once more around her purse strap and turned around to face Bennett Ludlow, the head of the school board. The man had left his parked car and stood on the sidewalk behind them.
“Yes,” Tristan said abruptly, barely sparing the other man a glance. “I’ll drive you home, Hope.”
His hand touched the small of her back, igniting a warm, melting glow.
“You mean you two were here together?” Bennett’s white teeth smiled, but Hope knew the older man too well not to see the wheels clicking inside his brain. He was undoubtedly wondering the same thing Hope was. Why?
“Not really,” Hope answered quickly. “And I think I’ll walk home. It’s such a lovely evening.” She didn’t dare look up into Tristan’s face again. Every time she looked into his eyes, her sensible brain simply ground to a halt. And the last thing she needed was to look as muddled as she felt with Bennett there to witness it.
She wondered if she’d ever be able to forget that she’d been hired last year as a last resort because no other more qualified teacher had been available.
She smiled vaguely at both men and hurried across the street.
“She’s not your usual type, is she, old boy?”
Irritation bubbled beneath Tristan’s calm as he watched Hope reach the sidewalk on the other side of the street. He looked at Bennett. The attorney was as much a part of Weaver and the surrounding community as the Clays. More so than Tris, in fact. Because Bennett had returned to Weaver after college and Tris had not. Not that they’d ever had a lot to do with each other since Bennett was more Sawyer’s age than Tristan’s. “Should I be flattered you think you know my ‘type,’ Bennett?” he asked lazily. “Didn’t think you cared.”
Bennett’s face tightened. “Before they moved away from Weaver, Gerri and Justine Leoni always were after a nice meal ticket, but I’d hoped that Hope had more sense than her mother and—”
“Go on inside and enjoy a steak,” Tris smoothly interrupted. “Double-C beef, you know,” he added as he started after Hope. “Can’t be beat.”
Certainly not by the failing spread that Bennett’s parents had once run, long ago. They’d sold out to the Double-C more than twenty years earlier. As far as Tris knew, Bennett had hated the Clays ever since. And though Tris didn’t give two hoots and a holler what Bennett thought or said about them, having that cap-toothed blowhard look down his nose at the Leonis—Hope in particular—was more than Tris could stand.
Hope. She was running away from him like the dogs of hell were at her heels. He wasn’t so conceited that he believed all women found him irresistible. But he was wholly aware that Hope felt the same drugging attraction that he did, whether she admitted it or not.
He wanted her. Badly.
Seducing virgins was the one thing over which Tris drew the line. But a kiss was not a seduction.
He wanted to kiss her, and he knew she wanted it, too. But what had him going after her now was not the irrefutable urge to taste her lips, but the hurt in her eyes she hadn’t been able to hide.
He quickened his step and caught up with her just as she was turning the corner toward her house. The hem of her white and purple flowered dress flared out behind her.
“Hold up there, sweet pea.”
She looked over her shoulder once, but kept walking.
He swore silently and lengthened his stride, stepping in her path. She sidestepped, but he wasn’t dancing. He closed his hands over her shoulder and she stopped cold. His gut tightened even more at the silvery trail wending its way down her sculpted cheekbones. “I’m sorry.”
Her chin angled. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He thumbed away a tear drop. “What are they for?”
“My shoes are pinching my feet,” she said flatly. Red color flooded her cheeks.
Little liar. He hoped she never played poker. That milky pale skin of hers would give her away every time. He looked down at the confection of narrow straps and tiny heels gracing her feet. They were shamelessly feminine, sexy shoes and not at all what he’d expect her to wear with that ill-fitting sack of a dress. He crouched down, circling her ankle with his palm.
“What are you doing?” She pressed her palm to his shoulder, but he still managed to lift her foot and slide off the supposedly offending shoe. That was the nice thing about the element of surprise. He confiscated the other shoe, too, then swept her up into his arms.
She gasped, her eyes as wide as a child’s. “What are you doing?”
“It’s my fault your feet are hurting,” he explained reasonably, looking down into her shocked face. “I said I’d give you a lift.”
“A ride,” she sputtered faintly.
He shrugged and turned up her street. He didn’t dare think about how comfortable she felt in his arms, even squirming and kicking her legs the way she was. “What’s the difference?”
“Well, one is in a car,” she hissed. “Put me down before someone sees us—oh, fabulous.”
“Hope? Is everything all right here?”
Hope smiled back at the openly curious question issued from a very pregnant woman who was watering a row of flowers in her yard. Tris noticed, however, that Hope’s smile was frantic around the edges. “How are you feeling, Brenda? Your baby should be here any day now, right?”
“Next week,” the other woman said. Her eyes were suspicious. “You sure you’re okay?”
“She’s fine,” Tris said easily. “Stepped on a stone.” He kept right on walking.
Even though he held Hope squarely in his arms, he could feel her straining as if to reduce the contact between their bodies. “Brenda Wyatt is one of the biggest gossips in the county,” she muttered. “She’s probably already heading to her phone to spread the word.”
Tris cut across the corner of Hope’s green lawn and carried her up the steps. A glance over his shoulder told him that Hope was probably right. Brenda-the-Blab was gone, and the screen door at the front of her house was swinging in the faint breeze because it hadn’t caught the latch. “People in this town have always gossiped.”
“Yes,” Hope agreed tightly. “And half the time it’s been about one of the infamous Leoni women, whether it was my mother or my sister.” She leaned over and pushed open her front door. “Put me down.”
Tris turned sideways and carried her into her living room. The furnishings were as uncomplicated as he’d expected: long lines and soft pillows, all in soft colors that reminded him of deliciously cool ice cream cones. “The only gossip I ever heard about your mother or your sister was that they were beautiful.” He settled her on the couch where an enormous orange cat slept in a ball. “There. You’re down.”
“They were beautiful. Justine is beautiful. She’s the kind of woman you should take out for steak.”
“How is Justine, anyway? I haven’t seen her in years.” What he remembered about Justine was that
