Chapter Ten
By the time Hank had maneuvered his truck down the dirt road leading from the sign for Tompkins Lake, Greta had given up trying to figure out what exactly was going on. Nadia hadn’t said anything about taking Hyacinth and Alice to the movies while she’d watched Greta take the rose geranium cake out of the oven. Nor had she said anything while Greta spread the cake with fragrant pink frosting. Greta had even talked about her plans for dinner, and Nadia hadn’t said a word. Maybe because she was plotting.
Clearly the whole movie thing was a last-minute decision. But Greta wasn’t at all sure why Nadia had decided to do what she did or how Greta herself was supposed to feel about it. Nadia was the only one at Casa Dubrovnik who knew all the details of Greta’s marriage disaster. It didn’t make any sense that her first reaction would be to send Greta out on a date with Hank when she was still decompressing from the divorce bends.
A date? Is that what this is?
Well, sort of. It made more sense to call it a date than to call it anything else. While she and Hank might spend a pleasant evening discussing current affairs in Massachusetts, she didn’t really see that happening. Unless affairs was taken to mean something a lot broader than its usual definition.
This is headed in one obvious direction. The only real question is how I feel about it.
The truck finally moved beyond the trees, and Greta got her first view of Tompkins Lake, glimmering silver among the groves of white pine and hardwood. She could see a few picnic tables tucked in among the trees, complete with families having dinner. One or two small children waded in the shallows of the lake.
“Not exactly deserted,” she murmured and then blushed. Who said Hank was looking for a deserted spot in the first place?
He grinned as he turned the truck up another short road. “It gets more deserted a little later, after all the parents leave to put their kids to bed.”
She nodded absently, as if the prospect of the parents taking off was only faintly interesting. Which it was. Absolutely.
Uh-huh. Right.
Hank pulled the truck in next to a pine grove and turned off the engine. “This look okay?”
“Sure.” Greta glanced at the aging wooden picnic table on the square of gravel and grass. The wood had weathered to silver and probably had several hundred splinters per square foot. Suddenly she really wished she’d brought a tablecloth.
“I’m not sure that table is going to work,” she said slowly.
“Don’t worry. I brought a blanket.” He lifted a battered picnic basket from behind the seat.
“For a tablecloth?”
He shook his head. “To sit on. If that’s all right with you.”
“Um…sure.” There was no reason not to eat on a blanket spread on the grass. None whatsoever.
Hank lifted out an even more battered cooler that he placed beside the basket. “I found the basket in the pantry. With any luck it hasn’t held anything toxic.”
Greta eyed the cooler dubiously. “The cooler’s more suspect than the basket. It looks like it was used to transport organs.”
He grinned. “The cooler’s mine. No organ transport, but it’s been in a few rough spots around the world. Came through fine, so far as I can tell.”
“Oh.” Greta swallowed. “Well, good.” For some reason she seemed to be putting her foot in her mouth much more regularly now than she had been earlier. Maybe it was the weather.
He pulled a threadbare quilt from the side of the basket. “Don’t know how big this is, but it should be enough for a meal.” He flipped it open, spreading it across a grassy patch near the trees.
The late afternoon sunlight caught flecks of gold in his hair, turning his skin golden as well. For a moment, his muscles were outlined in shadow as he smoothed the blanket across the grass.
Greta took another in a series of deep breaths, then picked up the picnic basket and joined him.
“I hope we’ve got enough food. If I’d had more warning, I could probably have come up with something better than this.” She set the basket on the blanket, kneeling beside it, careful not to look at Hank. “I’ve got sandwiches and carrot sticks. And some cherry tomatoes. There’s some chips too. Would you like pickles? Because I brought some along.”
Stop talking. For the love of god, just stop.
She licked her lips, taking a slightly shaky breath.
“Here.” He handed her a beer bottle. “Have some. Relax. Whatever we’ve got to eat is fine.”
She took a quick sip of beer, wishing it were something stronger or possibly weaker. The last thing she needed was something that would make her babble more than she was already babbling.
“So what have we got here?” He began lifting packages out of the basket—sandwiches, chips, veggies. “Looks good.” He paused, then lifted the final package out very carefully, positioning the rose geranium cake reverently at the center of the blanket. “My god, did I say good? This looks sensational.”
“Thanks. It’s pretty tasty. Usually. If everything worked out the way it was supposed to.” Stop talking, Greta Anne. Just stop talking.
He arched an eyebrow. “My guess is everything worked out. And even if it didn’t, I’m willing to make believe it did.”
Greta grabbed a ham sandwich, pushing it in his direction. “Here you go. Dinner.”
“Dinner. Right.”
For the next few minutes, she managed to keep her mouth full of food, which seemed to be a good antidote to babbling.
Hank took a swallow of beer, watching her as he did. “So have you had enough time in Casa Dubrovnik to be ready to pass on a little information about yourself? Or are you still finding your footing, so to speak?”
“What do you want to know?” All of a sudden, Greta found she had no urge to babble whatsoever.
“Well, we could start with where you’re from.”
“Promise Harbor.”
He waited for a moment, maybe to see if she’d say anything else, then shrugged. “So you live in Promise Harbor?”
She shook her head. “I’m from Promise Harbor. I live in Boston. Or anyway I used to.” She wasn’t entirely sure where she lived anymore. She’d given up her apartment in Boston at the same time she’d left for the wedding—not that it was much of a loss. “That is, I lived in Boston for a while.”
“Okay.” Hank narrowed his eyes. “I’m sort of confused right now. If you don’t live in Promise Harbor or in Boston, where do you live?”
She ran a finger through the condensation on the side of her bottle, trying to come up with an answer that made sense. “Casa Dubrovnik?” she said with an attempt at a smile.
He frowned. “You’re going to move in there permanently?”
“Probably not. I don’t know. I just…it’s another possibility. I’m not sure exactly where I live at the moment.” Yet another decision she hadn’t managed to think through before she left Boston.
Hank turned toward the lake, taking a contemplative swallow from his beer bottle. “I really thought that was one of the easy questions.”
“I was sort of upset when I came here,” she hedged. “I was supposed to be a bridesmaid at my brother’s wedding, but then his fiancée’s old boyfriend showed up at the wedding, and the two of them left together. There was a lot of chaos. My mom was having a meltdown. I decided to go for a drive until things calmed down, sort of. And then I found you in the hole and pulled you out, and it was like I saw this new direction I could take.”
“Right. You already told me a little about that wedding. So did you call your mother?”
She nodded. “Twice. I haven’t heard back from her, though. At least not since the last message I left.”
“Okay, so we’ve been over the whole wedding fiasco a couple of times. How about telling me something about yourself you haven’t mentioned before?”
She took a deep breath, staring down at her beer bottle. The minefield stretched before her. “I never graduated from college. I was a philosophy major at Boston University, but I started cooking for my housemates and I figured out I was happier doing that than I was doing anything else. So I switched to culinary school. My mom was furious. It took her a few months to forgive me.”
“Why? Didn’t she think you were a good cook?”
“She thought I rushed into it. And she was sort of right—I didn’t give it a lot of thought, not like I should have.”
“How long does it take to get a culinary degree?”
She shrugged. “In my case, a couple of years, plus an externship. I got my associate’s degree, though. My mom had to admit I followed through on it in the end.”
“So then did you get a job in a restaurant or what?”
Too late she saw the trap opening beneath her feet. Oh well.
“No. I’ve never worked as a chef. Well, not until Casa Dubrovnik anyway.” She took a hurried sip of beer, wishing it were colder.
Hank rolled to his back, propping his head on his hands before he glanced over at her again. “Okay, you’re dancing around something here, so before I start pressing you for details, just tell me—is it really bad?”
She blew out a breath. “Define really bad.”
“Well…” He shrugged. “Have you been in prison? Were you on trial for murder in some Central American country? Are you actually a well-known stripper in the greater Boston area?” He grinned. “Actually, that last one might not qualify as really bad.”
“I’ve never done anything like that,” she said stiffly. She took another deep breath and blew it out. “I just got married.”
He froze, the beer bottle halfway to his lips. “You’re married.”
She shook her head sharply. “Divorced.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Why dance around it then?”
She picked up a carrot strip, nibbling at the end. “Have you ever been married?”
“Nope. Nobody ever considered me promising marriage material.”
“Did you ever think about it?”
He turned his head again to look at her, green eyes suddenly dark. “Sure. I’m a functioning adult who’s over thirty. If I hadn’t thought about it occasionally, I’d be some kind of mutant.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
He shook his head. “Getting tenure in archaeology isn’t exactly a walk in the park. I spent a lot of years bouncing around from one archaeological site to another. I never met a woman who seemed like she’d really enjoy steaming jungles with large insects and Maoist guerillas for comic relief.”
“But you’re not in a steaming jungle now. You’re in Massachusetts.”
“Really?” He glanced around the lake. “No kidding? I thought I was in Guatemala.”
Greta snorted, then rubbed her nose. “Very funny. But if you specialize in Latin America, what are you doing here?”
“Found a wall. Decided to dig it up. Got somebody to give me money. The rest is history. Or anyway, archaeology. It’s all Mesoamerican anyway.” He grinned again, his teeth flashing in the dimming light. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed the discreet way you changed the subject.”
She shrugged. “Here’s another new subject, then. Want some rose geranium cake?”
He rolled back to a sitting position. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Okay,” she cautioned as she lifted the pieces of cake out of their container and onto paper plates. “This is a really different kind of cake. And disaster is always possible since it sort of depends on the quality of the rose geranium leaves. I figure this early in the summer they won’t be quite as strong as they would be later on. But there’s always the possibility that they’ll be so strong they’ll take the cake over the top and it’ll taste like bad perfume.”
He raised his eyebrows, lifting the plate from her fingers. “That’s one hell of a selling job there, lady. Remind me never to have you promote anything of mine.”
She shrugged. “I just want to be upfront about it so you won’t have to try to save my feelings if it’s a bust.”
“I promise I won’t try to save your feelings.” He grinned, sliding his fork into the cake.
Greta took a bite. Not too bad. At least it didn’t taste like old carrots or citronella, the way it would in a worst-case scenario. And the frosting had turned out very, very well. Everything was sort of vegetal, almost flowery. She stole a quick look at Hank.
He was chewing slowly, his expression distant. She thought about telling him he didn’t have to finish it, then decided to see what would happen if she didn’t.
He put his plate and fork down beside the blanket. “This is one of the most fantastic cakes I’ve ever tasted. You’re an artist, babe. The Chagall of cake pans.”
She let loose the breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Thank you. It turned out okay, didn’t it?” She placed her own plate beside his.
He nodded, reaching toward her. She caught her breath again, this time with full knowledge.
“Frosting,” he murmured. “On your nose.” He touched his index finger to the tip of her nose, then her lips.
She tasted the remnants of sweetness, sucking in the tip of his finger almost before she knew she’d done it.
He caught his breath in a hiss and she pulled back, blinking. “I… Sorry,” she whispered.
“Why?” He leaned closer, his eyes the color of moss in the shadows.
“I’m…not. Really.”
“Good.” He cupped her cheek, gently pulling her closer until his lips touched hers.
Sweetness again, frosting and cake and him. Mostly him. She opened her mouth to him, running her tongue along his, angling her head to take the kiss deeper. For just a moment, she wondered what the families at the picnic tables were thinking, and then she didn’t care. A thrill of heat passed down her body, centering in her core, leaving her wet with longing.
He pulled back for a moment, running his thumbs along her cheekbones. “You taste like flowers.”
She closed her eyes, trying to slow down her thundering pulse.
His hands slid along her sides, dipping beneath the edge of her T-shirt, then upward to cup her breasts.
“Just my luck,” he groaned. “When did you start wearing a bra again?”
“I only have one with me,” she whispered. “I wore it in your honor.”
“For the future, I can think of lots of different ways to honor me.” He ran his lips along her throat beneath her chin, leaving a warm line with his tongue. “Wearing a bra wouldn’t be one of them.”
She dipped her head, touching her own tongue to the hollow of his throat, nipping lightly at his collarbone. He groaned low in his throat.
Parents. Kids. Picnic tables.
She pulled back abruptly, staring back toward the beach. The suddenly empty beach. “Where did everybody go?”
“Home, I imagine. Looks like we’re all alone.” He slid his lips farther down her throat to her shoulder. “Does it matter?” he murmured.
She shook her head, suddenly mute.
“Good.” He slipped his hands beneath her shirt again, then pulled it over her head. His thumb moved beneath her bra strap, sliding it off her shoulder. Then he pushed his hand beneath the bra to cradle her breast, freeing it from the cup. His tongue moved along the upper curve, and he took the nipple into his mouth, sucking it until the tip ached, like an arrow straight to her core.
She sank her fingers into his hair, holding his mouth tight against her until he raised his head to move to the other breast. She slid down against the blanket, her breath suddenly tight in her chest. Her body arched, rubbing her throbbing mound against his thigh.
His hand dropped to the top of her jeans, pushing the button open, then the zipper. And then his fingers slid inside her panties, stroking swollen, wet flesh.
She brought her own hands to his chest, fiddling with buttons, finally pulling the shirt loose so that she could touch him, sliding her palms over warm skin, prickling hair, the hard buds of his nipples.
He slid a finger inside her, working her * with his thumb, and she fell back again, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his jeans. His teeth caught her nipple, pulling it taut as his thumb pushed her toward the top. Her hips arched beneath him, bringing more of her in contact with his hand as she writhed against him. Then she came undone with a moan, biting her lip to keep from crying out.
His hands eased her jeans and panties down, sliding them below her knees to free her legs. She felt cool air touching her skin, a sharp contrast against the heat burning inside.
She wished for a moment that she could see him more clearly. She wanted to know what he looked like without clothes, to see the stripes of muscle and bone moving beneath that golden skin. Her hands moved over his thighs to the button of his jeans, pulling down his zipper and reaching inside to take him in her hands.
“Easy, babe,” he whispered as he dug into his pocket.
She slid her hands along his length as he groaned against her ear. And then he was tearing open the condom with his teeth and sheathing himself in what seemed to be a very fast time.
She leaned back beneath him, feeling his warm hands on her inner thighs as he spread her legs farther, the slight crinkle of fabric against her buttocks. The head of his cock pressed against her opening and then slid in slowly, thick and wide, stretching her beneath him, reminding her how long it had been since she’d done this with anyone. She sighed, then wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He groaned again, louder this time, but they were all alone. Or if they weren’t, it didn’t matter. She refused to care. He began to move slowly, propping himself above her on his forearms. His face was almost lost in the darkness, his skin silver in the shadows. She rose to meet him, bringing him even deeper, her muscles tightening around him.
“Holy god,” he muttered, his face against her hair.
She cupped his face in her hands, bringing his mouth to hers, biting his lower lip, then plunging her tongue inside.
He growled deep in his throat, his teeth grazing her lips as his hips slapped against hers. One hand moved to her breast, his fingers closing around her nipple, pulling it taut.
She sighed against his mouth, her hips jerking against him. The pressure built again in her core, the rush of blood and heat. His hand dropped down between them to touch the place where they were joined, and she flew apart.
He came with her with a strangled cry, his body thrusting into hers, their hips slamming together. For a moment all she could feel was heat and light. And then she was sliding down the other side, her arms tight around his body, her head tucked into the hollow between his chin and his shoulder.
“Greta,” he murmured. “Good lord above.”
She closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “Gosh,” she whispered.
It was never that good with Ryan, was it?
The thought drifted through her brain, but she quickly pushed it aside. Thoughts of Ryan didn’t belong here. And they sure as hell made no difference.
Hank rolled to his side, taking her with him, one hand tangled in her hair. “You can cook. You can rock a hoopskirt. And you’re sexy as hell. Maybe you should tell me about your flaws now before I decide you’re the ideal woman.”
She sighed. “I’m not talking about flaws at the moment. Maybe later. When my bones stop feeling like elastic.”
“Okay,” he murmured, “later then.”
Much later. Possibly never. But for now, she’d settle for the feel of his arms tight around her shoulders and his body pressed against hers.