Morning dawned earlier than Sophie wanted, bringing with it a name that made her heart flutter: Jacks. Covering her head with guilty pleasure, she thinks on the kiss that drove her to take measures against whatever madness accompanies chastity.
There’s no doubt about it: that man’s dangerous.
This is so wrong, she chides herself again. The male Adonis-beauty wasn’t eclipsed by the scars or his gruff manner; no, it was heightened by it. He was a man’s man- unrepentant and stalwart.
But he’s her husband’s nephew. Soon to be ex-husband, she hastily corrects, but still- doesn’t this place her within the boundaries of incest? It’s sick. It’s wrong. But thinking of the firm, irrefutable kiss again, she’s a puddle of woman.
Cursing, Sophie throws the light covers away from her hiding place. The guilty fantasies are over. Resolute, Sophie makes her way through her morning routine, refusing to dwell on Jacks or his conspicuous absence. He’s the wrong choice- logically speaking. All one has to do is analyze his life: it is completely obvious . . . to everyone and everything except her deceptive, misguided heart. Curse the wretched thing! Is it incapable of making a reasonable decision? Does it always have to lurch towards the men she should avoid with every fiber of her being?
Work dragged the day out, the seconds beating against her temple like a migraine. She pointedly ignored her phone all morning. She scowled at it all afternoon. There wasn’t a logical reason for the mood: it’s not as if Jacks even had her number. Somehow, she didn’t believe that would truly be an obstacle if Jackson Mancuso truly wanted to call her.
By the end of the day her mood was truly foul. Nevermind that she had started her day with hard resolutions to avoid the man, he had kissed her into oblivion and then just disappeared?
Rude.
She stomps to her car, jerks open the door and slams it shut behind her. Every action is brusque, echoing her temper, when her phone rings.
“Sophie?” A gentler man’s voice calls from the other side.
She has to inhale a steadying breath and control her tone. Just because it’s the wrong man’s voice doesn’t give her any call to be rude. “Evening, Thomas.”
“I’ve just had a killer day,” he admits, sounding a bit defeated. “I sure would like the company of a beautiful woman. Tell me you’ll come to dinner with me?”
Jackson Mancuso is the wrong man, Sophie brusquely reminds herself. Logically speaking, he’s wrong for her. He’s rude and inconsiderate and pushy and unrepentant and . . . and he doesn’t even live in the country! There’s no logical reason to sit in this car and even debate the matter, especially when Thomas has been so considerate and encouraging and kind. Thomas is a nice guy. She wants to go out with nice guys. She wants to eventually fall in love with a nice guy.
Jacks is not a nice guy. He even said so!
“Where would you like to meet?” Sophie asks, sealing the deal.
Sophie skitters through the bathroom, stopping only long enough to ensure that she does, indeed, look presentable in the wrap-around dress and boots before hurrying to the knock at the door.
Thomas’ eyebrows rise appreciatively as he steps into the modest apartment. “Wow, you just made my entire day brighter.”
Sophie blushes. “Let me just get my phone,” she mutters as her eyes scan the room’s flat surfaces.
Thomas nods towards the bedroom. “On your dresser, on the charger.”
Sophie looks between the bedroom door and Thomas and back again. Physically stepping in front of him to gain his perspective, she can only barely make out the small silver square on the black charging valet. “Huh,” she mutters, looking over her shoulder into his humored expression. “Observant. They sure train you FBI sorts well.”
“Don’t hold it against me,” Thomas teases. “I’m strictly off-the-clock now.”
“Sure you are,” Sophie teases.
“Why? Got any juicy confessions? Say, about a certain ex-husband?”
Sophie lifts her hand as if she could physically stop the words, mid-air. “No discussion of any ex’s. Tonight’s supposed to be fun.”
Thomas smirks. “Fun it is then. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve got us a reservation at the Ritz-Carlton.”
Sophie’s breath staggers as she attempts to swallow the gasp. Looking down at herself, she silently wonders if her dress is nice enough.
“You’re beautiful,” Thomas reassures, opening the door for her.
The evening was perfect. Thomas opened every door for her, escorting her on his arm like a courtier from a by-gone era. Sophie languished in the soft jazz played live by their table and Thomas never again mentioned Bryce or his business. Instead he kept up a lively conversation that touched on everything from current events to archeology. Sophie smiled easily and frequently.
Upon leaving, the couple finds one of the infamous Georgia downpours awaiting them outside the doors. The rain hammers the streets, promising to soak anyone who dares step into the deluge.
“Stay here,” Thomas directs. Before Sophie can protest, he shields himself with a flimsy newspaper and runs into the downpour. Within moments, he’s brought the car to the door and jumped out into the rain to open the car door for Sophie before she can do it herself.
Settled into the passenger seat, Sophie delicately pats the rain away from her face. Next to her, Thomas is drenched. “Thank you. That really wasn’t necessary.”
Thomas throws her a cockish grin. “Of course it was. And you’re welcome.” Shifting in his seat to inspect Sophie more easily, he says, “I know I’m being greedy but would you come to my place for some coffee? I’m not ready to give you up.”
Nervously tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear, Sophie blushes. From anyone else, those words would strike her as an unoriginal ploy to lure her closer to a bed; but it sounds genuine from Thomas. She nods, taking the risk.
Grinning like a school boy, Thomas drives through the deluge, letting the conversation drift to the weather and Georgia’s warmer climate. Once they reach the apartment building, they’re forced to personally confront the aforementioned weather again. Thomas runs around the car and opens the door for Sophie. Holding her hand as if afraid he might lose her in the dark, drenching rain, they run together into the shelter of a shallow alcove. By the time Thomas unlocks the door and lets them inside, they’re both thoroughly drenched.
Sophie laughs, “I hope this doesn’t become the norm around you.”
“No, really, drowned rat looks good on you,” Thomas laughs. “Come on.” And taking her hand, he leads her up the stairs towards his apartment.
Once inside, Thomas rushes through the room ahead of her, turning on more of the soft jazz and clicking on the lamps beside his couch. “I’m just going to . . . uh,” he points- both thumbs over his shoulder- as he back away from her. “Just get something dry on.”
Sophie smiles her consent, watching him twist and jog out of the room. Why couldn’t he be assigned to her case? Not the stoic, always professional and much-too-observant Agent Callan. But then, if he was, tonight would have never happened. Looking around the impeccable room, Sophie smiles. He likes his space uncluttered. Like the car, the room is neat and neutral. Large photographs hang on the wall, but nothing personal. No books lie on the end tables. No mail lies on the kitchen counter. It could be a hotel suite.
Sophie shakes her head. Her mother chastised her father for years in vain attempts to improve his organization and cleanliness. She would have loved this charming, immaculate man.
Thomas reappears in soft, knit pants and the very hoodie Sophie had worn at their first meeting. He looks infinitely better in it, she decides. His body fills out all the fabric that had simply hung, useless, on her. She watches him walk all the way to the kitchen before realizing that she’s staring- blatantly staring- right at his tight rear guard. Clearing her throat with a blush, she turns away. Her arms reflexively seek to comfort, wrapping her wet torso as she strolls to the artful photograph of a classic car’s quarter panel.
“That’s a Pontiac GTO,” Thomas says, sauntering up behind her. “And this one,” he indicates another black-and-white, “Is from a Sixty-Seven Mustang.”
“You like old cars then?” Sophie asks, as if the evidence wasn’t displayed right in front of her.
“I’m a photographer. Took these at a car show sometime back. Liked the way they came out- you can really see the clean lines, the light, reflection, shadow. Yeah . . . but I’ve photographed nearly everything” he turns from his musings to look at Sophie. “Sophie . . .” His eyes trail over the wet fit of the dress, admiring the shape it reveals. “As gorgeous as you are, you’d be more comfortable in something dry. Feel free to dig in my drawers . . .”
Sophie laughs.
Thomas’ cheeks immediately scorch with embarrassment. “That’s not the way I intended it to sound.”
He’s simply too adorable. Sophie pecks his cheek and wanders to his bedroom. It’s freakishly neat- a single book under the lamp by the smooth bed. Sophie smiles at the author: Thomas Harris. Of course: serial killers and FBI intrigue.
On the wall opposite the bed, another photograph captures how water moves over a riverbed, even as the bright autumn leaves are starkly still.
“Did you take the picture in the bedroom, too?” Sophie calls through the closed door.
“Mmm-hmmm,” he answers, sounding distracted.
Turning to the dresser, Sophie begins opening drawers. In the uppermost drawer- nestled between white underwear folded like white chicklets and carefully stacked white undershirts- she finds a box of condoms still sealed in its plastic wrap. She laughs a bit at the discovery as she carefully closes the drawer.
Foregoing the t-shirts, jeans, and sweatpants, Sophie dons a pair of slick running shorts and covers them with one of his sharply pressed dress shirts. She’s still rolling the sleeves of the shirt when she pads out of the bedroom, barefoot, and finds Thomas meticulously dismantling her purse.
He looks up at her, exasperated. “I thought I was helping,” he groans apologetically. “Your phone was ringing and . . .” hands open, he showcases the mess he’s made. “What’s worse, I still can’t find the fool thing!”
Sophie reaches past him into one of the pockets nestled into the side and extracts the softly ringing phone. “Unidentified number,” she announces, silencing it. “I don’t answer those.”
“Give me a minute,” Thomas promises. “I’ll have this right in a jif.”
But Sophie seizes her purse and expertly reassembles it like a gunnery reassembles his rifle.
“Sorry about that,” Thomas grins a little sheepishly. “Hope you aren’t one of those that gets into a snit over someone messing with your purse.”
Sophie laughs freely. Even Agent Callan could go through that purse. All evidence of her previous life has been discarded. It holds nothing of any import now. “Okay, FBI-guy, what does my purse say about me?”
“It’s a clown car! How do you cram so much stuff into such a small space?” He demands, hardly flustered. Just as unexpectedly, he offers his wallet- his own sort of disclosure.
Sophie takes it and wanders to the couch, tucking her legs under her before timidly opening the tri-fold. She looks between man and object, her smile widening. “Aberdeen?”
Sitting next to her, Thomas flushes, the scarlet color covering his ears. “My mother didn’t really love me.”
Sophie giggles. “It’s okay. I go by my middle name, too. Who wants to be known as Elia?” Her face screws into a scowl. “It was my Grandmother’s name.”
“Elia is beautiful,” Thomas refutes. “Elia Sophia Amando. It sounds . . . soft.”
Opening her hand to showcase her obviously soft body, Sophie laughs. “Fitting then, don’t you think?”
Thomas groans, shaking his head. “Don’t . . . just . . . don’t.” His hands slip around Sophie’s waist, crimping the perfect shirt as he pulls her to her knees, against his side. Stretching up to her, his mouth hovers- in wait- for hers.
Her opinionated heart seizes in wait.
Tentatively, experimentally, Sophie’s lips brush his, feeling the texture of skin on sensitive skin- a experiment for her frail, broken heart. It squeezes tight in her chest.
Gingerly reaching to hold her face in his hands, Thomas brings her back to him. His lips lightly capture hers in a slow catch and release, over and over, a sensuous dance of slowly building and momentarily restrained chemistry. He holds her face softly, as if afraid anything harsher might burst this bubble.. She kisses him as if his lips could offer answers to questions she wasn’t brave enough to ask. Even when their lips no longer touched, they lingered near and tasted the other’s breath, eyes closed.
“Sophie?” Thomas softly calls into her revere.
“Shhhh,” she quietly chides, the action pursing her lips into a light pucker that Thomas aches to reclaim. He doesn’t but neither can he refrain from touch them altogether. Watching her, he gingerly touches the full pout. It finally startles her impossibly dark eyes open. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Listening.”
Thomas hums as if he understands, settling the soft curves hidden under his shirt next to him on the couch. She doesn’t even notice when he flips on the television. Her eyes closed again, she tries to translate the language of her deceptive heart.