with-sober-you’d better be more encouraging in bed.”
She giggled.
Devin stared at her for maybe two seconds, then strode over and threw her over his shoulder. In the hall he couldn’t find the bedroom, which only made Rachel giggle more. At last he chose the right door. Pushing it wide, he paused on the threshold. It was French provincial, the whitewashed furniture all spindly carved legs and ornate handles.
The bed was narrow, piled high with pillows and bolsters, the curved headboard stenciled with fat pink roses. Fortunately, the shabby gilt mirrors on the delicate dresser injected a much-needed sinfulness to the fairy-tale theme.
Dumping the librarian on the bed, he lay on top of her until her giggles subsided and she lay boneless and quiescent under his weight. He became aware of every soft curve and valley of her body. Her eyes darkened with a similar appreciation of their differences.
She wore some kind of vintage dress of pale green cotton with a simple bodice and a full skirt. Devin hadn’t liked it until now, when he realized he could flip up the skirt and position his lower body between her bare, lightly tanned legs.
“Your boots are on the bed,” she protested feebly. He laughed deep in his throat, then moved to nestle against the silky fabric of her underwear, applying just enough pressure to show Rachel how denim over an aroused male could work for a woman.
They were going to do this slowly, but her surprised gasp stirred a need that tipped his lust into possessiveness.
There was fierce ownership in the way his teeth grazed her nipples through the cotton, then his mouth suckled until she moved restlessly under him. “But my dress…no…don’t stop.”
His mouth captured her moan as he slid his fingers up her silky thigh and between their bodies. She was wet, hot and ready for him, and they’d barely started.
He’d come if he didn’t slow this down. Devin started pulling away his hand and it got tangled with hers as she struggled with the clasp of his belt, then the zipper, shoving his jeans down just low enough to…Her hand closed around him.
“Rachel, wait-”
It was her turn to cut off his protest with a kiss as hot and wild as what they were doing with their hands. Breathing heavily, he grabbed her wrist.
She was beautiful, her soft hair tangled, her eyes unguarded. Devin forgot what he was going to say and kissed her back. Their bodies came together and he remembered. “We need a condom.”
“Yes.”
She fumbled in the drawer beside her and he noticed her hands were shaking. So were his. Between them they managed to cover him, haul off her panties. They didn’t bother with his jeans. Or his boots. She whimpered as he thrust inside her, and he heard himself answer with a similar helplessness.
Then everything was Rachel, the feel of her around him, the unfocused expression on her face. Their gazes tangled, fierce and soft at the same time. The antique bed was too narrow and their clothes bunched, stalling their rhythm, but it didn’t matter. Devin felt a wonder, a wonder that built and carried him to uncharted territory.
She cried out, and the sound took him over the edge. In that timeless moment of release he loved her.
He remembered that as they lay together afterward, catching their breath and staring at the ceiling, Rachel obviously as shocked as he was by the intensity of the experience.
He was faintly embarrassed, unwilling to believe it was possible that someone who’d never considered sex as anything other than fun had been temporarily caught in the emotions of a lovesick teenager.
Rachel rolled toward him with a serious expression and he panicked. If she talked about feelings…
“I think,” she said carefully, “you might have one vice left.”
In his relief, Devin laughed.
SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE SLEPT with him.
Pretending to be hungry, Rachel took another bite of her roast lamb sandwich, then forced it down with a swig of iced tea. Devin sat beside her on the garden bench in the tiny paved courtyard of her backyard, devouring his second sandwich.
His long legs were sprawled out in front of him; one arm was slung casually around her shoulders, and in the early summer evening his black T-shirt was a sun trap she wanted to snuggle into. Instead she sat on her side of the bench, nursing her grievance.
The man had grossly misrepresented himself as a player when he was…well, Rachel didn’t know what he was. But far from feeling light-hearted and rejuvenated, she was disorientated and vulnerable.
It had taken everything she had to come up with a flippant comment after they’d had sex, when inside she’d felt like a nervy sixteen-year-old wanting reassurance that this meant something to him. She hadn’t expected to care, but he’d made her care and he had no right to.
His lazy charm and her own prejudices had lulled her into seeing him as emotionally harmless, and then he’d gone and nuked her when she wasn’t looking. Bastard. Giving up on her sandwich, Rachel ripped off pieces and tossed them to the sparrows.
“You’re not throwing hand grenades, Heartbreaker.”
She picked up the jug of iced tea. “Another?”
“Thanks.” He held out his glass. “I never did get around to asking your advice about Mark.”
The mention of her son was a welcome diversion. “Break it to him gently,” she said, refilling the glass, “but between you and me, he has as much chance of dating Trixie as you do of attending Sunday service.”
“Maybe God’s already answered my prayers.” There was a meditative quality in Devin’s voice that made her skin prickle. She fumbled and tea and ice cubes skidded across the flagstones.
“Careful.” Taking the jug from her, Devin put it back on the ground. “Getting his heart broken by an older woman might be good for Mark’s songwriting. Look at what Rod Stewart achieved after meeting Maggie May.”
“Mark’s too young to start having sex,” said Rachel sharply. “If I thought for one minute Trixie was interested-” She stopped, because she was overreacting and Devin’s eyebrows were raised. “Of course, it’s none of my business.” Though she didn’t want it, she picked up her iced tea and took a sip, grimacing at how sweet it was.
“You care about teenagers,” he said. “That’s why I want your advice. Anyway, Trixie isn’t the concern.”
“So if it’s not Trixie…” And Rachel knew from talking to Mark that it wasn’t school. She clutched Devin’s arm. “Oh, God, he’s sick, isn’t he?”
He laughed. “Did you see how much Anna Pavlova he ate? No, he’s not sick. He recently found out he’s adopted, and he wants to find his birth mother.”
For a moment Rachel couldn’t breathe, then happiness swept over her, a joy so great she couldn’t speak. She tightened her grip.
“I want you to talk him out of it,” said Devin.
“Why?” The word erupted from her. She flung his arm off and stood up. “Don’t you understand how wonderful that is?”
“He hates her,” said Devin, and her iridescent rainbow-colored bubble burst.
Rachel walked to a rosebush, where she started pulling at dead flowers. “He hates her,” she repeated slowly.
“For giving him up,” said Devin. “He’s looking for a confrontation, not reconciliation, and that’s not good for him. Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves to do that?”
She gazed down at the shriveled rose petals in her hand, the color of dried blood, and the tiny pinlike thorns embedded in the pads of her fingers. “Probably.”
“Let me see.” Mechanically, she went to him, holding out her hand like a child. “For God’s sake, Rachel, it’s full of thorns.” He started pulling them out with long, skillful fingers.
She swallowed hard. “What if she had a good reason for giving him up?”
“We don’t know that-we don’t even know if she’s willing to see him.” Pinpricks of blood welled where he’d removed the tiny thorns, shiny beads of bright red. “He’s doing it behind his adoptive parents’ backs, following his own crazy trail like some vigilante, seeing his mother in every woman’s face. He’s even got me jumpy.”
Pulling the last prickles out of her thumb, he shifted his attention to the few still in her palm. “You want to hear something funny? For a few minutes today I even thought you might be a candidate.”
Her insides lurched. “That is funny,” she managed to say.
Devin lifted her hand higher and examined it closely. “I think that’s all of them.”
A teardrop splashed onto her open palm, then another. Rachel couldn’t hold them back. For long seconds, they watched the tears trickle along the heart line, then Devin lifted his head, his expression one of shock.
“Or not funny,” she said.