Marshall Weathers shook his head ruefully. "Too bad, my Aunt Lou made these. Won the county fair one year with this very recipe."
Aunt Lou? His aunt made the cookies? I snuck another peek and felt my stomach rumble. I hadn't even stopped for lunch after I'd dropped Bonnie back at the salon. Now I'd denied myself cookies.
I scratched at my stomach, then behind my ears. I was about to lose my mind sitting right here in Wanda Weathers's kitchen.
Marshall lowered his mug and frowned, then leaned closer. "Maggie, you're breaking out in a rash."
I looked down at my stomach. Flat red splotches had sprung up everywhere.
"Hold on," he said, jumping up. He was moving across the room, opening cabinets and grabbing at stuff. But he'd opened the Pandora's box to my ailment and I was too busy scratching to pay attention to the particulars.
"Hurry up," I called.
Marshall crossed the room with two pink pills and a glass of water. "Take this," he said. "It's an antihistamine. It'll help the itching."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. As soon as he handed me the pills, I downed them.
"Might make you a tad sleepy," he said, "but that's better than clawin' yourself half to death."
I didn't care. I was in agony. He grabbed my hands, pulled me up, and started back down the hall.
"What you need is to get those clothes off and take a shower. Those chemicals are probably irritating your skin."
He was all business. Not rushing, but not his usual slowed-down self, either. I was up the stairs in no time, headed to the right and into a huge open room anchored by a large antique bed. A family heirloom, I guessed.
"Oh God," I moaned. "I'm going nuts! It's burning!"
"Okay, come on now, calm down." He spoke quietly, all the while leading me forward into a white-tiled bathroom. A claw-footed tub stood against the far wall of the room, surrounded by a white shower curtain. Marshall leaned over, turned on the taps and turned back to me.
"Maggie," he said, "I don't mean a thing by what I'm about to do." And with one fluid movement he leaned toward me, grabbed the bottom of my sweater and pulled it off over my head. He reached for the button on my jeans, popped it efficiently and pushed the wet denim down around my ankles.
He straightened, looked me in the eyes, and reached his hands around behind my back. My bra slid down my arms and onto the floor. My panties followed them, and before I could really put it all together, I was in the shower. Alone.
"Are you all right?" he asked. He was moving around the room and I heard a cabinet door open and close. "I'm getting you something for the itching. Hang on."
The water ran over my skin, quenching some of the fire, but not enough. I moaned and he crossed the room instantly. "Maggie? You all right?"
"No," I said, my voice sinking about as low as my spirits.
"I itch everywhere. I look like Bozo the Clown, and now you've seen me naked and looking like a critter in a freak show." A sob caught in my throat, and my voice trailed off as I indulged in even more self-pity. I would have wallowed in my situation, but the burning seemed suddenly worse and I shrieked.
"Maggie?" his voice was louder, closer to the curtain and filled with concern.
"I'm on fire!" I was losing it. The itching was unbearable. I couldn't stop myself from clawing at my body. "Make it stop!" I yelled. "Help me, Marshall. Do something! Get me something! Oh God, it hurts!"
I could hear him rustle around outside the shower. I heard a clunk as something metallic hit the floor. A few seconds later the curtain opened. Marshall Weathers stepped into the tub behind me, completely naked, holding a box of baking soda in his hand.
"Turn back around and don't move," he whispered. "I'm putting baking soda on you," he said. "Old family remedy." His hands moved softly over my skin, caressing my back, and touching me like a cooling breeze. I sighed as his fingers moved down my arms.
"Feels better right off, doesn't it?" he said, his tone neutral but his voice a thready giveaway. Marshall Weathers wasn't feeling a bit like Harmonica Jack.
He stopped for a second, grabbed the box and poured more baking soda into his hand. When he turned back, he slipped his arms around my waist and began rubbing the powder onto my stomach. The water sluiced down my belly, melting the baking soda into a slippery liquid as his fingers moved across my torso. It was heaven. Wherever his fingers touched, the burning stopped and the pain eased.
I felt him edge closer and closed my eyes. I could see his body, captured in the brief second when he'd opened the curtain. What had looked fine in jeans looked downright magnificent without clothes. I wouldn't look back over my shoulder again. Instead, I stuck my face under the spray and tried to remind myself that this was nakedness for medicinal purposes. I tried to picture Harmonica Jack telling me that "parts were parts," or Marshall saying just a second ago "I don't mean nothing by this." But when he touched me I felt my pulse quicken and my breath catch in my throat. As his hands drifted lightly across my shoulders, I tried to pretend he still wore his clothes, but I was failing miserably. I was itching, but I wasn't brain dead.
"Okay, turn around," he said softly. His hands rested gently on my waist as I turned to face him. The burning fire in my skin was subsiding but another one was just catching, and it was far more dangerous.
He doesn't mean a thing by this, remember. I stood in front of him, completely naked, trying not to let him know how I felt, or what his hands were doing to my self-control.
I couldn't find a safe place to rest my eyes. If I looked at his face, he'd read me, he'd know what I was thinking, and worse, he'd know what I wanted. I looked at his chest, but it was smooth and corded with muscle. Nope, couldn't look there. And when I dropped my eyes, I stopped breathing. Magnificent didn't seem to accurately describe Marshall Weathers.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I said, raising my head and looking into his eyes.
He laughed. "Your face is red," he said. "I don't think it's the rash." He reached behind me and pulled a bottle of shampoo out of the metal holder that clung to the shower-head. "Lean back a little," he said, "let's see if we can get some of that goo out of your head."
"I can do it," I said.
Marshall looked at me, his blue eyes darkening. "I know you can," he said, and calmly poured the shampoo into the palm of his hand. "Close your eyes."
I wanted to relax. I wanted to lean into him, but I didn't. His fingers massaged my scalp and I tried once again to convince myself that Marshall Weathers didn't want me. His body wanted me, there was no doubt about that, but the man inside that body didn't want a relationship.
His hands were strong and moved slowly, kneading my scalp. I must've sighed, because he chuckled. "See, that isn't so bad, is it?"
I moaned softly and felt him shiver.
"You're cold, aren't you?" I whispered. "Here I am, under the water, and you're standing out there."
He was rinsing my hair, the last bit of soap running down the drain in a soapy swirl.
"Come here," I said, and pulled him closer. "Warm up."
That was all it took. It was time for the tables to turn and for me to take charge. The way I figured it, Marshall Weathers was at war with himself, and that was his problem, but there were two people in this shower and one of them was absolutely clear about what she wanted.
I reached for the soap and turned back around to grin at him.
When I touched his chest, his eyes closed. I ran my fingers over his skin, discovering. His hands tightened around the small of my back, pulling me into him. His eyes opened and he stared deep into my eyes.