Tempest in Eden

Shay was surprised by how quickly the time had gone by. She had dreaded the weekend; now it was almost over. Of course she wasn't due to leave until Sunday evening, but spending the day in the cabin without Ian suddenly seemed a dismal prospect. It alarmed her that his departure would matter so much to her.

The afternoon afforded her the choice of either sitting alone in the house while Ian was sequestered in his room or accompanying her mother and John, who was going to try his luck fishing in a stream that cut through a corner of his property. Shay opted for the fishing trip.

The countryside was lush with the green of early summer. But with every step of the way to the stream, the twinge of pain in her hip reminded Shay of the tennis game that morning. As the afternoon ticked by, her anger increased.

For some reason she couldn't name she was incensed that Ian was determined to ignore her. From the moment she had seen him naked, water streaming down his body, he had been the foremost thought in her mind. She didn't want it to be that way, but it was. There was no use pretending otherwise. She was attracted to him as a man. Period. End of discussion.

That in itself might not be so noteworthy. But he was the first man she'd been sexually attracted to since the breakup of her marriage. She'd gone on a few dates, usually arranged by friends who seemed bent on matching her with someone as soon as possible. Because of Shay's disinterest, these potential suitors had soon given up the chase and gone on to more promising pursuits.

"All right, Shay," she said to herself as she sat contemplating the rushing stream, "he's got a great body, and he's as handsome as a warrior angel. But he's diametrically opposite you as far as temperament and philosophy go."

Even the fact that Celia, with John's gentle encouragement, had successfully baited a fish hook couldn't distract Shay from her musings.

Forgetting Ian's physical appearance for a moment—if that were possible—she concentrated on the man he was. Why, when he represented the kind of person she had previously scorned, was she so attracted to him? Why had she thought she might very well die if he didn't kiss her that morning? Why did she still yearn to feel his lips against hers, to have his hands caressing her, not accidentally but with the full intent and purpose of loving her?

Then it struck her. Like a lightning bolt out of the blue, she realized that part of her attraction stemmed from the fact that he ignored her. Was that it? "Of course," she said aloud, then looked chagrined when Celia and John looked toward her curiously.

That had to be it. Shay Morrison was too intelligent, too worldly, too self-sufficient to believe that one look at a naked man, no matter how handsome, had left her as starry-eyed as a teenager. Love at first sight didn't happen. Besides, her feelings for the man were barely above detestation. Her curiosity was simply piqued because he seemed so uncurious about her.

Yet she knew with every feminine instinct that he wasn't as impervious to her as he pretended to be. She chuckled as a plan for the evening began to unfold in her mind. They might never see each other again, but she'd be damned before she'd let Reverend Ian Douglas dismiss her completely from his thoughts.

"I think I'll head back, if you don't mind," she said, jumping up from her grassy seat on the bank. "I'm going to rest awhile before dinner."

"We'll follow shortly," her mother replied. "I'm bound and determined to catch a fish."

Judging from the high color in his face and his fidgety hands, John seemed to have other things in mind for when they were left alone in the woods. Shay was still smiling when she approached the house. She climbed the stairs and headed toward the partially opened door at the end of the hall.

She tapped softly on it. "Ian?"

There was a pause before he said, "Yes, come in."

She pushed the door open and arranged herself in its frame. The wide window on the landing was behind her. She knew golden sunlight was spilling around her like a halo, shining through her hair, bathing her skin with light. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said, hoping just the opposite.

"No. I've still go some studying to do, but I'm almost finished." He was sitting at a paper-strewn desk. A Bible and several research books lay open on it. A portable typewriter contained a piece of paper on which several lines had been typed.

"Mom and John will be along in a while." Why wouldn't he look directly at her? He seemed intent on mutilating a paperclip with fingers she could swear were nervous.

"How's the fishing?" he asked, glancing up. His blue eyes made a rapid inspection of her legs in the shorts she'd worn to the stream, and a lengthier inspection of her bare midriff below her halter top, before he dropped his eyes once again to the infernal paperclip.

"John had caught three when I left. Mom's still working on a bite."

"Good, good," he said in a voice that told her he didn't care anymore about the results of the fishing expedition than she did.

"Do you need the bathroom?" she asked, stretching her arms lazily over her head.

"Uh … no," he said. "No."

"I'm going to take a nice long bubble bath before dinner." She dropped her arms and shook her body as though in eager anticipation of the sensual luxury of the bath. The motion caused her breasts to move bewitchingly beneath her top. A motion, if his dazed expression was any indication, that didn't go undetected.

"Fine.I don't … won't … you'll have the bathroom to yourself."

"Okay," she said offhandedly before she pivoted on her heel and left the doorjamb.

Minutes later, the tapping sound made by the keys of his manual typewriter came through the connecting door. That he was still able to work vexed Shay as she lay in the tubful of hot, bubbly water. But she smiled slyly when she recalled the uneasy look on his face each time his eyes had wandered in her direction. He was well aware of her as a woman. Even if his mind willed it not to be so, his body defied him.

Of course Shay didn't want to go any further than mild flirtation. She only wanted to pay him back for the times he had looked at her with tolerant amusement, much as one would look at a willful child. He deserved to be paid back for the humiliation he'd heaped on her.

When she was finished with her bath, making as many splashing noises as she could and humming "The Summer of '42" under her breath, she rinsed out her lingerie in the sink and draped each sheer, lacy article on the shower curtain rod. Though she usually slept in the raw, she'd brought along a nightgown in case her mother complained. It hung on a hook behind the door connecting to his room. Each time he reached for the doorknob, he would come in contact with the silky yellow fabric trimmed with ecru lace as fine as a spider's web. If he moved it, he'd have to handle it even more. Before leaving the steamy bathroom, she misted it heavily with her perfume.