Speak Low (Speak Easy 2)

“Sounds like I came at a bad time.” Joey tried to make a joke, but I could tell something serious was on his mind. I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

“She was late for curfew.”

“Ah. You trying out a new hairdo?” He gestured toward my head with his hat. “Looks like flapper meets Medusa.”

Wincing, I brought a hand to my hair and felt the rags there. “Mary Grace did it. I’ll take them out so you don’t turn to stone when you look at me.”

Unbuttoning his coat, he wiped his feet before entering the front room and taking a seat on the sofa while I began tugging the rags from my hair. At first I tried to keep one arm across my chest but gave up on modesty when I realized I’d need two hands to untie the knots Mary Grace had fashioned. Jesus, what had she done? A sailor couldn’t have tied these things tighter. And she’d gotten half my hair inside the knots too—it was hopelessly tangled. Joey watched me silently for a minute, during which the rain picked up again. “Weather keep you in tonight?”

I angled away from him a little. “I had enough fun last night to last me a while.”

“I’ll say. You drank too much.”

I glared at him over one shoulder. “What do you care how much I drink?”

He put up his hands. “I didn’t come here to argue.”

“One of us always says that, and we still end up arguing.”

That brought a little smile. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

“So what did you come here to do in the middle the night?” I yanked at a particularly stubborn rag, but only succeeded in pulling the knot tighter. If I had a mirror, this would be easier.

“I told you, I came to talk to you.” Joey scratched his head. “Do you need some help with those or something?”

“No. Go ahead. Talk.”

“I can’t talk to you with those things hanging off your head. It’s bad enough that you’re in your pajamas.”

“What did you expect I’d be wearing when you show up at my house at this hour?” Exasperated, I dropped my arms, leaving a few rags dangling in my hair. “Fine, help me.”

Joey shrugged out of his coat. “Come sit on the floor here in front of me.”

Moving the coffee table out of the way, I dropped onto the floor and backed up against the sofa between Joey’s legs. His pants were damp from the rain and felt cool against my bare arms. Gooseflesh prickled across my skin, and a dozen admonishments flickered through my head. Go up and put a robe on. Joey shouldn’t be here. Don’t sit so close to him.

And even though I knew he was going to touch me, I jumped when he put his hands in my hair, unprepared for the buzz that swept from my scalp down my arms and over my legs. It lingered as his fingers carefully worked the knots from the rags.

Neither of us spoke.

It probably only to

ok him a few minutes to remove them, but with each passing second I was more aware of him, of everything around us. Colors and scents and sounds were sharper. The low golden glow of the lamp. The thrumming of the rain on the roof. The tick of the clock on the mantle. The scent of Joey’s wet gabardine trousers and leather shoes. My breaths came faster and deeper as I imagined what his hands looked like in my hair, how difficult it must be for masculine fingers to work the thin strips of cloth from my tangled tresses. But his touch was gentle.

Too gentle.

“There. Done.” He held the scraps of cotton over my right shoulder, his hand suspended near my collarbone. Beneath my chemise, my nipples peaked against the thin cotton.

Those hands. Those fucking hands.

Even though his knuckles bore the angry red evidence of the fight last night, his hands still had the power to arouse me. Would I never know the feel of them on my skin? Desire and jealousy twined their roots deep inside me. What had he done with Rosie tonight? What affection had he shown her? What physical pleasure had he experienced with her, with any girl, that he never would with me? My heart pumped hard.

I reached up with my right hand, telling myself to simply take the rags, but instead, I wrapped my fingers around his solid wrist. With my other hand, I took the scraps and let them fall. Twisting at the waist, I looked over my shoulder at him, my mouth falling open. Joey’s olive skin appeared golden, his eyes almost black. His expression spoke of restraint and frustration, but also undeniable hunger. For so long something had simmered between us, threatening to erupt, and now I had to know, or I’d go crazy.

He pressed his lips together and his fingers tightened into a fist, the muscles tensing beneath my grasp. He tried to pull his hand away, but I held on.

Biting my lip, I used my other hand to unbutton the top of my chemise and slip one delicate eyelet strap off my shoulder.

He didn’t move.