Lovers' Reunion (Silhouette Treasury 90s)

by Anne Marie Winston

  “No.” She smiled back, glad to see the light returning to his face. “You’re one of the best in your field. I kept up with some of the articles you wrote and contributed to during your years of globe-trotting.”

  “I was one of the best,” he emphasized. Then speculation crept into his expression. “So you read about me?”

  “From time to time,” she conceded. “Your folks were so thrilled when something came out that had your name in it—everyone on the block had to read it.”

  “Oh, so it was your duty.” There was a strange glint in his eye now.

  “Not entirely.” She shrugged, determined to keep their past exposed and unremarkable. That way, it couldn’t hurt. Matter-of-factly, she smiled at him. “A girl doesn’t forget her first love. I was curious.”

  “But you did forget me just like I said you would,” he pointed out. “You got married.”

  Six

  Why had he mentioned her marriage?

  Stupid, Esposito, very stupid. He’d finally gotten through the door of her apartment—and how!—and they’d been moving along pretty well.

  And then he’d reminded her of her husband.

  The lights and warm humor had drained out of her face and stripped away the pretenses, and now he could see what he’d been ignoring since he’d learned Sophie had gotten married.

  She was grieving. Sorrow lay pooled in her dark-lashed eyes, and her full lips drooped.

  Quietly, carefully, he reached across the table and took her hand, rubbing his thumb along the backs of her knuckles. She had the softest skin.... But he didn’t want to be distracted yet. “He must have been a pretty special guy, if you loved him. Tell me about him.”

  Her eyes widened, and he realized he’d surprised her. “We met in college,” she said in a low voice. “His name was Kirk, Kirk Morrell, and he was a farm boy from a little town below Peoria.” She smiled a little. “Can you imagine me a farmer’s wife?”

  Although the thought of her being anyone’s wife tied his gut into a small, tangled knot, he forced himself to smile back, shaking his head. “Doesn’t compute.”

  “Well, I nearly became one. Kirk was working on his Master’s degree in agriculture the year we married. We planned to go back to his family’s farm outside Tiskilwa after he graduated ... but he got sick.”

  “Sick?” Part of him hated to make her relive something that was obviously painful, part of him didn’t want to hear any more, but for some strange reason he felt compelled to learn everything he could about the man who’d married Sophie.

  “Cancer,” she said quietly, fiddling with her fork. “He had surgery, chemo, the works, and for a while the doctors thought he was going to be all right. But then it came back again.”

  “You barely had a chance to enjoy a normal marriage.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “We didn’t. We were married three years ago, in May, and he died a year and half after that.”

  “I’m sorry.” And he was. Even though he couldn’t help being glad that he was the one sitting across the table watching the candles she’d lit throw shadows across her cheekbones, he never would have wished her husband dead.

  Her lips turned up in the slightest suggestion of a smile. “I’m sorry, too. He was a sweet man.” She picked up her wineglass and sipped, then nodded at him. “So tell me about the places you’ve been in your travels. I’ve never been beyond the borders of the continental United States.”

  He recognized a change of direction when he heard one, and for now, he was willing to indulge her. Besides, he wanted her to think of the future. They could forget the past, starting here and now.

  They talked through the meal about more general things. He described some of the places he’d been, the things he’d done, and she told him more about all of her brothers’ and sisters’ lives. Her four brothers were all born within six years, and Marco was older than two and younger than the two others. He’d been close to all of them, and by the time she had taken him through their various families, including Giordono’s twins, he was laughing aloud.

  “Twins! Somehow I can’t picture ol’ G as a father, especially with twin daughters.”

  “Twins run in the family,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, but I thought they were supposed to skip a generation.”

  “They did,” she pointed out as they carried their dishes to the kitchen. “Just leave these. I can clean them up later—where was I? Oh. Mama’s mother was a twin, and Mama had twins. But G wasn’t a twin, so his twins actually skipped two generations. If your theory is correct, then Vince and Belle shouldn’t have twins, since they are twins.”

  “Which they don’t, according to you.”

  “Right.”

  “This is making my brain hurt.” Marco shook his head, following her to the couch, where he set down the two cups of coffee she’d handed him.

  She arranged a plate of her mother’s cookies on the coffee table and sank down with a wave of her hand. “Please eat those. Mama insists on sending me home after every visit loaded down with more food than I could eat in a month. I take it to work and palm it off on my co-workers, who don’t need all these calories, either.”

  She sat down beside him, and he restrained the urge to pull her close to his side. His body wanted to finish what he had started in her doorway when he’d arrived. But he sensed she still wasn’t ready to accept him in that intimate fashion, regardless of the way she responded every time he put his hands on her. There was a wall of reserve around Sophie. Nothing too noticeable unless you knew her well. And he did.

  He was going to have her, there was no doubt in his mind. But he didn’t want her to have second thoughts afterward, and until he knew what she was thinking behind those pleasantly blank smiles she offered, he could wait.

  So he reached for one of the raisin cookies that nobody could make like Mrs. Domenico and lay his head against the back of the couch, stretching out his legs. “You haven’t told me when or how you lost weight. Which, by the way, is very flattering. I liked you the way you were—a lot.” He laughed when she blushed. “But the cute little butt filling out these pants is pretty appealing.”

  She took a sip of her coffee, lingering over it until the warm color began to recede from her cheeks, then set down the cup and settled herself next to him. “When Kirk was sick, I was really busy caring for him. I didn’t think much about food or sleep, and it just kind of happened.” She patted one hip gently. “Now I’ve decided I like me this size, so I do what it takes to stay this way.”

  He reached over and picked up the hand she’d just used, linking his fingers with hers. “Where did you and your husband meet?” What he really wanted to know was When? When did you stop thinking of me? He knew it was unfair of him to even be thinking that way. He was the one who had told her to forget him and get on with her life.

  But all these years, he’d subconsciously considered Sophie to be his. He’d come home wanting things to be like they’d been before, wanting her to be the same. Still untouched, still quiet until he took her in his arms, still wildly passionate and willing to give him anything he wanted.

  He realized that she hadn’t answered him, and he straightened on the couch enough to put his arm around her. Not pulling her close enough to make her uncomfortable, but establishing a link, a connection, between them.

  Slowly, she said, “I met him in college my freshman year. We used to study together. He asked me out again and again but I always said no.”

  What she’d left unsaid was the reason she’d refused. Because she’d been waiting around for him.

  She went on. “But after you made me see that you and I were all wrong, that I was too young, that you were too busy traveling, there was no reason for me to refuse him.”

  He let the silence hang, but she didn’t elaborate, and he finally was forced to say, “You must not have wasted any time getting married.”

  She turned her head and looked at him, and he saw a small, dark fire growing in her ey
es, warning him to back off. “We started seeing each other in June after I graduated and got married two years later ... a lot longer than it took me to get involved with you.”

  He flinched, remembering how close he’d come to taking her innocence on their very first date. But, dammit, didn’t he get any credit for trying to keep his hands off her?

  He wanted to know more. He wanted to know when she’d become lovers with the guy, what she’d felt when another man touched her, if she’d loved Kirk like she’d said she loved him. But there were some questions even a stupid man knew better than to ask.

  “I’d like to catch the news,” he said instead. “Would it be all right if I turned on your TV?”

  Without another word, she leaned forward and picked up the remote, handing it to him before sitting back down a discreet distance away.

  He found the channel he wanted and tossed the remote onto the table. Then he deliberately reached for her. “I’d like to hold you,” he said quietly. “Just hold you.”

  She threw him one startled, suspicious glance, but she didn’t resist as he turned and arranged them so that he was propped sideways on the sofa with her between his legs, her back against his chest.

  He slipped both arms around her and pulled her back against him, linking his fingers over her waist. After an initial moment of stiff hesitation, Sophie relaxed against him, laying her head against his shoulder and her arms atop his, with her small hands clasping his forearms.

  “There,” he said. “Doesn’t this feel good?”

  Beneath his hands, he felt her take a deep breath, then let it slowly out. “Yes,” she said. “This feels good.”

  Good was an understatement, he thought. This was heaven. Her body was warm against him, and her back rested solidly against his groin, heating his desire for her. Beneath his hands her belly was flat, her hips narrow, but if he moved his fingers the slightest bit, the backs of his knuckles brushed against the undersides of her full breasts. He wiggled his fingers now, and was rewarded by the distinct outline of her nipples, stiffening into tight little buds beneath the light sweater she wore. He was so much bigger than she that he had a clear view of her front over her shoulder when she lay back, as she was doing now.

  Then he remembered the apartment. “Oh, hell.”

  “What? What’s wrong?” She immediately tried to sit up, but he’d already made the decision in his mind, and he controlled her easily, holding her in place until she stopped struggling.

  “It’s no big deal,” he said. “It’s just that I was going to show you the apartment I’m thinking about renting. But we could do that tomorrow.”

  He could feel her relief, and it struck him that she’d really had a moment’s panic, thinking something might be seriously wrong. And he supposed he could see why. In her life, things had gone seriously wrong.

  To get her to smile, he said the first thing that came into his head. “Then again, I could just move in here with you.”

  But she didn’t relax. In fact, she stiffened even more. “That’s not an option.” Her voice was cool and curt, and it irritated the hell out of him. Irritated him enough that he responded in kind, wanting to get under her skin like she’d gotten under his.

  Dropping his head, he nuzzled her neck, running his lips up to capture the soft fleshy nub of her earlobe. “Why not?” he breathed into her ear. “After that kiss at the door, you can’t pretend anymore, sweetheart. I’m going to be in your bed, and I have a feeling one or two nights a week isn’t going to cut it. It sounds like a good option to me.”

  He’d expected her to struggle again, to try to free herself, but he was completely unprepared when she turned, flipping herself over in his arms violently, lying nearly fulllength on him. Her breasts pushed at his chest, and her legs lay between his, the hot, waiting vee between her thighs separated from his filling, throbbing shaft by nothing more than a few thin layers of clothing.

  “I’m not pretending,” she said between her teeth. “A little romance in this relationship would have been nice, but you’ve never been big on romance in the past so I don’t know why I expected anything different this time.” He was too shocked to restrain her when she moved this time. His Sophie, the one he’d dreamed of so many times over the years, had spirit, but she’d never displayed a temperamental side like this.

  She climbed off him. “You want to get in my bed? In my pants?” She stood over him like a dark angel, her eyebrows drawn together in fury, her eyes no longer reminding him of a doe, but a much fiercer predator. “Fine, let’s go. I’m tired of arguing about it with you.” She put her hands to the hem of her sweater and with one swift tug, yanked it up and over her head.

  His heart almost stopped. His heart definitely damn near almost quit right on the spot. She was beautiful. A goddess. So many times, he’d imagined her like this, but his memory hadn’t come close to the reality.

  Seeing her body nearly naked shouldn’t be such a big deal. When they’d been together years ago, he’d touched her breasts, filled his palms with the warm, sweet mounds, sucked the small buttons of her nipples into his mouth and tongued them until they were both almost crazy. He’d seen these breasts before, but nearly always, they’d been in a car or a dark, dimly lit spot where two lovers could go a little further than propriety would allow on the doorstep.

  But it was a big deal. Oh, God, it was a huge deal. She wore a lacy black bra that hugged her generous curves. Black, for God’s sake! Was there anything sexier than a woman in black lace?

  In the hollow at the base of her throat, her skin was smooth and creamy, never touched by the sun, slipping gently down her breastbone to slope into full globes of feminine beauty. The lace of the bra wasn’t designed to hide much, and he could see rosy nipples the color of warm cherry wood thrusting forward, calling him.

  Then he realized Sophie’s hands had gone to the snap of her slim-fitting leggings. She tugged at the closure and with a tiny, but decisive click, the pants were open. He didn’t intend to move, didn’t even consciously think of it, but as her small fingers grasped the tab of the zipper and her defiant eyes met his, he closed his fists over her hands, preventing her from exposing even more of herself to him.

  “Stop it.” His tongue was all tangled up, and his mouth felt like he’d chewed up a wad of sawdust. “Dammit, Sophie, just stop it.” He prevented her from tearing his hands away and maneuvered himself awkwardly off the couch. Standing, he had the advantage of size, and he pulled her against him with one hand, using the other to hold both her flailing fists behind her, pushing her body against his in such a way that the erection straining at the front of his pants was pressed firmly into her naked midriff.

  “Why?” she demanded. “I thought this was what you wanted, Marco. Isn’t this what you’ve had in mind since you saw me standing in my folks’ backyard?” She blew hair out of her eyes, glaring at him. “It’s what I want. Not what I want to want, but it’s what I want. All I can think about is you anymore. How it feels when you put your tongue in my mouth, how I want you to touch my breasts—”

  He was only human. And there was absolutely no question that she was human, a sweet-scented soft human woman who was making him so crazy he couldn’t think straight. Just because it was the most effective way of shutting her up, he slammed his mouth down on hers, so violently that he felt the edge of her teeth against his lip before he thrust his tongue into the warm, welcoming depths of her mouth, groaning a little when she met him thrust for thrust and her hips echoed the heated exchange, offering him the senseless, mindless pleasure of her body.

  And that was the thought that stopped him.

  Senseless. Mindless.

  This wasn’t what he wanted. Well, it was, but not quite like this.

  He tore his mouth away from hers, amazed to hear himself panting. “Sweetheart, wait. I don’t want this to be a five-minute rocket that goes off so fast neither one of us has time to enjoy it.”

  “Too bad.” She opened her mouth and he readied himself fo
r another blast, but suddenly, she shut it again and her eyes filled with tears.

  Oh, hell. Not tears. He’d sooner be tortured than watch a woman cry. Especially when he suspected he was the cause of the flood. Especially this woman. The only woman with whom he’d ever wanted to share his life.

  The thought was a real shocker. It sneaked out of his subconscious and plastered itself across a great big billboard in his head, and there was no shaking it loose.

  The tears were on the march now, starting down her cheeks, and her small shoulders were beginning to shake. Quickly he grabbed her sweater from the couch where it had landed and dragged it over her head. He wanted to be noble, but when those two magnificent examples of female anatomy were right under his nose, nobility went south in a hurry.

  “Ah, Sophie? Sweetheart? Baby, please don’t cry. I’m sorry.” He bent his knees, despite the stiff discomfort in the right one, until he was eye level with her. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I want to make love with you, not just have sex, and I want it to be special. The way you’ve always been special.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her petite frame was drooping now. “So special that you could walk away and forget me in a day.”

  “Not forget you.” He used the hem of her sweater to wipe away tears, then lowered it quickly before his body could get any fresh ideas about what was under that fabric. “I never, ever forgot you. Even when I was miles and years away, you were always the woman who won when I was comparing women in my head.”

  “What women?” She sniffed, but at least the tears seemed to be drying up.

  “Um, you know, other guys’ wives.” How come he couldn’t manage a little simple comfort without putting his foot right down his throat?

  “Sure.” It was sarcastic, but the antagonism she’d bristled with a few moments ago was gone. “Don’t tell me lies, Marco. It just makes it that much harder to believe anything you say.”