She patiently reminded her mother when it was time to do the washing or cook dinner, or if they needed more groceries. For two years she looked after her mother as much as her mother looked after her.
Then one day Karen looked about at where they were living as if she’d never seen it before and said, “We’re moving out of here.”
They’d shifted to a pleasant dormitory village where half the population commuted to Auckland every day. Where people grew roses and hibiscus and mowed the lawns every week. Mrs. Crossan welcomed them from over the fence and invited Jenna for a swim and to play with the twins.
She thought she’d loved them both from that very first day.
Chapter Four
“What’s the dreamy little smile about?” Marcus’s voice intruded on the memory.
“I was remembering when I met Dean and Katie.” Marcus must have been there in the background too, she supposed. But she’d naturally been more interested in the twins, who were her own age.
“That accounts for it,” Marcus said dryly.
She recalled only a day full of sunshine and childish laughter, playing tag across the green grass and climbing into the wide, cradling branches of the old puriri, swinging thrillingly back to earth by way of the sturdy rope that hung from it. And her mother looking almost relaxed, acting like the mother she had been two years ago, smiling as she spoke with Mrs. Crossan and watched the children splash about in the pool.
Marcus’s voice interrupted again. “Losing a youthful dream isn’t the end of the world. One day you’ll find it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Is that how it was with you?”
When he didn’t answer, frowning as though at a loss to know what she meant, she reminded him, “You told Katie your childhood sweetheart married someone else.”
“Oh, that.” He looked slightly rueful. “It just shows, you see. I’d completely forgotten.”
“I think you made it up,” she accused.
“Not at all. When I was eleven I was madly in love with a girl in my class. A plump child with apple cheeks, and braces on her teeth. I thought they were incredibly sexy.”
“Sexy?” Jenna nearly choked on her drink.
“Eleven-year-old boys tend to be into hardware. Airplanes, motorbikes and girls with a mouthful of gleaming metal.” He looked blandly solemn.
“Did you ever get to kiss her?”
“Hell, no. I worshipped her from afar—well, two desks away—for six months, then we left for different schools the following year and I never saw her again.”
“That’s sad.” Jenna made her eyes big and sorrowful.
“A tragedy,” Marcus agreed. “Romeo and Juliet all over again.”
Jenna giggled, startled that she still remembered how to laugh. The cold leaden lump that had taken the place of her heart began to melt around the edges.
Marcus was right, she would get over her shock and secret grief. Gratefully she touched his arm. “Thanks, Marcus.”
He shrugged her off, looking faintly irritated. Then, as if to make up for it, he took her hand, his fingers curving about hers in a strong clasp. “You’ve nothing to thank me for,” he said in a rather gravelly tone. “But I’m monopolizing you. We’d better circulate.”
Later in the evening Jenna was placing a platter of rock oysters garnished with lemon slices and parsley on the long supper table, when Marcus appeared at her side.
“Looks good,” he commented. “Shall I save you some before they all go?”
“Thanks.” Jenna threw him a smile and hurried back to the kitchen to help Katie and Mrs. Crossan.
When all the food was laid out and everyone milled about with filled plates, Marcus appeared again at her side, holding a large platter piled with savories, seafood and chicken wings.
“I thought we could share.” He leaned across her to snaffle paper napkins and forks from the table. Looking about, he added, “There’s nowhere to sit. Let’s take it outside.”
He led her into a broad passageway where a few people stood about with plates and forks. “Hold this for a minute.”
Jenna stood with the loaded plate as he disappeared, to return in a few minutes with an opened bottle of wine and two glasses.
Outside, light spilled from several windows, but the perimeter of the lawn was cool and dark. Marcus made unerringly for the big old puriri tree that had been there since before the house was built.
Guessing his objective, Jenna followed. She recalled when his father had built the wooden seat around the tree. And the summer that Marcus had helped the younger ones erect a rickety tree hut in its gnarled branches. They’d used it for several years before they became too old for games and it fell to pieces.
Jenna’s mother, helped by Mrs. Crossan’s practical brand of sympathy, had gradually emerged from the half world she’d been living in, fighting her way back to a normal life. She’d found a job working for a publishing house, first part-time in the office and later full-time in charge of distribution. Mrs. Crossan had promised to keep an eye on Jenna after school.
Once, when Jenna was thirteen, Karen had considered moving to a shoreside suburb closer to her office in Auckland, but when she suggested it Jenna had dissolved in angry tears. All the insecurities and misery of the two years after her father’s death rose to the surface in furious, door-slamming, hysterical protest. The subject was never mentioned again.
Jenna sat on the worn, smooth wood of the seat, placing the food between herself and Marcus. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and she rubbed at her arms.
“You’re cold.” Marcus stripped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, ignoring her protest. The satin lining was warm, and a faint woodsy aroma mingled with the smell of the fabric.
He poured wine and handed her a glass.
“What do you want?” he asked, indicating the plate.
Jenna peered down at the indeterminate mass. “I can’t see what’s there.”
“Oyster?” He handed her a fork.
“If I can find them.”
Marcus speared into the mound of food. “Open your mouth,” he said.
She obeyed, and he slid the pungent morsel smoothly onto her tongue. He watched her for a moment before taking another for himself.
Her eyes becoming accustomed to the dimness, Jenna hunted for the pearly glow of the oyster shells and began to help herself. When all the oysters were gone, she had a chicken wing and a savory pastry, leaving the rest for Marcus while she sipped at the second glass of wine he’d poured for her.
“You don’t eat enough,” he said.
“I’ve just pigged out on oysters.”
He made a derisory sound. “Hardly a meal.”
“I’m fine.”
He finished a couple more savories and wiped his fingers on one of the napkins, then put the plate aside and leaned against the puriri, draining his wine.
A moth fluttered by on pale wings and disappeared into the darkness. As Marcus topped up Jenna’s glass and refilled his own, a burst of laughter floated from the house.
“Should we go back to the party?” Jenna asked.
“There’s no hurry. Are you warm enough now?”
“Yes, but you…” She touched the jacket he’d given her.
“Don’t worry about me.”
In the house the laughter died, a gradual hush taking its place. One voice—Mr. Crossan’s—was audible, followed by a round of clapping.
“They’re making speeches,” Jenna said. Congratulatory speeches. Dean would be expected to say something too, about his engagement, his fiancée. “You should be there.” They’d be looking for him.
His hand closed over hers, checking her movement to get up. “You don’t want to be there, do you?”
Jenna didn’t answer, and he said, “Neither do I. Let’s finish our wine.”
They did so in silence punctuated distantly by Dean’s friends indulging in some good-natured heckling, further laughter and applause, some raucous cheers. Then the b
uzz of talk began again, and unconsciously Jenna breathed a sigh of relief.
Marcus drained his glass and turned his head, took her glass from her and placed them both beside the bottle at his side. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stood up, so quickly that the jacket slipped from one shoulder.
Marcus got up too, made a grab for the jacket and briefly grasped her bare shoulder before he pulled the garment around her again.
He didn’t immediately move away, instead standing with both hands clasping the lapels. His lips brushed her forehead, and to her dismay she felt tears well hotly in her eyes. She choked back a sob.
“Jenna,” he said. His lips found a trickle of moisture on her cheek. “Don’t.” The admonition came out in a soft growl.
Men hated women’s tears. She was embarrassing him—and herself. “S-sorry,” she whispered, gritting her teeth. “Just leave me alone and I’ll be all right.” Closing her eyes tightly, she willed the tears away.
“I can’t do that.” His long fingers curved about her nape, his thumb absently moving over the skin just behind her ear.
He altered his grip, turning her face up to his. He kissed her wet eyelids, and then she felt his warm, velvety mouth on hers, parting her lips just a little, with a sureness and tenderness that was electrifying.
She made a muffled sound of surprise, and for a split second he seemed to hesitate, but then his arm came about her waist inside the shelter of his jacket, while the hand on her nape shifted, lazed down her throat and splayed across the bare flesh exposed by her low-necked dress.
Jenna’s heartbeat accelerated. Heat suffused her body. Her bewildered mind was telling her this was crazy, but her body wasn’t listening. It was listening instead to the steady beating of Marcus’s heart against her breast, and his quickened breathing. It was inhaling the clean, masculine scent of his skin and tasting his mouth as it moved gently on hers, making the kiss deeper, more intimate, more exciting. She didn’t realize she’d wound her arms around his neck until the jacket fell from her shoulders to the ground.
As the cold air played about them, she involuntarily shivered, and Marcus abruptly lifted his mouth.
He slackened his hold and put a few inches of space between them. She heard him take a long, harsh, unsteady breath.
“I didn’t mean that to be quite so…enthusiastic,” he said.
“I got a bit carried away myself.” She felt disoriented, as though she’d stepped out of a familiar door and found herself in a foreign country. “And I didn’t mean it, either.”
“I’m well aware of that.” He stooped and picked up the jacket, holding it out to her.
Jenna stepped back. “It’s all right.” She was hot all over now. “It’s…uh…time we went in, anyway.”
The sound he made might have been an attempt at a laugh. “More than time, I’d say.” He seemed to hesitate, though. “I guess that was hardly fair.”
Fair? It had been…overwhelming. And a distinct shock.
“Still,” Marcus said, flinging the jacket over his shoulder and pushing a hand through his hair, “you know what they say.”
“What?” She was trying to absorb what had happened here, scarcely listening.
“About love and…never mind,” he said after a tiny pause. “It had the desired effect, anyway. Stopped you crying.”
It had done that, all right. Jenna cleared her throat. “A bit drastic, wasn’t it?”
“It was only a kiss, honey.” His manner was casual now, as if a kiss—that kiss—were nothing.
For the first time she wondered just how much practice he’d had. Jenna had met some of his girlfriends. She had no idea if he’d been serious about any of them, but he was certainly much more experienced than she was, although she’d kissed a few men in her time. Maybe kisses didn’t mean much to him.
“Well,” she said, trying for flippancy, “you know how wine affects me. And you did ply me with drink.”
“You’re not drunk,” he said with a hint of asperity. “If you were, I wouldn’t have touched you.”
He’d warned her he wanted to kiss her again. Only she’d thought that was for his brother’s benefit, to make her laugh and look as though she were enjoying the party. And maybe to reassure her that she was attractive to other men.
Not that she doubted he’d enjoyed the kiss. Nor could she deny that she had, too.
Still nursing the pain of her unwanted love for Dean, how could she have responded to another man like that? Surely she wasn’t that shallow?
Sex, she assured herself as they walked back to the house. She’d been deliberately keeping it in the background for four long years, and now her hormones had decided enough was enough.
And maybe they were right. She had no one to be faithful to. What reason did she have to be celibate any longer? Only her outdated principles, a romantic notion that she wanted to wait for the ultimate commitment of marriage, and innate caution.
For a second she toyed with the idea of turning to Marcus and saying, “Take me home with you. Take me to bed. Make love to me.”
But of course she couldn’t. It would be totally outside her normal behavior, and in the morning she’d be bound to regret it. And they were both staying here for the night, Marcus in the room he’d had as a boy, and Jenna in Katie’s room. She didn’t want to think about where Dean and Callie would sleep.
And, anyway, she and Marcus—impossible. She was too close to his family. How would they react if they found out? There’d be complications, repercussions. Nothing would ever be the same. She might lose the nearest thing to family that she had.
The thought stirred a faint echo of atavistic panic, similar to her feelings when her mother had suggested moving closer to the city, and later when Karen had told her she was remarrying and moving to Invercargill to be with her new husband, a publisher she’d met at a conference.
That time Jenna had hidden her feelings better, knowing it was unfair to expect her mother to forgo a second chance at happiness, when she herself expected to marry within a few years.
Karen had given Jenna the option of going with her and continuing her studies in the south, but after agonizing months of indecision, she’d chosen to stay in Auckland. She wouldn’t be a third wheel in her mother’s marriage.
Marcus opened the back door and switched on the light, making her blink as he closed the door behind them and looked at her narrowly.
She’d been crying, and then been very thoroughly kissed, and probably looked a fright. Raising a hand to her hair, she smoothed it behind her ear. “I need to tidy up.”
She scooted by him and ran up the stairs. At the top she glanced over her shoulder and momentarily paused. Marcus was standing at the foot of the staircase, with a look on his face she had never seen before. Intent, hungry, almost predatory.
Then he smiled, and the look vanished. A trick of the light, she told herself, the angle of his head making those high cheekbones seem more prominent, his narrow nose hawklike, the gray eyes darker, deeper set. She turned away and scurried toward the bathroom.
Somehow Jenna made it through the rest of the party and even slept afterward. Maybe the wine helped.
Katie was still sprawled on her stomach with her face buried in the pillow when Jenna got up and slipped into the bathroom for a shower.
She emerged, her damp hair tousled, a large towel wrapped about her, to find Marcus lounging against the passage wall, arms folded over his bare chest. He wore nothing but a pair of black satin athletic shorts.
She’d seen him in less. They had swum together with his brother and sisters every summer for years, nor was this the first time they’d bumped into each other coming to and from the bathroom.
But she’d never really noticed that his square shoulders, narrow hips and long, lean legs were perfectly proportioned for a man, or that his arms were so muscular.
Nor had she ever felt so conscious that she too was wearing very little. The towel was large and enveloped her q
uite modestly, but when his eyes took in her bare shoulders and legs, although his face remained impassive, she felt her body tingle in instinctive, primitive response. Clutching the towel tighter, she was glad he couldn’t see through the concealing bulk of the cloth.
Marcus straightened. “Good morning. I heard the shower stop and figured you’d be out soon.”
“It’s all yours,” she said, sidling from the doorway.
“Thanks.” He moved toward it. As she turned away he said quietly, “And…Jenna?”
Reluctantly she faced him again. “Yes?”
“Thanks for last night.”
That threw her completely, bringing warmth to her cheeks. “I should be thanking you for taking pity on me.”
Marcus frowned. “Is that what you think I was doing?”
“What else?”
Another door opened and Dean stumbled into the passageway. “Hi.” He peered at them blearily. “Anyone in the bathroom?”
“I’m using it,” Marcus told him. “I won’t be long.”
Jenna said brightly, “Good morning, Dean.”
As Marcus entered the bathroom, Dean grunted at her and retreated again into the bedroom behind him. She heard his voice saying something indistinguishable behind the closed door as she turned toward Katie’s room.
Jenna was making coffee and toast when Marcus came into the kitchen. He was the only naturally early riser in his family, and this wasn’t the first time they’d shared breakfast before the others got up.
“Just like old times.” Marcus echoed her thoughts as they sat at the breakfast bar. He reached for a slice of toast and spread it thickly with butter.
Jenna pushed the marmalade toward him and bit into her own toast so she’d have an excuse not to reply. This wasn’t like old times, it was…different.
She watched him spoon into the marmalade and dribble some onto his toast. His hands were broad and the fingers long. A man’s hands, with a few dark hairs curling about the wide silver strap of the watch on one wrist. Last night that hand had been warm on her skin while he kissed her.
Marrying Marcus Page 4
