On Love's Own Terms Page 8

  “Your lipstick is smeared,” he muttered fondly.

  She glanced up and couldn’t help but smile. “So is yours.”

  The door banged shut as he wiped the glossy evidence of their kiss off his mouth with the back of his hand. Her steps slowed as she crossed the porch and recognized the truck parked in the driveway.

  “The Miser’s Dream!” she whooped in delight, then ran down the steps toward the gleaming black pickup that he’d purchased at an auction the summer he’d turned sixteen. “Where have you been keeping it?”

  “I loaned it to Sueanne and Tom while they were waiting for delivery of their new truck,” he explained, joining her in the driveway. “Tom promised last night that he’d drop it by this morning on his way to work.”

  Luke’s pickup had been the bargain of the century—a twenty-five-dollar steal! Bonnie rubbed her hand along the hood, remembering well what a rusty, seat-sprung heap it had been before he’d restored it. All that summer, she and every other kid in town had watched him sand it by hand and clean it inside and out. He had spray-painted it—twenty cans’ worth, if she recalled correctly—then had the final coat applied professionally, paying for it with money he had earned sacking groceries at the general store.

  Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Do you realize this old buggy will qualify for antique license plates before too long?”

  She grimaced. “Don’t tell me that! It makes me feel like I should run right out and stock up on support hose and hairnets.”

  Luke laughed boisterously as he opened the passenger door. When she climbed into the spanking-clean cab, he closed the door and braced his chin on the partially lowered window. He regarded her intently as the teasing light faded from his eyes. “Do you remember when keeping the gas tank filled was the second most important thing to us?”

  How could she forget? Lord, she’d carried those memories like scars! Bonnie sat primly, hands folded in her lap, while a scalding blush betrayed her outward composure.

  Just how many rainy nights had they parked in the willow stand near Tucker’s Creek, proving their love in awkward positions which had left stick-shift shaped bruises on very private parts? A poignant smile curved her lips as she ran a hand over the durable herringbone upholstery. To this day, she wasn’t certain whether she’d conceived in their circle or on this seat.

  Luke climbed in on the driver’s side. “I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts, but at today’s prices I seriously doubt it would buy a single brain wave.”

  Bonnie tossed her head, fighting off the sadness which had been her constant companion for seven years. It was nothing short of miraculous when her tactic worked. “I’ll tell you for the price of a cream soda from the nearest vending machine.”

  “A cream soda, you say?” He pretended serious consideration of her counteroffer. “Fair enough.”

  True to his word, Luke steered the truck into the gas station on the outskirts of town. Bonnie burst into laughter when he emerged from the vending area imitating a wine steward.

  Bearing her opened pop bottle on an overturned oil pan which he had borrowed and covered with a paper towel, he kept her in stitches with a ridiculous running commentary about the soda’s clarity and bouquet. As they drove away, laughing hilariously and sharing her pop, the baffled station attendant just scratched his head and returned the oil pan to the service bay.

  On the way to Atlanta, Luke told her why he’d built the cluster-housing development that Darlene and Dave were moving into. Bonnie was completely caught up in his enthusiastic explanation and thoroughly impressed by his firm commitment to what he termed the “affordable housing revolution.”

  “Have I put you to sleep yet?” he asked at one point.

  “No,” she answered truthfully. “In fact, as one of those millions of renters you were discussing, I find it fascinating.” She sighed. “It’s crazy, you know. Here I clear more money in one year than my father did in five years combined, yet I still can’t afford to purchase a traditional house.”

  Luke pounded his fist emphatically on the steering wheel. “That’s because the costs—land, materials, energy, to name a few—have tripled in the last ten years.” He smiled wryly, as if chagrined by the vehement tone of his outburst. “There I go again, spewing out facts and figures like a computer run amok. But housing is a basic need of society, and in this country it’s almost become a birthright.”

  “So you’re reconstructing the American dream?” Bonnie marveled.

  “Exactly.” He smiled and she could tell that her remark had struck a deeply responsive chord in him. “If the builders and architects won’t create affordable alternatives for the general public,” he summarized succinctly, “who will?”

  They lapsed into a companionable silence then. A little north of Atlanta proper, Luke took an exit off the highway and turned the truck onto a rutted, red-clay road. Judging from the numerous graders, backhoes and other heavy pieces of construction machinery, she assumed they were nearing the site of his pet project.

  As he adroitly steered the pickup along the bumpy excuse for a road, her gaze strayed to his hands. Strong. Work-roughened. Yet tender. Capable of controlling passion and bestowing pleasure with a gently masterful touch.

  “Well, what do you think?” He stopped the truck in front of a long row of completed, two-story structures and turned to her with an expectant expression.

  Bonnie never had a chance to respond.

  “Well, it’s about time you two arrived!” Darlene declared as she yanked open the door on the driver’s side. “We’ve been keeping lunch for you nearly a half hour now.”

  “Hey, Luke!” Dave greeted as he jogged toward the truck. “Come see what a difference the skylight has made since it was installed.”

  After exchanging tolerantly amused glances at their siblings’ enthusiasm, Bonnie and Luke climbed out of the pickup and followed Darlene and Dave toward their house. While they walked, Bonnie made a point of studying the first finished cluster of homes, easily identifying those exterior features which Luke had discussed with such pride and enthusiasm during their drive from Rebel’s Ridge.

  Cleverly constructed, the front and back walls of each unit were staggered to insure that next-door neighbors wouldn’t invade one another’s privacy every time they looked outside. Built of red brick for low maintenance, the eight completed dwellings had uniquely distinguishing touches, thanks to the architect’s innovative wrought-iron designs and the painting crew’s use of different but complementary colors on doors and wood trim.

  In order to reduce land costs there were no front lawns to speak of. From inside the house, however, she saw that the rear picture window overlooked a large backyard which could be shared and maintained by all the residents of a particular cluster.

  This project represented so many important things, she realized. A new era in home ownership for millions of people. A lofty goal that Luke had set when he’d had nothing but a hatful of debts and a headful of dreams. A genuine achievement on his part.

  “Well, what do you think?” He repeated his original question when he joined her at the window.

  “I think it’s remarkable,” she replied honestly.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist in mute gratitude.

  “Seeing this,” she whispered, “reminds me of an industrious little boy who built a tree house from scrap lumber.”

  “As I recall, he had a pig-tailed gofer who didn’t know a drawshave from a bread knife.” He gathered her against his chest, locking his hands around her middle. “I wonder whatever became of those two crazy kids?”

  Bonnie felt the tears rolling down her cheeks and was helpless to stop them. Ducking her head, she moved out of his arms and fumbled ineffectually through her purse for a tissue. Luke took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, and she used it to wipe her eyes, removing most of her carefully applied makeup in the process.

  “Do I look like a raccoon?” She raised her face to him.

  “A little bit f
rom the front.” He dropped a kiss on her hair. “But I’d have to see your ringtail to be certain.”

  “Lunchtime!” Darlene announced cheerfully.

  Bonnie repaired her makeup in the bathroom before joining the others.

  “This is the best I can do since you need to keep the dining room table at home for the reception.” Darlene had set their plates of sandwiches and cookies on tray tables in the living room. “Luke said that he’d move the table for us sometime next week.”

  Next week. Bonnie fought the threat of more tears. She’d almost forgotten that she was loving on borrowed time. Next week, she’d be back in business making bag lunches for a picnic benefit in Central Park, basting hams and baking biscuits for a museum opening on Fifth Avenue and eating her heart out for what might have been if she and Luke had only handled their problems more maturely seven years ago.

  “What do you think of our Waterford chandelier?” Darlene asked. “Luke ordered it scaled to size so it wouldn’t overwhelm the room.

  Giving herself a brisk mental shake, Bonnie admired the exquisite fixture hanging like a crystal dewdrop from the ceiling. After they ate, Luke telephoned his office while Darlene and Dave took her on a guided tour of their new home.

  The house was compact, yet the ingenious use of mirrors and skylights added the illusion of depth and space. Interior walls were shared, an energy-saving technique, but the architect had made certain that the front and back walls had large windows offering good light exposure and wonderful views of the surrounding landscape.

  “Luke claims that traditional homes for the average-income family have disappeared with the quarter hamburger,” Dave said when they went upstairs to look around.

  In the bathroom, Darlene pointed out the corner which had been reserved for their sunken marble tub. “Luke says that just because we’re living efficiently it doesn’t mean we can’t also live elegantly.”

  When they came downstairs, Luke was nowhere to be seen inside the house. They went outdoors and found him consulting with his crew over a set of building specifications.

  Waiting quietly while he answered the workers’ questions and resolved their problems, Bonnie thought of a dozen things she wanted to tell him when they were alone again. Her heart raced at a reckless pace.

  “My foreman is going to ride back to the office with us.” Luke nodded at the burly, hard-hatted man standing beside him. “We need to talk to the architect about some changes in the blueprints before we begin the next cluster.”

  What could she say? Hoping her disappointment wasn’t blatantly obvious she murmured, “Fine,” and rode into Atlanta wedged between two sets of shoulders that made the cab seem terribly cramped for space.

  Luke parked his truck in the Dunwoody section of Atlanta where his office was located, then waved his foreman on ahead of them. “This shouldn’t take long,” he promised, briskly ushering her toward a sleek prismatic tower of polished granite and glass. “Chris knows we’re on our way.”

  After they’d entered the stunning structure, Bonnie read the directory and learned that they were in the lobby of the “Ford Industrial Complex.” She couldn’t contain an exclamation of pleased surprise. “You own this building!”

  He laughed and escorted her into the elevator. “A monument to my edifice complex, I suppose.”

  “From a tree house to a skyscraper,” she teased as they were whisked to his penthouse suite. “Now that’s progress.”

  When they stepped out of the elevator, it was like a hot wire had shot an electric spark through the office. Word processors ceased production. Conversations stopped in mid-sentence. And every female gaze fixed on the two of them as if drawn by some inexplicable force. Had they suddenly grown a matching set of horns or something? Bonnie glanced at Luke and started to make light of the devastating effect his mere presence had on his employees. A shadow near the receptionist’s desk caught her eye and the joke died on her lips. She didn’t notice the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling sunlight onto the plush silver-gray carpeting. She didn’t see the imported marble desktops or the suede furniture. Her attention fastened instead on one anguished gray gaze. And with an instinct as old as the ages, Bonnie knew she was looking into the eyes of a woman in love—with Luke.

  Chapter 7

  A bolt of jealousy riveted Bonnie to the spot, while a profound despair flooded the other woman’s sweet-sad face. Busy rifling through a stack of messages that the receptionist had handed him, Luke stood between them.

  “You must be Bonnie.” Her low-key voice wavering, the brunette beauty stepped forward. “I’m Chris Miller.”

  Bonnie recognized her name as the one Darlene had mentioned and felt as if she’d been physically slapped by Luke. What gall! Arranging for an ex-wife to meet a current mistress! Betraying none of the rage boiling up inside her, she replied with cold politeness, “How do you do.”

  “I’m sorry—I should have introduced you.” Luke looked up, his broad smile including both of them. “Chris is the architect who designed the cluster-housing development that you saw today.”

  Her throat clogged with unspeakable fury, Bonnie didn’t trust herself to respond. How convenient for him, having her on the payroll!

  “Are the blueprints ready for me to review?” he asked.

  “They’re on the conference table,” Chris answered softly.

  “Let’s get this done so the crew can break ground on the new cluster tomorrow. It shouldn’t take you more than a few minutes to sketch in the changes.” Luke glanced at Bonnie. “You’re welcome to join the meeting, if you want.”

  She shook her head, unable yet to deliver a civil reply.

  “Make yourself at home in my office, then—first door to your left,” he invited before heading in the opposite direction, his mind obviously occupied with altering the blueprints.

  Chris Miller smiled sadly, then turned and followed Luke.

  The man was totally amoral! Bonnie squeezed her eyes shut, sick to her soul as she relived her other encounter with one of his playmates. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging cruelly into her palms, as she struggled to suppress a scream of outrage.

  “Mrs. Ford?” The receptionist’s voice was tinged with concern.

  Hearing herself addressed as a married woman after all these years, Bonnie went stiff with shock. What a vulgar situation! No wonder the secretaries had stopped working when she stepped off the elevator with him. Melodrama was infinitely more fascinating than facts and figures.

  “Mrs. Ford,” the receptionist repeated, “are you—“

  “It’s Ms. Ford,” she corrected between clenched teeth, “and I’ll be in his office.” She retreated to her sanctuary, shut the door and leaned back against the solid wood. But there was no hiding from the truth.

  Twice now, she’d let her heart mislead her. And with the same man, no less. Stupid! an inner voice taunted. How long she stood there enmeshed in misery, she didn’t know. Finally, she walked to the windows overlooking the lush landscape below. Had Chris designed that, too? She pressed her forehead to the glass and the other buildings nearby blurred into one gray smudge before her tear-filled eyes.

  The gentle tapping at the door reverberated like thunder through the silent room. Bonnie didn’t bother answering—it wasn’t locked. Nor did she turn around to see who had entered—it didn’t matter.

  “I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Chris Miller began quietly as she moved toward the marble-topped desk in the center of the office, “but we really should talk.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” Bonnie pivoted, her lips curved in a derisive smile. “You must be good with numbers so you know one man isn’t divisible by two women.”

  “Nobody knows that better than…” Chris’s voice cracked, and she quickly cleared her throat. Her expressive artist’s hands trembled slightly as she lifted the lid off the small, loblolly pine box sitting on a corner of the desk. She removed a cigarette and, hesitantly, offered it to Bonnie.

  “No, t
hank you,” she refused curtly.

  Chris’s slender fingers encircled the slim silver lighter that she took from the pocket of her drafting smock. She inhaled deeply, as if the smoke would give her the courage to speak. “I never had any nesting instincts that I can recall. Marriage. Motherhood. It always sounded like a regular Cinderella crock...”

  “Then you met Luke?” Bonnie prompted cynically.

  “In college.” Chris’s gray gaze focused on the nearest wall.

  Bonnie looked in the same direction and immediately noticed the evidence of another accomplishment. Framed and centered among his personal photographs and professional awards hung his engineering degree. Sadness shimmered in Bonnie’s amber eyes. Here he’d finished school, and she’d never had an inkling. What else didn’t she know about the man who possessed her soul?

  “It was the last semester of my graduate program at Georgia Tech,” Chris continued slowly. “Luke had enrolled in order to complete his engineering credits, and we had some classes together—most of them related to environmental design and energy conservation techniques in the construction field.”

  Chris paused, puffing nervously on her cigarette, then shrugged her shoulders. “Coffee after class. Late-hour study sessions at the library during finals week. He’d just started his own company, and I needed a job after graduation.” Her voice thickened with emotion. “Our professional goals were so similar that I was fool enough to begin fantasizing—”

  “I don’t want to hear this—this saga of your affair with Luke,” Bonnie interrupted, her tone defensive.

  “You need to hear it,” Chris insisted, extinguishing her cigarette with sharp stabs in the heavy glass ashtray. “You need to know the truth.”

  “Why?” Bonnie demanded vehemently.

  “Because…” Chris’s words were strangled in a heartbroken sob as her brittle control snapped under the stress.

  Bonnie reacted instinctively, hurrying around the corner of the desk to embrace the desolate young woman. She desperately wanted to hate Chris Miller. Yet their shared sorrow prevailed over her wounded pride. Hadn’t she also shed similarly tortured tears because of this man?