Southern Gentlemen: John Rip PetersonBilly Ray Wainwright Read online

  Perhaps it hadn’t.

  Rip watched the indecision and longing mirrored in Anna’s face and felt his insides draw with a painful intensity. She was so alluring there in the darkness with the moonlight highlighting the bones of her face and the mystery in her eyes. The need to have this moment with her was an ache with such bite and power that he thought it might stop his heart.

  It wasn’t the urge to see her naked, or even to lead her into some more risqué watery adventure, though he wouldn’t mind those things. Rather, it was the need to have her abandon all her hard-learned precepts and inhibitions, to cast off the strictures and rules that circumscribed her life and join him in his element, his life on the outer fringe of acceptance. He wanted her to choose him over her upbringing, over the hidebound, narrow-minded types like her mother and King Beecroft. He tried to think of some argument that might convince her, but could come up with only one.

  “I won’t touch you. That’s a promise.”

  Her lashes flickered, but she didn’t look away from him. She hesitated, moistening her lips with her tongue.

  Then with slow deliberation, she reached up to unfasten the back of her polished cotton sundress. The deep neckline gaped, exposing more of the creamy skin that had been driving him half nuts all evening.

  He glanced around, then gestured toward the beach area and deeper shadows of the trees above it. For himself, it didn’t matter, but he wanted no unpleasant repercussions for Anna, in spite of his challenge.

  He shed his clothes in a few quick moves, keeping his back turned for the most part, though his peripheral vision took in mind-blowing glimpses of enticing curves, inviting shadows. Then he took a few running strides and hit the water in a shallow dive, swimming submerged for long seconds to give Anna a chance to join him without embarrassment.

  The gliding water cooled his hot skin, soothed his tried temper. The feel of it triggered brief memories of other days, of Tom. Anna’s brother had been so full of life and devilment, clever and clownish by turns, quick to anger but just as quick to get over it. He and Rip had played and fought, shared clothes and food and chewing gum, BB guns and bandages for their injuries. Conscientious, afraid of nothing except the disapproval of his mother and father, Tom had been a real friend and a brother in all but name. There had been times when Rip wished with desperate fervor that Tom could really be his brother, and Anna his little sister.

  He’d changed his mind about the last toward the end.

  Surfacing with a quick upward stroke, Rip turned to his back and glanced toward the shoreline. Anna was just wading into the water, moving with unconscious grace while the moonlight turned her body into pale marble, like a living, breathing statue: gently rounded breasts, not large but beautifully proportioned to the smooth flare of her hips; flat belly with delineating shadows arrowing toward the shimmering, gold-touched triangle of fleece at the apex of her slender thighs; face sublime, upturned to the bathing light of the moon and eyes closed to savor the lake’s wet, lapping caress.

  He hadn’t promised not to look.

  Forgetting to tread water, he submerged and came up again with a soundless sputter. When he spotted Anna once more, she was swimming toward him, flowing with the water in near silent movement. It was as if her molecules were as fluid as the elements around her and she’d become a part of it, merged with it.

  The need to meet her, to take her here, now, in a surging, liquid plunge, hit him so fast he felt the blood rush from his head to coalesce, hot and driving, in the lower part of his body. He gasped with it, fought it. Won, by the hardest.

  No, she must come to him. That was the only way it was going to work. Now or ever.

  As she neared him, she swirled to a stop with at least six feet of water separating them. Her gray gaze held glints of silver; her smile was tentative. He angled away from her, easing into a slow crawl. After an instant, she joined him on a parallel course. They matched stroke for stroke, breath for breath, reaching, pulling in concert down the shining path of the moonlight. The water coursed along their bodies, glided over sensitive nipples, sucked at their armpits, passed between their legs in a swelling current. They turned to their backs, breathing fast and deep so their chests rose and fell and their hearts raced, throbbing in their ears. The night air kissed their wet skin with coolness, shivered along their nerve endings so that goose bumps pebbled the surface. Turning once more, they reached, again and again, for the distant, retreating moon.

  They didn’t gain it. Turning, empty-handed and tired, they swam back toward the shore. Silently, without looking at each other, they left the water, dried as best they could and donned their clothes over their clinging skin.

  Rip stood for a moment, staring at nothing while he waited for Anna to finish putting herself back together. This had been a bad idea, he thought. Sublime in its way, yes, but dumb overall.

  He wouldn’t take anything for the last half hour, but he wouldn’t be doing it again. It strained impulses that were already stretched, made them extra dangerous. Too much was at stake to take such chances, no matter how gratifying the experience.

  A stir beside him signaled that Anna was ready. He reached to put a hand on her arm as support in case she stumbled in the dark. As she flinched, he drew back and curled his fingers into a fist.

  Together, they walked the few steps to the car. As he moved at her side, a single, endless refrain pounded in his brain like a vow.

  No more promises. No more promises…

  7

  Anna didn’t mention the barbecue to her mother the next morning, certainly didn’t breathe a word about the evening swim. The civic club luncheon date was her secret also, though she was well aware that news of it would be all over town by nightfall. What Matilda Montrose didn’t know about, she couldn’t forbid or work to prevent. She could rant and rave, of course. But Anna would only have to listen to it afterward, not before as well.

  It felt terrible, not being able to discuss the situation with her mother in a quiet, reasonable fashion. As strong as the impulse might be, however, it was impossible. If her mother was left in the dark, she had no one to blame but herself. Which was all very rational, but didn’t keep Anna from regretting it.

  The luncheon was to be held, as usual, in the private dining room of the cafeteria-style restaurant. Service would be extremely informal; members simply served themselves from the buffet line. The arrangement nicely accommodated the members who couldn’t arrive on time. Many of the group ran their own businesses, and weren’t able to get away until there was no one in need of their services. Civic affairs had to be squeezed in around making a living.

  If Rip was at all nervous, he hid it well. He greeted her with a smile and a compliment for her yellow linen suit as they met outside the restaurant across the street from the courthouse. Once inside, he seemed to radiate confidence, while his manner was politely cordial without being either stiff or outgoing. He let her take the lead, since it was her territory, but followed with a noticeable presence that made heads turn and left the whispers of hurried consultation in their wake.

  She assumed she’d be the only person on hand he knew. She was wrong. The president of the largest bank in town greeted him on sight with a hearty welcome and a strong handshake, which was logical when she thought of it. No doubt Rip had made a sizable deposit on his arrival, and been in and out of that establishment many times over the course of his purchase of Blest. The lawyer who’d handled the sale was also extremely pleased to see him, as was the real estate agent who had represented the long distance owner.

  Rip’s popularity didn’t end there. The head of the local lumberyard craved an introduction, as did an insurance agent who had heard Mr. Peterson was going to renovate and felt sure Rip would need an interim liability policy. The woman in charge of the art festival wanted to discuss something with him also, though actually standing next to Rip flustered the elderly lady so badly that she never quite pulled herself together enough to explain what it was.

&nbs
p; Anna sympathized. She had thought she would be able to be with him today and still keep at least a small amount of her usual sangfroid, in spite of what they had done the night before. It didn’t happen.

  Every time she looked at Rip, her mind filled with visions of wet skin and raw masculinity. The sound of his voice, perversely enough, submerged her once more in that silent, mystic swim. She felt hot and cold by turns, spoke to people without consciously recognizing who they were and answered questions without knowing what she’d said bare seconds later. She ate without having the slightest idea what she was eating or how it tasted.

  The problem, she thought, was her nunlike life-style of the last few years. It had been so long since she’d made love that her hormones had gone a little crazy under the influence of moonlight and close proximity to an oversupply of testosterone. She was still a little off balance from its effects, but she would recover. All that was required was self-discipline and getting as far away as possible from the source of the trouble. Which she would do as soon as the luncheon was over.

  It was a relief when the remnants of the meal were cleared away and the meeting called to order. The usual business took a short while, then members were invited to introduce their guests. By that time everyone present was aware of who they had among them, and attention was riveted on what she had to say about him.

  Anna kept it concise, glossing over Rip’s history, outlining his business experience in California, but concentrating on what he proposed to do with Blest and the cultural and monetary benefits Montrose would derive from it. When she finished, the applause was adequate, if not overwhelming.

  Rip stood and thanked her for inviting him and the gathering for their welcome, said how happy he was to be back home, then sat down. If his hand was not quite rock steady as he lifted his water glass afterward, she was the only one who noticed.

  The first person to reach them as the meeting broke up was Carrie DeBlanc, owner of the Kitchen Cupboard, a gift and gourmet food shop across from the courthouse. A tall woman, well-padded with compact muscle, she had straight silver-blond hair cut short for practicality, and warm Mediterranean blue eyes set in a mobile face that always wore a smile. Her voice was like a love-smitten bullfrog’s, her laugh contagious and her sense of humor outrageous. She was also one of the best cooks in the country.

  Reaching out to Rip, she said, “I want to shake your hand, Rip Peterson. I don’t think we’ve ever met, but I have to tell you, right off, you’re high on my list of favorite people, and climbing. Hell, after seeing how drop-dead gorgeous you are, honey buns, I may put you at the top!”

  “I’m honored,” he said with laughter in his eyes, “I think.”

  “And so you should be, so you should be. I’ll flirt with anything in pants, I give you fair warning, but there’s not many I’d take home. But you, sir, have won my heart, my hand, my first-born grandchild—hey, I’ll throw in my new chef’s cookware if you say the word. I’m grateful, I’m awed, I’m ecstatic. Would you like me to wash your socks, iron your shirts, bear your children? I’m a bit past the last, but never let it be said that Carrie DeBlanc wasn’t game to the end, not to mention preg—”

  “What did he do?” Anna demanded, smacking her hand down on Carrie’s wrist to get her attention.

  “Don’t interrupt me, pet. I was just getting to the good part.”

  “Careful, Carrie, Rip doesn’t know you’re kidding.”

  Carrie sent him a roguish glance from the corners of her eyes. “You think maybe he’ll take me seriously, take me to the Casbah, take me madly, passionately and as often as a hero in a romance novel? And I’m supposed to be careful? Foolish girl! I live for danger.”

  “You live to make men blush,” Anna informed her. “Come on, don’t keep us in suspense. Give with whatever it is that’s gained your undying gratitude and other assorted favors.”

  “Only if you promise to bring this gorgeous hunk of manly magnificence to dinner at the first opportunity.”

  “You’ve got it,” Anna promised. “Now, give.”

  “All right. He made King Beecroft play crawfish. How I would have loved to have been there to see it! Though I can get off, easy, on the very idea.”

  “Who told you that?” Anna met Rip’s quizzical look with a helpless shrug.

  “Well, let me see,” Carrie said, putting a finger to her chin as she pretended to ponder. “I heard it from Beth Anne, who heard it at the bank from a cashier who had just been to the beauty shop. Now, I can’t swear to it, but I think the same woman does Sally Jo’s mother on Friday mornings. On the other hand, it could have been Sally Jo’s sister who was having a new curl, or maybe it was…”

  “I get the picture,” Anna said hurriedly. “What I don’t get is why you’re so excited.”

  “Honey pie, sugar baby. Let me tell you.” The other woman lowered her voice to a dull roar and looked around as if scouting for spies among the civic club’s distinguished membership. Leaning closer, she said, “King comes in the gift shop and orders a birthday gift for Patty, right? We’re not talking the Hope diamond here. Between you and me, the Beecrofts still have money problems—you know King took bankruptcy a couple of years ago. The ceramic hummingbird he ordered Patty is nice, a little different, but not much more expensive than a box of chocolate truffles—which I could have told him Patty would have enjoyed a lot more.”

  “So?” Anna inquired in the vain hope of urging Carrie to the point a bit sooner.

  “So, as is the nature of things, this hummingbird doesn’t come in on time. It’s back-ordered. But does Mr. It, the Ail-American, understand? Does he realize I can’t manufacture a ceramic bird out of thin air? No, indeedy. He calls up the girl who works for me and demands that she drive a hundred miles to the nearest gift shop to buy a replacement at retail. Honestly. And when she said she couldn’t do that, guess what he said? You’ll never guess. He utters those immortal words, ‘Do you know who I am?’”

  “He didn’t!” Anna exclaimed.

  “He did, I wouldn’t kid you. What an arrogant asshole. What a jerk, a noxious nincompoop with grandiose delusions. It is to laugh. Or spit. Do you know who I am?”

  Rip frowned as he watched them choking on smothered laughter. Then he asked, “Well? Did she?”

  Carrie fell abruptly silent, staring at Rip with her mouth open. Then she caught the glint in his eye, and whooped loud enough to be heard clear across town. “Lord, I love this guy,” she confided to Anna before answering him. “No, the girl actually didn’t know him. She was completely clueless, being no more than seventeen and having just moved into town. And that’s the best part of all!”

  Carrie’s partisanship and ability to draw a crowd broke the ice. A number of others stepped up to take Rip’s hand and say a few words. Some remembered him and said so. Others seemed oblivious of the fact he was a prodigal son with a prison record. Several came forward out of simple decency, while a few hoped to increase their chances for future profit.

  Why they approached made no difference; that they came at all was what mattered. She and Rip had stuck their toes into the water of Montrose community favor and found it not quite as chilly as it could have been. They had made progress toward easing him into some kind of place. The venture was a success.

  “I’m hungry,” Rip said as they walked back toward where he had parked his car.

  She gave him an incredulous look. “You just ate.”

  “Enigma meat, wallpaper paste mashed potatoes, mush that might have been cabbage in another life? I couldn’t have eaten if I’d been able to unclench my teeth.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said in wry agreement.

  “I’ve presided over meetings of rabid stockholders that were less nerve-racking.”

  “Now, how did I get the idea that you were tough?” she marveled to no one in particular.

  “Because I am with everyone except you.”

  The smile that curved his mouth didn’t quite reach his eyes. She wondered briefly if
what he’d said was just banter, or if there was some truth, however minor, to it. She was given no chance to decide, however, for he went on at once.

  “We were talking about food, weren’t we? What happened to that subject?”

  “Sorry. What did you have in mind?”

  “An ice-cream cone?”

  With a rueful smile and the lingering effect of being around Carrie, she said, “Milk and eggs—sounds like good, wholesome food. Why not?”

  To Rip, the ice cream was ambrosia. He’d always had a fondness for it, probably because it had been one of the major treats of his boyhood. He took it straight, too. Plain vanilla, the soft kind, with no chocolate or strawberries, crushed cookies or heaven forbid, bits of candy. No, just the endless glide of rich flavor on the back of his tongue and the occasional crunchy bite of cone.

  They ate while sitting in a booth in the back of the Dairy Queen. It was like a homecoming, the same sticky floors and red vinyl seats split from tools carried in the back pockets of farm boys and construction workers, the same smell of grilling beef, onions, mustard and milky concoctions, the same air-conditioned chill. The place had been the teenager’s hangout when he was in high school. A lot of horseplay, flirting and courtship had gone on behind the high-backed booths. Significant moments of his life had taken place here, moments in the time he thought of as the Great Before—before the robbery, before the trial, before he had been carted off to prison in handcuffs in the back of a police van.

  He knew he had missed it. He just hadn’t realized how much.

  Overlaying his pleasure was his gratitude for getting through the luncheon and having everything turn out all right. He hadn’t been sure it would, by any means. But they had carried it off, he and Anna. She had stood beside him and made it work. It was a harbinger for the future, one he intended to savor.

  “You bought me an ice cream once,” Anna said, a faint smile curving her lips as she concentrated on methodically devouring the cone in her hand.