Bad For Each Other

by Kate Hathaway

  Charlie's heated gaze met hers. "What's under it is plenty bridal enough for me."

  She felt herself coloring under his scrutiny. "I'm so sorry, Charlie. I didn't know how to bring—"

  "Hey, I'm cool. Everything's settled down, now. Don't fret." He gave her another long perusal, his eyes lighting on her face this time. "You're not wearing your hair that way to bed."

  Her hand went to the braid hanging down her back. "It's all—"

  He let out a disgusted breath and shook his head. "C'mere, Molly." He sat up and patted the center of the mattress, inviting her to sit next to him.

  She floated over to the bed and climbed in. He gripped her shoulders and turned her so her back was to him. She sat cross-legged, the gown puffing around her like a cloud. As he released the band holding the braid, she felt a tug and then his long fingers threading through her hair, gently combing out the snags. She placed a hand on each knee and tipped her head forward a little, enjoying the sensation.

  All at once he stopped and she waited, not breathing, for what he would do next.

  "You look like a marshmallow, honey," he murmured. "Do you taste just as sweet?"

  She felt the warm flat of his hand against her nape as he pushed her hair up out of the way and exposed that vulnerable spot. His mouth pressed to her, hot and wet. Then he systematically kissed and bit and licked each bony prominence of her spine down to the neckline of her gown and back up again while she sat perfectly still, swamped by the most overwhelmingly intense wave of desire she'd ever experienced. He touched her only with his mouth, his hand having left her to help support him on the bed. But she responded with her whole body, feeling a heavy languor engulf her. Her breasts swelled and tingled. Her womb clenched. Her toes curled.

  She had read somewhere that a woman didn't reach the peak of her sexual responsiveness until her early thirties, but that information had held no meaning for her. Until now.

  Now, when every nerve ending seemed to howl her need. A need that must go unfulfilled, unsated, tonight.

  Charlie's mouth had ceased its sensual plunder and his forehead rested in the curve of her shoulder. Through his stillness she could tell he was struggling again for control. He raised his head, finally, kissed the spot where it had rested and turned to switch off the light on the table next to him. "Good night, Molly," he said into the darkness that enclosed them.

  She lifted the sheet and settled herself in alongside him. She heard the bed creak as he sat up, heard the rasp of his zipper, the swoosh of his jeans from his body, and the muffled sound they made as they landed in a heap on the floor. Then he, too, got under the sheet. Once again on his back, she thought. Again with his hands stacked behind his head.

  In moments she felt his heat lure her, the pull of his magnetism. She wanted to touch him, to stroke him, but she didn't dare.

  "Do you have cramps?" His disembodied voice came to her, softly on the night.

  "No," she whispered in return. "I've never been bothered much with them." Lying on her side, facing though not seeing him, she slid her hand over the mattress till two fingers gently bumped his hip. Naked, just as she suspected. She heard his breath catch in the middle of an inhalation, then resume its even rhythm.

  With her middle finger, she drew circles, round and round, ever larger, on his hip.

  "Are you still as regular as you used to be?" His voice sounded tight, choked.

  She smiled to herself. "I was regular because I was on the pill, Charlie." Then she stopped, stilled her hand, remembering what she'd told him. "I haven't seen anyone yet about a prescription, but I will."

  "That's all right. Don't bother." His voice was lazy again, easy. He brought a hand from behind his head and smoothed her hair, delineated her features for himself with his thumb.

  "I don't like to think of you taking a pill every day when I'm only here off and on. I'll take care of it for a while."

  Her fingers resumed their stroking. "Actually, I've been pretty regular since I had Tobie."

  "I'll have to get me a calendar." She heard the smile in his tone. "Keep a record on the road."

  Her courage mounting, she slid a finger into the fold of his groin, where the coarse hairs started. She could give him some release, she supposed, though they'd never done anything like that. She knew how he liked her to move her hand on him.

  Maybe he'd taken care of it himself in the shower, she thought, and then was glad he couldn't read her thoughts. She moved her fingers a little further along into the thicket and heard him mutter something on an expelled breath. Was it her imagination or did his hip relax? Or tense? Did his thighs shift, subtly, further apart? His hand tightened in her hair. That wasn't her imagination.

  She opened her palm low on his belly and felt him rise, thick and firm against the backs of her fingers.

  "What are you doing, Moll?" he gasped, sounding as if he'd run a long way.

  She thought it was perfectly obvious what she was doing. She turned her hand to close it around him, but he grabbed it and pulled it up his chest. "Did you change your mind...about making love?"

  When she didn't answer, he stretched to switch on the light. She squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness and to avoid meeting his. "You didn't, did you?"

  He gave a short laugh and released her hand. "Look at me, Molly."

  Reluctantly, she did so.

  "Were you thinking, you know, just me?"

  She bit her lip and focused her gaze on the wall past his shoulder.

  "You were, weren't you?" He sounded perplexed, befuddled. On the periphery of her vision she saw him plow a hand through his hair. "Honey, we never did anything like that when we were...together...before."

  "People do."

  "Well, I know that. But we didn't."

  He was silent for a long while. She sidled a glance at him and found him watching her with a still expression. "What did you think, Moll? If we didn't...make it, I'd avail myself of the first willing female to cross my path?"

  That idea had never occurred to her. Her hurt and confusion must have shown in her face. His regret showed in his. He brushed her hair back from her brow and nuzzled her. "You just wanted to do it...for me."

  Her nod was barely perceptible. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Honey, I appreciate the thought. But we're still kind of...new to each other. I'd like to do things...you know...regular a few more times...before we try anything... fancy."

  She released a shuddery sigh. She should let the whole subject go, but somehow she just couldn't. "You took care of it already, didn't you? In the show—"

  "What?"

  She'd really shocked him this time, she could tell. He gave a hoot of laughter. "What are you askin'?"

  "Nothing."

  "Yes, you are." He laughed again, flopping back against the pillow. She supposed she should be glad he was so amused. "We're gonna have to come to ah agreement, Molly," he said when he could catch his breath. "You're allowed to be private this time of the month, and so am I." He reached to switch off the light again. "I forgot how entertaining living with you could be," he said, still chuckling.

  "Never mind."

  "You'll make me blush right down to the root of my—" "Oh, hush!"

  He seemed to have laughed himself out. She heard him settle in and, even in the darkness, she sensed his eyes trained on her.

  "Molly?" His voice was quiet again. Serious.

  "Hmm?"

  "I didn't."

  She buried her burning face in the pillow and heard him chuckle.

  "C'mon. Roll over here." He grabbed bunches of her gown and pulled her flush against him. "This is going to be a helluva night. We may as well get as comfortable as we can." He nestled her head on his shoulder and she turned her face into the bulge of his muscle, inhaling his scent.

  For as long as she could remember, as far back as that crash on his bike, the smell of Charlie's skin had meant comfort, acceptance, warmth. It was that way now. Feeling the peace flow through her, she absent
ly trailed her fingers over his chest. He wasn't an exceptionally hairy man, she thought lazily. She didn't care much for that. His chest hair covered his breastbone and fanned out over his pectorals. One thin line bisected his abdomen down to where the hair flared out again, low, where her hand wasn't supposed to venture. The rest of his skin was smooth. She sighed and combed her fingers through the silky mat, encountering a nipple in her foray. It immediately stood at attention. His nipples seemed to be as sensitive as hers. She wondered if all men were like that, and walked her fingers back to the taut little peak.

  Charlie made a noise like a drop of water hitting a hot skillet. "God almighty! You're enough to tempt a eunuch, woman!" He flipped her unceremoniously to her other side, tangling her legs in her gown and hauling her tight against him. His arms wrapped around her, he folded his hands on top of hers. "Now, keep your hands to yourself and go to sleep."

  She lay quiet for a while, but one more question nagged. "Charlie?"

  "What?" He sounded at the limit of his patience. "Do other women... you know.... when they have their...?"

  He hissed a beleaguered breath out, ruffling her hair. "I don't know."

  She thought that over and realized it was the most satisfactory answer he could possibly have given. She eased a little deeper into his embrace, though it was a long, long time before she fell asleep. Even then, her last thought was that the boardlike form behind her hadn't relaxed at all.

  Chapter 8

  Molly scuffed her toe along the wooden porch floor, surveying the grounds. The lawn, dotted here and there with pockets of shrubs and stands of maple and aspen, sloped away from the house in all directions. She could see only a small portion of the treed, gravel drive that wound from the front yard over and around gentle hills to a gated entrance about a half mile away. Off to the left lay the woods Charlie had mentioned, not so small, and apparently allowed to remain wild, though it was difficult to tell from this distance. At the very edge of the woods she glimpsed the glint of sunshine on water—the pond, stocked with game fish, or so the agent had informed them.

  The house itself was not pretentious, or maybe it only seemed dwarfed by its surroundings. With fifteen rooms, it certainly would provide enough space for Tobie to roam. Built just before the turn of the century, it was a warm, redbrick Victorian structure. A little gingerbread, but not too much, graced the wooden porches front and back. A turret, its stained-glass transom windows spangled with sunlight, fronted two stories of the house on the right, and a smallpaned, glass-enclosed room that in another age would have been called a conservatory provided balance off to the left. The roofline was broken by a domed cupola and four chimneys that serviced eight, yes eight, working fireplaces.

  Pots of geraniums flanked the porch stairs and hanging baskets of brilliantly hued impatiens swayed at intervals above the railing, adding a homey touch. That, Molly concluded, was her strongest impression of the dwelling. She'd been wrong in her initial estimation. It wasn't a palace. It was a home. They could be a family here.

  She glanced over to where Charlie was gamely signing pictures of himself at the agent's request, for her two children, several of their friends, the other agents in her office—and her postman, from the sound of it. Molly smiled to herself. He was doing his best to be gracious, but this wasn't a good day for him.

  He'd been up before her, but not by much. She could only sleep through so much of his banging around the apartment. The better part of her morning had been spent listening to the litany of his complaints. The coffee was weak, the cereal stale, his boots were too tight. He couldn't find his blue-striped button-down, and Molly had had the bald-faced effrontery to set a bracelet on top of his hat. When she'd suggested to him that she might drive to this showing, he'd given her a look that would curdle milk. To say the man was testy was putting too fine a point on it. He hadn't slept at all last night.

  Charlie appeared to be finished. He handed the woman the pictures and her pen with a smile Molly knew was forced only because she was so familiar with his natural ones. Then he folded his third stick of gum for that morning into his mouth and gestured for Molly to join him while the agent got the keys from the lockbox and led them into the house.

  The sense of warmth and welcome lingered inside, intensifying the impression of homeyness. Though the rooms weren't overly large, they were airy and bright, unlike those in many Victorian homes, including the one she'd grown up in. High ceilings, white-painted woodwork and long, lace-curtained windows combined to lend an aura of spaciousness.

  They paused for a few moments in the marble-floored foyer while the Realtor catalogued the home's amenities and handed Charlie the listing. Craning her neck, Molly caught a glimpse of the monthly rental figure. More than twice what she had grossed in a month as a paralegal. Charlie didn't bat an eye.

  "There's a full bedroom and bath on this floor toward the back," the woman pointed out. "It's private, nice for in-laws or elderly visitors. Five more bedrooms are on the second floor. The two bedrooms and bath on the top floor were used for live-in help when the former owners occupied the place." She hesitated a bit, then continued. "There's been a woman coming a couple of times a week to keep things up, and a gardener. Will you be wanting live-in help?"

  Molly shook her head before Charlie had a chance to respond.

  "Just day help, then," he said firmly, addressing Molly.

  She was about to object even to that when the hard glint in his eyes stopped her. Charlie had never given any indication that his money meant much to him, but the lift of his chin told her this was important. That he furnish for his wife the services his mother had provided for hers. If Mrs. Coch-rane's role as a servant in her home when she was growing up had ever eaten at him, Molly hadn't known. But she realized now that it must have rankled. She wouldn't begrudge him this.

  She nodded. "Just day help."

  He turned back to the agent, rolling up the paper she had given him and stuffing it in his jeans pocket. "We'll keep the gardener, too."

  The Realtor remarked on a few more of the home's features and left them to explore on their own. As they wandered the downstairs rooms, Molly noticed that the furnishings exuded a quiet comfort despite their elegance. On many pieces there were signs of wear and use. She paused in the dining room and ran her hand along the smooth surface of a rosewood sideboard, fascinated by the play of rainbow colors refracted through the crystal prisms of the chandelier.

  "The place rents furnished," Charlie commented, watching her.

  She might have guessed. The flat she was living in now had come furnished, and Charlie knew it. She would be bringing little to this house. Just as she brought little to the marriage. Except for Tobie, of course. And to Charlie, Tobie was all that mattered.

  She pulled her hand from the chest and strode, her back poker-straight, toward the wide French doors at the far end of the room. They opened onto the conservatory, which ran the whole length of the house on this side. Stepping across the threshold, she caught her breath.

  The room had once been a summer porch, she presumed, though it was obviously used year-round now. The original outside wall where the room was attached had been left as exposed brick. The remaining walls were white-painted wainscoting to about waist height and glittering small-paned glass above that The effect was almost like walking out of doors, with views of tall trees, lawn and sky on all sides.

  Still, it wasn't the pretty scenery that stopped her breath. In a corner where harsh sunlight was filtered to harmlessness through the trees stood a concert grand, its wood case gleaming black.

  She approached the piano slowly and raised the keyboard cover, though she knew what she would find. There it was, Steinway and Sons inscribed in gold lettering on the inside of the cover. She felt her fingers twitch with eagerness to glide over the keys, but she restrained herself.

  The slight yellowing of the ivory gave away its age. This piece was from the early part of the century, the peak of the company's quality. She had never seen one
, touched one, much less had one at her disposal.

  She looked up to see Charlie, a shoulder lazily propped against the brick, arms and ankles crossed, eyeing her.

  "You knew this was here," she murmured.

  He shrugged offhandedly, removing his Stetson and rubbing his forearm across his brow. "Said something on the listing."

  "Charlie, I can't—"

  He made an impatient sound and pushed away from the wall, striding toward her. "What the hell is this, Molly? You 'can't.'" He tossed his hat on the piano. "You'll be cooped up here, same as Tobie, for months. What's the harm?"

  She raised her chin, stiffening as he neared. "I can't keep taking from you, Charlie. I have some—"

  "Pride?" He laughed, the sound erupting from him without humor. "Oh, you have that in spades."

  "I know what I've brought to this marriage," she said, her voice tight.

  "Ah. Are we keeping score? I wasn't aware of that." He bent forward, resting his folded arms on the piano lid, looking to where her traitorous fingers stroked the keys despite her determination to resist. "Seems to me this ought to rack up some points in my favor, not that sour expression you're wearin'."

  She pulled her hand away from the keyboard, knotting her fingers behind her back. He sighed and shook his head.

  "I'm rich, Molly. I've got more money than I could spend in a dozen lifetimes." His shoulders lifted in a bemused gesture. "Sometimes all that money still doesn't make any sense to me. I know what ten dollars is. I can hold it in my hand. It'll buy me a couple six-packs—a case, if I don't mind drinkin' dishwater. The rest is—" he spread his hands "—just a bunch of zeros."

  He looked at her, his eyes pensive. "So. Am I supposed to be afraid you'll try to make off with my fortune? I'm having a devil of a time getting you to accept what you're entitled to."

  She inhaled sharply. "I'm not—"

  "You're my wife," he said firmly. "You're Tobie's mother. Everything I have is yours." When she would have challenged his statement, he stopped her with a glance.

  "My folks didn't have much when I was growing up," he continued. "They never had a savings account when I was a kid. As far as I know, to this day they don't have a checking account. They're simple people, but what little they had, they shared." He straightened and pressed his hands flat against the dark wood. "I don't want my money and your money, my property and your property. I'm a simple man. I want what my folks had."