In front of Casey, Tate attempted to stand up, but the branches were too intertwined to fully separate. He helped her stand halfway up, her back against a wooden wall, while he wrestled with an old door. He managed to get it open a few inches, and Casey slipped inside, Tate behind her.
It was a small building, about the size of a walk-in closet, and to one side were remnants of some machine.
“Well pump,” Tate said, as he ran his hands through his hair to get the water out.
“For what well?” Casey was wringing her shirttail out. There was a little window in one wall, but between the rain and the blackberries, there wasn’t much light.
“I have no idea. I was told about this place from the point of view of a child. I doubt if Mom asked what the big machine was used for. If I remember correctly, and if no one has moved it…”
She could see his silhouette as he ran his hands along a wall until he reached the corner.
“Aha!”
She heard a match strike, saw a flame, then he lit a candle and they had light. Tate held aloft an antique pewter holder with a shield on the back.
Behind her was a stack of rugs and cushions that looked as though they’d been pilfered from the Big House. They ranged from a couple of dark velvet ones, probably Victorian, to one that had big red lips with a cigarette hanging from the corner.
“Mom didn’t mention that she and Ace were bandits. Want to sit and wait this out?”
“Sure.” As they moved the pillows, they coughed from the dust, but it was better than sitting on the hard wooden floor.
Casey leaned a fat pillow against the wall, put more on the floor, then sat down. Tate was still standing. The light of a single candle was behind him, and his wet T-shirt was plastered to a body she remembered well.
When she looked at him, he wore the most genuine expression of emotion she’d seen on his face. No acting, no trying to entertain, no teasing. Neither was there a sense of protecting himself. He was open and vulnerable—to her.
It was easy to see what was in his mind. He was waiting for her answer.
Scenes from the last few days flashed through her mind: his anger because she’d spied on him while he showered; how he’d sat quietly while she bawled him out for eating a whole pie. When he’d first stepped onto the stage and seen her dressed as Elizabeth Bennet, a light had come into his eyes. He’d been glad to see her. Later, he’d held her life in his hands as she dangled down on a steep roof. Most of all, she remembered how many times he’d made her laugh. He’d even made her feel better about Ben. For months all she’d felt was guilt. How could she have been so insensitive to a man she loved? But Tate had made her see a different side of it all.
When she gazed up at him with a smile of welcome, he grinned in understanding—and in such deep happiness that she laughed.
He peeled off his wet T-shirt and flung it to the side. The candlelight played off the muscles of his body, and for a moment he stood there looking down at her.
She expected him to pounce on her, but he didn’t. Instead, he stretched out beside her on the pillows, barely touching her. She’d braced herself for an electrical shock, but there was none. Instead, her body seemed to hum.
He reached out to run his fingertips down her cheek. “You’re a very pretty girl,” he said, his voice low and husky.
Her heart was beginning to beat faster. “You see starlets and—”
He pressed his lips to her temple. “You’re prettier, and I like you. Big difference.”
She started to reply, but he began to kiss the side of her face. Her eyes closed as she gave herself over to the pleasure of his lips and his skin pressing against hers. He kissed her eyelids, then slowly moved down toward her mouth.
His lips touched hers, softly at first.
The gentleness slowly deepened so that her mouth opened under his and she felt his tongue. Her arms went around him, her hands on his warm skin, caressing the hardness of the muscles beneath.
The humming inside her seemed to increase.
Tate drew back to look at her. “Feel that?”
“I do,” she said.
His lips moved to her chin, down to her neck. It was only as he reached her throat that she realized he’d unbuttoned her shirt. He easily slipped it off her shoulders. Her bra came next, and when he pulled her bare chest to his, she gasped. Her skin was cool from the rain, but his was warm to the point of being feverishly hot.
His face was in her neck, kissing, his tongue touching the sensuous cords. His hand moved up her ribs, his thumbs caressing her breasts.
“I’ve wanted you since I saw you in those pajamas.”