Moonlight Man Read Free Page B

him to have an appreciation of it? And you’re good, Sharon. Incredible. Today, you created a kind of magic with that harp of yours I’ve rarely heard. Your “Ode to Joy” at the end of the ceremony moved me to tears.”
    Sharon gave Zinnie a quick smile. “You,” she accused, “were in tears from the moment Roxy tripped and Harry picked her up. I think half the guests were afraid that you hated the thought of losing your son to my sister.”
    “Weddings always make me cry,” said Zinnie. “But never one like that. It was the most beautiful and poignant ceremony I’ve witnessed, all the more so because the bride and groom are so lucky to be alive, and we are so lucky to have them.” She stood, yawned, and stretched. She was ready for bed.
    “Yes. I know.”
    “So be nice to your Mr. Duval. Remember, we do have him to thank.”
    “Yes,” Sharon said, getting to her feet. “Good night, Zinnie. Sleep well.”
    Sharon paced around the house, still too keyed up to go to bed. In the darkened kitchen, she glanced out the window. Duval’s camper showed no lights. Often it did, far into the night, as if he slept as poorly as she did. She wished Zinnie hadn’t left her thinking about the man. She knew what they all owed Marc Duval. She’d known it now for nearly two months, and it didn’t make it any easier to deal with her jumbled feelings toward him.
    She left the kitchen, hoping to leave the thoughts of him behind. The living room still smelled of the cigarettes some of the guests had smoked, and her harp stood there, calling, calling, begging her to come back to it.
    “No!” she whispered, and grabbed a heavy jacket from a hook near the back door. As if the opening of her door had been a signal, the music came, soft and haunting and infinitely sad. Silent Night … Holy Night . He played his harmonica quietly, but all was not calm, not in Sharon’s heart. It pounded as she listened to the melancholy sounds. How could a carol of joy be played with such infinite sadness?
    Suddenly, tears flooded her eyes and she felt them running cold down her face. She clenched her fists in her pockets, hunched her shoulders, and let the music wash over her, tear into her, cut her heart to ribbons.
    “Don’t!” she said harshly, and the music came to a discordant stop. “Oh, Lord, please stop it!” She realized that she was standing before Marc Duval and had no idea how she had gotten there. He had come to his feet, had shoved his harmonica into the pocket of his leather jacket, and was staring at her. “Don’t!” she cried again, her voice breaking. “I can’t bear it another minute! Just stop torturing me, Duval! Stop!”

Chapter Two
      “WHAT IS IT?” Marc demanded. “What’s wrong, Sharon?” He’d never called her by her first name, except in the conversations he made up in his head. It felt so good, he said it again with all the tenderness she evoked in him. “Sharon …” He reached out to touch one of the silver streaks tracking down her face. “Don’t cry, little Sharon.” Lord, but she was lovely by moonlight, even weeping, even angry she stirred his soul.
    She gasped and flinched at his touch as if he had slapped her. Jumping back, she tripped on the edge of the concrete pad the camper sat on. She would have fallen, but he caught her around the waist and drew her hard against him.
    Sharon trembled at the contact, holding herself stiffly, waiting for him to let her go. He did not, but instead lifted his hand again and wiped the tears from her cheek, making her heart pound at the feel of him against her, at the shocking eroticism of his rough, callused palm on her cheek. Unable to stop herself, she leaned into it just a little, turned her head a fraction of an inch, seeking the contact.
    “Don’t!” she said brokenly, her gaze pleading.
    “Don’t what? Don’t touch your skin, even though your eyes beg me to do it? Don’t play Christmas music because it makes you sad and lonely? I was