Wishmakers Read online

  “You'll more than do!”

  “You don't look so bad yourself,” she flirted. Her eyes moved over his polished boots, pressed jeans, snap-fastened shirt, and the kerchief tied about his throat. “You had more jeans?” she asked innocently.

  “Later we're going to have a talk about that,” he said threateningly, and without further comment he ushered her to the door.

  Margaret's high spirits had given way to nervousness by the time Chip parked the car—a heavy sedan this time with soft leather seats. They walked the block to the V.F.W. hall which was brightly lit and resounding with music.

  The man at the door took their tickets and greeted them warmly. “Hi, Chip. We've got a good crowd already.”

  They went inside, and Margaret looked around with amazement. It was a scene from the musical Oklahoma! A caller was in full swing, naming the steps to the music played by a band rigged out in true country-western fashion: fringed, sequined shirts and cowboy hats sporting a variety of feathers. Three groups of dancers were on the floor, foot-tapping and sashaying vigorously. Wooden folding chairs were spaced along the walls, and at the far end, under the American flag, a long table groaned with the weight of the food spread over its surface.

  They stood just inside the door while Margaret scanned the room. She stayed close to Chip, both hands clutching his arm while he exchanged greetings with people who called out to him.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  Margaret raised her gaze to see Chip watching her with a quirk of a smile that spread to an indulgent grin. His eyes, full of unmistakable admiration, caught and held hers. She felt a warm glow of happiness start in her knees and work its way up. At that moment they were the only two people in the world as far as she was concerned. She stared, her lips slightly parted. Someone jostled her, and she looked away and let her hands fall to her sides.

  “I didn't realize I was holding on to you so tightly.”

  “Who's complaining?” He caught her hand, drew it into the crook of his arm, and covered it with his. She looked up, unable to keep her eyes from his, and she lost her heart in the blue depths while her insides melted like a snowball on the Fourth of July.

  “What do you think?” he repeated.

  “I never imagined anything like this. Everyone seems to be having such a good time.”

  Chip laughed down at her. “They'll have a better time as the evening wears on.”

  The three groups of dancers dissolved into couples when a violin player stepped to the microphone and began playing a waltz. The lights were lowered, and a revolving spotlight cast beams of colored light across the ceiling.

  Chip didn't ask her to dance; he simply drew her into his arms and moved out onto the floor. Despite his height, he was lithe and graceful, moving slowly, allowing her time to adjust to his lead. Margaret had always loved to dance, but she'd found precious few opportunities to do so—except for the stuffy social affairs she'd attended with Justin. She idly wondered if he had enjoyed those galas and benefits any more than she had.

  She relaxed against Chip, and he responded by drawing her closer still. His steady heartbeat against hers and the warmth of his utterly masculine body was a powerful stimulant to her already heightened senses. Here on the dance floor they fit together perfectly. Heedless of the consequences, she pressed herself to him, her eyes half closed. Her lips parted with pleasure as she felt him nuzzling her hair.

  “I was waltzing with my darling, to the Tenn-e-ssee waltz…,” he sang softly into her ear. His hand moved lower on her back, and his arm tightened.

  Margaret was throbbingly aware of his hand, his lips, his warm breath, his soft crooning voice, and the scent of his soap-clean skin enveloping her. She felt as if her body had merged with his, and when he embraced her with both arms, she let hers slide around him and rested her face in the curve of his neck. When the music stopped, the lights came on and she looked up in surprise, blinking into the blue eyes that smiled down at her. Chip perceptibly tightened his arms before he slackened them to let her move away.

  “You're nice to hold, Maggie Anderson.” His hands moved down her arms to clasp hers.

  “You too,” she murmured, not really caring that she was looking at him with glazed, desire-filled eyes.

  “Hi, Chip. Hi, Maggie.” They had stopped near the buffet table, where Donna, the waitress from the diner, was slicing a huge chocolate cake.

  “Where did all this food come from?” Margaret asked.

  “Everybody contributes something,” Donna explained. “I baked this cake.”

  Margaret looked quickly at Chip. “Shouldn't we have brought something?”

  “Sakes alive—no!” Donna sputtered. “With Chip's help the fund's gone over two thousand. That and the insurance will give the Secorys a good start again. You just have yourself a great time. But hold on to your man. There's at least a dozen women out there just waitin' for you to turn loose of him.”

  Margaret's eyes went wide with innocence. “Really? I didn't think anyone would have him but me. And that's only because I'm a stranger and don't know anyone else.”

  Donna let go with a peal of laughter, and Chip's fingers found their way to Margaret's rib cage and pinched her.

  “She's hard enough to handle without any help from you, Donna.” He looked into Margaret's laughter-filled eyes. “If you're not careful, I just might leave you to walk home, my girl.” He must have seen the quick look of apprehension cross her face, for he quickly added, “But on second thought, I may need someone to help me push the car out of a mud hole if it rains.”

  Not waiting for a response, he spun her toward the dance floor as the caller announced the next number. “This is a simple one, Maggie. Let's join in.”

  “I don't think I can do it,” she protested with mild alarm. Unheeding, he drew her along.

  “Sure you can. I'll help you, and so will the others.” He swung her out onto the floor and in among the nearest group, placing her in the center, with one hand holding hers, the other at her waist. The steps were simple enough, and repetitive. After she got over her fear the first time his hand left hers and she was on her own, she began to enjoy herself. The others in the set gave friendly assistance, and she responded with smiles of pure pleasure.

  “I never thought I'd find myself actually square dancing,” she exclaimed with enthusiasm when the music ended.

  “And very well, too.” Chip raised his brows questioningly when the music started again. “Want to try another?”

  The smile that had been continually curving her lips spread. “Why not?”

  As Chip had predicted, the dancers became more rowdy as the evening progressed. By the time the buffet was served, the hall was full and overflowing into the bar next door where the drinks were available.

  Once Margaret was whisked away by a bearded lumberjack who thought it an accomplishment to have stolen the boss's girl for a dance. Her eyes clung to Chip as she was propelled about the room by the young giant. When the dance was over, he was there, and she reached for him like a lifeline in a storm.

  “Shall we go?” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. “From now on it'll only get more and more boisterous.”

  She nodded eagerly, and they made their way through the jostling crowd to the door of the room where Chip had left his coat and the woolen shawl he'd borrowed from Dolly's room for Margaret to wear.

  On the way to the car they didn't talk. The air was crisp and cool, the moon clear and bright. Margaret knew she had acted young and naïve and was afraid to guess what Chip must be thinking. Instead she simply allowed herself to feel his arm about her, guiding her along the dark street.

  “Hungry?” he asked when they were inside the car.

  “Not really. Are you?”

  “No. Shall we go home then?”

  She nodded, watching him in the flashing lights of a passing car. His face was turned toward her as he inserted the key to start the car. It was incredible that a twenty-four hour period could have
affected her life so drastically.

  “What are you thinking while those great, green eyes are looking holes through me?” His voice came softly out of the darkness over the soft purr of the engine.

  “What were you thinking?” she asked, unwilling to answer his question.

  “I was thinking that you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen.” With one hand he reached out and pulled a strand of hair from under the shawl.

  “Thank you.” She was suddenly flustered at this turn in the conversation, but absurdly pleased by the compliment. Her gaze swept the shadowed outline of his face and saw his eyes gleaming at her through the darkness.

  “Move over.” His hand was on her knee. “Closer,” he commanded softly after she moved a few inches toward him. She moved again, and he adjusted his own position until their shoulders were touching and her hip and thigh fit snugly along the length of his. “That's better.” He shifted the gears and put the car into motion.

  After they had driven only a few blocks, the lights of the town were left behind. Margaret looked straight ahead at the tree-lined road, glancing covertly from time to time at Chip's hands, strong and brown on the wheel. He flipped on the radio, and they drove with only the sound of soft classical music filling the moonlit silence of the night.

  Margaret willed herself to remember that she had only known this man since yesterday. No, she reasoned, she had known him since that long-ago day he had looked up at her from the foyer below. He placed his hand in her lap, interrupting her thoughts. Without hesitation she pressed her palm against his, and his fingers entwined with hers.

  “I like holding your hand, Maggie Anderson.”

  Margaret felt a small stab of disappointment. Maggie Anderson. He didn't want to think of her as Margaret Anthony. He wouldn't want to hold Margaret Anthony's hand. She pushed the negative thought aside, wanting nothing to spoil this ethereal moment. For the rest of the drive she hovered against his masculine strength in a dreamlike state. He briefly released her hand to adjust the heater, then blindly sought it again. She clasped it and laced her fingers through his.

  At the house he drove straight to the garage, parked, and turned off the lights. The darkness was absolute. Margaret closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them there was no difference. He was still tightly holding her hand. She loosened her fingers, and as his palm slid from hers she leaned away from his shoulder. He shifted sideways as his arm arched over her head.

  “Is your heart beating as fast as mine?” His hand was on her shoulder, his voice low and full.

  “I don't know.” The uneven rhythm of her breathing was making speech difficult.

  He found her hand and brought it inside his jacket, holding it over his heart. The steady pounding against her palm vibrated up her arm and into her chest, where her own heart picked up speed.

  “Doesn't it always beat like that?” she whispered.

  He touched a light kiss to her eyelids, and the soft brush of his mustache was both sensuous and distracting. “Only when I've run five miles…and when I'm aching to kiss a pretty girl.” His hand on her shoulder was gently insistent, his lips skimming her cheek. “I want to kiss Maggie Anderson.” His voice was a low, husky murmur. “I'm afraid when I take you into the house you'll be Margaret Anthony again.”

  “You wouldn't want to kiss Margaret Anthony?” The magic was slowly fading.

  “I don't know Margaret Anthony, but I know Maggie. She's sweet, wholesome, unpretentious—”

  “Don't forget naïve, vulnerable and…paranoid,” she interrupted.

  “Okay. Naïve and vulnerable, but refreshing and fun to be with.”

  He moved his lips from her cheek, and she knew they were coming to meet hers even before she felt their touch. Slowly, deliberately, his mouth covered hers, pressing gently at first while he guided her arms up and around his neck and then wrapped her in his. His kiss deepened, and she leaned into it, floating in a sea of sensuality where everything was softly given and softly received. His lips were seeking, and she automatically parted hers in invitation. The touch of his tongue at the corner of her mouth was persuasive rather than demanding, and she gave herself up to the waves of emotion crashing over her.

  The soft utterance that came from his throat might almost have been a purr of pure pleasure when, at her unwitting insistence, he expanded the kiss with a pressure that sought deeper satisfaction. The fervor of his passion excited her, and she met it with unrestrained response. She felt her mind whirl and her nerves become acutely sensitized with the almost overwhelming need to melt into him and ease the ache of her aroused body. Caught in the throes of desire, she pressed herself against him, her arms winding around him with surprising strength.

  Resisting the pressure about his neck, Chip lifted his head as if to look at her. His breath came quickly and was cool on her lips made wet by his kiss.

  “I've a feeling I shouldn't have done that,” he confessed in a raspy whisper. His hand had moved up to the nape of her neck, and his fingers threaded into the hair that tumbled there.

  “I didn't ask you to,” she protested, trying to collect her scattered senses.

  “I know that, sweetheart.” His voice was slurred with an obvious effort to control his breathing. “It's the damnedest situation I've ever been in. I should be avoiding you like the plague; and here I am, holding you, kissing you. I must be out of my mind!”

  Tears spurted into Margaret's eyes—the result of nerves strung taut by his onslaught on her senses, and her disappointment over his obvious regret at having shared himself with her for that brief moment.

  “Why did you kiss me if you feel so guilty about it now?”

  “I wanted to kiss you while I was still thinking about you as Maggie,” he said candidly.

  “Maggie, but not Margaret Anthony,” she confirmed tightly. “Is Margaret so terrible?”

  “Not terrible, just remote. She's a princess in an ivory tower, who's condescended to visit her subjects. With the stroke of her pen she can buy an ocean liner or an island in the Pacific. She can amuse herself in a small community such as this until she gets bored and flits away to find new and amusing things to do.”

  “If that's what you think of me, why didn't you just tell me to get lost when I first arrived? Why have you bothered with me?” She despised the tears that flowed onto her cheeks.

  “You know the answer to that. Even if I am the trustee, you have a powerful lot of stock. With a good set of lawyers, whom you already employ, you could make things very difficult for us here.” He had pulled away slightly, yet his arm was still around her, his hand on her shoulder. He was speaking smoothly, reasonably, with no censure in his voice.

  “It was decent of you to go beyond the realm of duty and take me to the dance, but you didn't have to go so far as to act as if you enjoyed it.” Hurt was making her voice sharp.

  “I didn't have to act—I did enjoy it.”

  “Then how different are you from Margaret Anthony? You were bored, and you amused yourself with a naïve, stupid woman who has never been out from under the watchful eyes of a paid staff, who has never had lunch in a public diner, who has never gone to a dance that only got more boisterous as the night wore on, who has never been kissed in a dark car after a date…” Her traitorous voice betrayed her on the last word. She sat shuddering.

  “Maggie, I'm sorry.” He tightened his arm, but she remained stiff, her head turned away from him.

  “What for? You've a right to your own feelings, just as I've a right to mine.”

  “I'm still sorry.”

  “For me? You needn't feel sorry for me until I lose my pen. Then I'll be in real trouble!” She had to sniff. She tried hard to make it a small one, but he heard anyway.

  “Damn it, don't cry! It was just something I had to say.” His fingers tried to turn her face toward him, and when she held it firmly away, they stroked her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

  “Don't!” she exclaimed sharply. “You…you…”

>   “I said I was sorry, Maggie. I was only—”

  “You…popped out my contact!” Her hand grabbed at his wrist.

  “You're kidding!”

  “No, I'm not. Don't move. It's probably on your hand.”

  “Holy hell! What'll we do? We'll never find it in the dark.”

  “Do you have a flashlight?”

  “In the glove compartment. Can you reach it? Do you think the damn thing is still on my hand?”

  Margaret managed to reach the flashlight and put it into the hand of the arm that was around her. Chip fumbled with the switch and flashed the beam onto his hand. The light played over the long tanned fingers with the clean, well-shaped nails, and the wrist with the fine dark hair that came down to the back of his hand.

  “See anything?”

  “No, but then I've only got one eye. I'm not seeing too well out of it.”

  “I think it's gone, princess.”

  “Don't call me that!” She pushed at his arms. “Let me out of this car. I don't care if we find it or not.”

  “Hold still!” The light flashed up onto her face when she moved his arm. “Hold still! It's there on your face, beside your ear.” He carefully took the tiny, clear disc between his thumb and forefinger. “What'll I do with it?”

  “Give it to me. I'll keep it in my mouth until I get into the house.”

  “Aren't they more trouble than they're worth?” he queried.

  “You're the one who told me to wear them,” she said crossly. She plucked the contact from her fingers with her tongue.

  “Careful. You might swallow it, and then you'd really be in trouble.”

  They left the car and walked silently to the house. Chip switched on the light and stepped aside to let her enter ahead of him. She knew he was watching her, but she refused to meet his eyes as she walked past him and through the house to the small, barren bedroom.

  “I'll build up the fire. We'll have something hot to drink,” he called after her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “MARGARET ANTHONY, YOU'RE a real loser! What's more, you're an idiot for standing here talking to yourself.”