peace, then perhaps he could work more efficiently, find the clues that would lead to his mother.
He pulled his car to a halt and shut off his engine and headlights, shocked to find himself in front of Tamara's little cottage.
What was he doing here? What crazy impulse had led him to this particular place?
The house was dark. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after
midnight
. Of course the place was dark. She was probably in bed, dreaming the dreams of the innocent.
He should go. He reached for the keys to start the engine once again, but before he could, the porch light blinked on and the front door opened.
Tamara stepped out on the porch. Clad in a yellow robe that matched the yellow scrap of silk Clay had seen flung on her bed, she looked like a vision from a dream.
As if in a dream he got out of his car and approached where she stood. He felt no anticipation or expectation. He just felt numb … completely and utterly void of any kind of emotion.
"I don't know … I don't know what I'm doing here," he began haltingly. "I just … I need…" he broke off, appalled by his own confusion.
"Come inside, Clay," she said softly. She opened the door to allow him entry.
He hesitated only a moment. He had no idea what forces had brought him here to her, had no idea what he needed from her, but as he entered the cozy cottage, he knew this was exactly where he needed to be at the moment.
* * *
Tamara hadn't been asleep when she'd heard his car. In fact, she'd been lying in bed thinking about him … worrying about him.
The tension that had filled the car on the way home from Lucky's Pawnshop had been nearly overwhelming. The anger that had simmered just beneath the surface in him had made her afraid, not for herself, but for him.
She'd recognized that he was a man on the verge of collapse, stressed by weeks of overworking, uncertainty and heartache.
She wondered about his confrontation with his uncle, but wouldn't ask what happened. She could tell by the dazed look in his eyes as he walked inside that he had reached his breaking point.
He stood in the center of the living room, as if unsure what to do next. He not only looked dazed and uncertain, he looked to be beyond exhaustion.
"Come on," she said softly and took him by the arm. "You need to sleep," she said to make sure he didn't misunderstand her actions.
She led him into her bedroom where a small lamp was lit on her nightstand. The window was open to allow in the sweet forest-scented night air and the tabletop fountain bubbled a soothing, rhythmic sound.
"Take off your shirt," she said. The dazed expression lifted from his eyes and he raised a dark brow. "Just your shirt, then lie down on your stomach on the bed," she added.
He asked no questions, but did as she requested. As he stretched out on her bed she reached into her nightstand drawer and removed a bottle of lavender oil.
She had no idea if what she was doing was right or wrong, good or bad. She was moving on instinct and she rarely doubted her instincts.
"Just relax, Clay." She kneeled on the bed next to his prone body, careful not to make any physical contact. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea. "I'm just going to give you a little back rub to help relax you. This is going to be a bit cool."
He stiffened as she poured a liberal amount of the scented oil onto his broad back. She leaned over him and began to work the oil into his shoulder muscles with her fingertips.
His muscles were taut as bowstrings as she kneaded and smoothed over his bronze, warm skin. She tried to keep her mind carefully schooled away from the sensation of touching him and focused on the fact that she was trying to give him comfort in the only way she knew how.
But it was difficult not to notice that his attractive masculine scent filled the room, that his skin was soft and supple over the tight muscles. It was difficult not to notice the breathtaking expanse of his upper back that tapered into a slender waist.
It
He pulled his car to a halt and shut off his engine and headlights, shocked to find himself in front of Tamara's little cottage.
What was he doing here? What crazy impulse had led him to this particular place?
The house was dark. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after
midnight
. Of course the place was dark. She was probably in bed, dreaming the dreams of the innocent.
He should go. He reached for the keys to start the engine once again, but before he could, the porch light blinked on and the front door opened.
Tamara stepped out on the porch. Clad in a yellow robe that matched the yellow scrap of silk Clay had seen flung on her bed, she looked like a vision from a dream.
As if in a dream he got out of his car and approached where she stood. He felt no anticipation or expectation. He just felt numb … completely and utterly void of any kind of emotion.
"I don't know … I don't know what I'm doing here," he began haltingly. "I just … I need…" he broke off, appalled by his own confusion.
"Come inside, Clay," she said softly. She opened the door to allow him entry.
He hesitated only a moment. He had no idea what forces had brought him here to her, had no idea what he needed from her, but as he entered the cozy cottage, he knew this was exactly where he needed to be at the moment.
* * *
Tamara hadn't been asleep when she'd heard his car. In fact, she'd been lying in bed thinking about him … worrying about him.
The tension that had filled the car on the way home from Lucky's Pawnshop had been nearly overwhelming. The anger that had simmered just beneath the surface in him had made her afraid, not for herself, but for him.
She'd recognized that he was a man on the verge of collapse, stressed by weeks of overworking, uncertainty and heartache.
She wondered about his confrontation with his uncle, but wouldn't ask what happened. She could tell by the dazed look in his eyes as he walked inside that he had reached his breaking point.
He stood in the center of the living room, as if unsure what to do next. He not only looked dazed and uncertain, he looked to be beyond exhaustion.
"Come on," she said softly and took him by the arm. "You need to sleep," she said to make sure he didn't misunderstand her actions.
She led him into her bedroom where a small lamp was lit on her nightstand. The window was open to allow in the sweet forest-scented night air and the tabletop fountain bubbled a soothing, rhythmic sound.
"Take off your shirt," she said. The dazed expression lifted from his eyes and he raised a dark brow. "Just your shirt, then lie down on your stomach on the bed," she added.
He asked no questions, but did as she requested. As he stretched out on her bed she reached into her nightstand drawer and removed a bottle of lavender oil.
She had no idea if what she was doing was right or wrong, good or bad. She was moving on instinct and she rarely doubted her instincts.
"Just relax, Clay." She kneeled on the bed next to his prone body, careful not to make any physical contact. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea. "I'm just going to give you a little back rub to help relax you. This is going to be a bit cool."
He stiffened as she poured a liberal amount of the scented oil onto his broad back. She leaned over him and began to work the oil into his shoulder muscles with her fingertips.
His muscles were taut as bowstrings as she kneaded and smoothed over his bronze, warm skin. She tried to keep her mind carefully schooled away from the sensation of touching him and focused on the fact that she was trying to give him comfort in the only way she knew how.
But it was difficult not to notice that his attractive masculine scent filled the room, that his skin was soft and supple over the tight muscles. It was difficult not to notice the breathtaking expanse of his upper back that tapered into a slender waist.
It
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