and understanding and something that just might be the start of respect.
#
Rafe pushed the mower up and down the length of the backyard. The vertical blinds were open, and he could see Molly at the kitchen card table. She sat opposite the skinny little brown-haired woman he'd seen getting out of the faded green Chevy. They didn't look too happy. The skinny one was bent over her plate while Molly looked as if she wished she were anyplace but where she was. She had this habit of pushing food around with her fork, like a little kid hiding the peas beneath the mashed potatoes. He was learning all of her habits. He knew that she always rinsed dishes before putting them in the dishwasher, that she drank milk from a dark blue wineglass with a fragile stem, that the sweet curve of her body as she bent down to bring in the morning newspaper was the essence of beauty that had eluded poets for centuries. He didn't even like poetry, but somehow he knew this.
He usually grabbed his lunch under the big maple tree opposite the sliding doors. It was a great spot. He could lean against the trunk and watch her moving around the kitchen while he polished off a hero and a can of Coke.
He'd never seen a woman move the way Molly Chamberlain did. She didn't so much walk as glide, a supple, sinuous movement that rippled behind his eyes late at night when he couldn't sleep. He saw other wonders on those sleepless nights. Molly Chamberlain moving beneath him—her hips arching to meet his, her eyes closed, her, full round breasts softer than a whispered dream. Some mornings he couldn't meet her eyes because he was sure the moment she looked at him she'd know what he'd been thinking.
Assuming she ever looked at him at all.
The lawyer appeared in the kitchen. He said something, and the two women laughed. Polite laughter. It had to be. He'd never met a funny lawyer and he doubted if that Porsche-driving specimen would be the first.
Molly pushed back her chair and stood up. The lawyer was at her side instantly , offering her a hand even though it was clear she'd already managed the feat on her own. She smiled up at the lawyer, looking more at ease, more comfortable than she ever had with Rafe. He knew that look. It was the same one Karen had used on every man but the one she was married to.
They almost looked like a family in there. There was something about Molly and the lawyer that seemed preordained. She was the kind of woman who was meant to have certain things in life: a big house, a nice car, an expensive husband. Somebody like the guy in the fancy suit who was dancing attendance around her.
The sight bugged Rafe. It gnawed at his gut like a handful of jalapenos. Ever need proof which way the wind blows? Try being on the wrong side of Molly Chamberlain's window.
#
At first Spencer thought Jessy Wyatt was being polite. The last time anyone had listened so intently to one of his stories was when he was trying to explain to an irate judge why his client had decided a trip to the Bahamas was more important than showing up for her hearing.
Molly usually paid fairly close attention to his stories , but her attention was wandering. She seemed more interested in glancing out the sliding doors to watch the help mow the lawn.
No , it wasn't his story that was captivating the lady doctor.
He was tempted to glance down and mak e sure his fly was zipped, but Jessy's eyes hadn't dropped from his face. He was accustomed to a fair amount of attention from the opposite sex. The lingering glance. Perfectly aimed half smile. A touch so soft you might have imagined it.
But this was different. She wasn 't flirting with him. She was declaring. The invitation was there. No doubt about that. But it was more than that. Her serious face was turned up to him like a flower, one of those scruffy orange lilies that grew along fences and at the side of the road. The kind he usually didn't notice unless somebody pointed them out.
He
#
Rafe pushed the mower up and down the length of the backyard. The vertical blinds were open, and he could see Molly at the kitchen card table. She sat opposite the skinny little brown-haired woman he'd seen getting out of the faded green Chevy. They didn't look too happy. The skinny one was bent over her plate while Molly looked as if she wished she were anyplace but where she was. She had this habit of pushing food around with her fork, like a little kid hiding the peas beneath the mashed potatoes. He was learning all of her habits. He knew that she always rinsed dishes before putting them in the dishwasher, that she drank milk from a dark blue wineglass with a fragile stem, that the sweet curve of her body as she bent down to bring in the morning newspaper was the essence of beauty that had eluded poets for centuries. He didn't even like poetry, but somehow he knew this.
He usually grabbed his lunch under the big maple tree opposite the sliding doors. It was a great spot. He could lean against the trunk and watch her moving around the kitchen while he polished off a hero and a can of Coke.
He'd never seen a woman move the way Molly Chamberlain did. She didn't so much walk as glide, a supple, sinuous movement that rippled behind his eyes late at night when he couldn't sleep. He saw other wonders on those sleepless nights. Molly Chamberlain moving beneath him—her hips arching to meet his, her eyes closed, her, full round breasts softer than a whispered dream. Some mornings he couldn't meet her eyes because he was sure the moment she looked at him she'd know what he'd been thinking.
Assuming she ever looked at him at all.
The lawyer appeared in the kitchen. He said something, and the two women laughed. Polite laughter. It had to be. He'd never met a funny lawyer and he doubted if that Porsche-driving specimen would be the first.
Molly pushed back her chair and stood up. The lawyer was at her side instantly , offering her a hand even though it was clear she'd already managed the feat on her own. She smiled up at the lawyer, looking more at ease, more comfortable than she ever had with Rafe. He knew that look. It was the same one Karen had used on every man but the one she was married to.
They almost looked like a family in there. There was something about Molly and the lawyer that seemed preordained. She was the kind of woman who was meant to have certain things in life: a big house, a nice car, an expensive husband. Somebody like the guy in the fancy suit who was dancing attendance around her.
The sight bugged Rafe. It gnawed at his gut like a handful of jalapenos. Ever need proof which way the wind blows? Try being on the wrong side of Molly Chamberlain's window.
#
At first Spencer thought Jessy Wyatt was being polite. The last time anyone had listened so intently to one of his stories was when he was trying to explain to an irate judge why his client had decided a trip to the Bahamas was more important than showing up for her hearing.
Molly usually paid fairly close attention to his stories , but her attention was wandering. She seemed more interested in glancing out the sliding doors to watch the help mow the lawn.
No , it wasn't his story that was captivating the lady doctor.
He was tempted to glance down and mak e sure his fly was zipped, but Jessy's eyes hadn't dropped from his face. He was accustomed to a fair amount of attention from the opposite sex. The lingering glance. Perfectly aimed half smile. A touch so soft you might have imagined it.
But this was different. She wasn 't flirting with him. She was declaring. The invitation was there. No doubt about that. But it was more than that. Her serious face was turned up to him like a flower, one of those scruffy orange lilies that grew along fences and at the side of the road. The kind he usually didn't notice unless somebody pointed them out.
He
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