If she’d chosen to bop him, Stefan noted there were dozens of pillows around. The small den was paneled in pecan, so small there was only space for the television, the couch, a lamp table, and a half-dozen tapestry pillows. There was some extremely interesting tickle-fight potential if she followed through with that threat, but somehow he didn’t think she was quite ready for a tickle or a pillow fight. “Well, now you have me scared. I am shooking in my boots.”
“Shaking, not shooking.” She gently corrected him.
He already knew that. The more mistakes he invented in his speech, though, the easier Paige believed that he really needed her. The need was real enough. It just had nothing to do with language.
On the screen, Kirk ordered desperately, “Beam me up, Scotty.” And then, at a crisis point, the monitor flashed to a feminine hygiene commercial. On daytime TV, the commercials were relentlessly dominated by diapers, laundry soaps and feminine hygiene. Stefan had seen them all, and so far hadn’t learned one thing he didn’t know.
About Paige, though, he hadn’t even started learning. Not what he wanted to know. Not what he needed to know.
She was wearing gray sweats today, the sweatshirt oversize, the bottoms baggy. Even considering the practicality of such clothes to work in, Stefan thought she had a gift for choosing sexless attire—which was terrific, as far as he was concerned. Other men, he hoped, might not be tempted to look too close. When she leaned forward to set down the bowl, the graceful arch of her spine and the ripe fullness of her breasts trapped his attention like a rat in a cage. Much, much better, that she dressed demure.
She licked a last drop of the Russian Cream from her finger. If she did it again, he was probably going to sweat. “You’re really getting bad, you know,” she teased him.
“Me? Bad?” He’d been a monk. He hadn’t done one thing.
She wagged a finger at him—the one that was still damp from the lap of her pink tongue. “You’re really addicted to your daily dose of Star Trek reruns. You haven’t missed one since you saw the first show.”
Well, he’d been hoping for an opening to talk about certain things with her, and this couldn’t get much better. “Actually there is a reason I am enamored of Spock. Watching is not just play, not just wasting time. I think Spock would understand the conflicts with loyalty I have been through. As you can. It is not so easy to find other people who have this understanding.”
“Conflicts with loyalty?” She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
He struggled to explain. “Your work is about beauty. The beauty you create speaks in a language every man knows, does not matter if he is from Asia or South America or Europe or anywhere else. Art is universal by its nature. And in that sense, you must be true to what you are trying to create—you have a loyalty to your work that just has nothing to do with the country you come from, yes? Would you not be unhappy if your work was locked up in a place where only a few could see it?”
“I never thought about using the word loyalty in that context,” she said slowly, “but for sure, the answer is yes. Any artist has to be true to his craft—how else could anyone create anything honest or universal? And it would make no sense to create a piece of art that was locked up in someone’s closet. But Stefan, I can’t imagine how any of that could possibly relate to Star Trek and Spock—”
“So I explain. Spock was a Vulcan, started out loyal to his Vulcan heritage, but ultimately he was stuck with a bigger loyalty. I watch. Loyalty is always conflict for him. It is never his choice to reject his heritage, but is always the same—he must be true to the bigger principles that matter to him, the goals of the Starship Enterprise, principles of peace, of exploring other cultures without causing them harm.”
She shifted, swinging her legs under her, obviously taken with this idea. “Okay. I get what you’re saying, about people having different kinds of loyaltiespeople like artists. And like Spock. But what that has to do with you—?”
Bottom-line time. Stefan took a breath. “I was born Russian, raised to be loyal to my country, and I felt much conflict and sadness when I left. Would be much easier to be a bus driver. But I am a physicist. I am stuck with certain abilities, certain talents. One day scientists will find a cure for cancer. Should their loyalty be to their country, or to the world? Physicists work on energy problems. Should their loyalty be to one flag, if answers to energy problem should affect whole planet, whole world, all nations? Your art, Paige, could not reach people if it was locked up in a vault. The problems I deal with in physics have power to affect people, too, just in different way.”
He had her full concentration now. He wondered if she realized that she’d naturally tucked closer to him. Star Trek had been back on for several minutes. She’d forgotten it. Her attention was solely on him, her eyes as soft as the brush of brown velvet on his face. “You’re not telling me this because you love to discuss philosophy, are you…somehow I think there is another reason you brought all this up.”
“Da. Yes, there is. It troubles me that you might think I am a disloyal man, a man of no commitment. I would not have you believe I left my country easily, as if I didn’t give a damn. I gave a damn, lambchop. But I just could not live with my hands tied. I worked hard to find answers, then control over what happened to those answers was taken away from me. I never came to America to—how you say it?—freeload. I hope to contribute, to give back. But I must live where I have the freedom, the right, to share what I know, solutions, problems, with people everywhere. It is bigger loyalty that I am stuck with, do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.” Her eyes turned softer than any caress. “And I can understand how this must have been a very hard conflict for you to live with and resolve.”
He studied her face. She did seem to understand, and her acceptance was a rich, soothing balm for his tired soul.
Still, he felt some confusion. She showed no sign that anything he’d said had startled or surprised her. He’d been half sure that her wariness around him was caused by believing he must be a ship deserter, a man who flew the coop on his country on a whim, a man of no commitment or loyalties. In her shoes, he would not have trusted or respected such a man.
Scotty beamed up Kirk yet again. Another commercial flashed on about hair color. The late afternoon light had grown darker, shadowing the room in a soft veil of gray. The furnace thundered on, rumbling a vague shudder through the house, making the radiators clank. In that closed-in space, he could smell old leather and dust, the drift of cinnamon and vanilla from a dish of leaves on the table, and more potent, the faintest spice and promise of a woman’s perfume, a scent that was uniquely Paige.
Don’t touch her. His conscience delivered the mental order, as if suddenly aware that choice was brewing in his mind. And yeah, it was. Brewing and cooking in his mind, and heating fast in his blood. He sensed it was a mistake to push Paige, sensed from their first meeting that it was her nature to bolt or rebel if she were pushed into anything.
But something changed in the spin of those seconds. One moment she was looking at him, her gaze thoughtful, her face laden with compassion as if she were still considering the conflict in loyalties he had to live with. The next moment she was still looking at him, still meeting his eyes, but she suddenly froze. Coral shot to those fine, delicate cheekbones. She swallowed. And her body tensed as if a poker had been welded on her backbone.
Maybe it had just now occurred to her how alone they were, how close they were sitting.
Maybe she had just now noticed that there was enough combustible chemistry between them to, no sweat, fuel a couple of starships.
And if she’d moved right then, Stefan might have talked himself into behaving. If she’d shown him one sign that she was troubled by his background, he might have talked himself into backing off.
But she didn’t move. At all. Not when he slowly leaned forward. Nor when he gently tilted her chin, upward, toward him.
Her eyes widened in that instant before his mouth ca
me down, covering hers as completely and warmly as a blanket on a bed. She tasted like Russian Cream, but beneath that was a flavor of a far richer sweetness. He remembered kissing her the first time, knew now, immediately, why that memory had unshakably clung in his memory. Morning dew on a rosebud might taste like her, or liquid star shine, or the first crystal droplets of a fresh spring rain. Young. The taste of her was young, and made him feel as young as spring fever and as if the whole damn world were suddenly new.
Her lips, though, were locked tighter than a sealed vault. He wasn’t absolutely sure if they’d take a crowbar to open.
Still, fear was hugely different from reluctance. Her hands were jammed in her lap, knuckles white, and she was so tense she could hardly breathe. He could not fathom how or why she would be afraid of him…but such a misconception simply had to be corrected.
He would not hurt her. This he explained with a series of tender kisses, explained with a feather-gentle caress that stroked from her cheek to her throat. Kisses from him, kisses in general, were nothing to be afraid of. It was wondrous, this connection between a man and a woman. Like nothing else. Better than nectar, better than moonlight, better than flying high on the wings of a summer day. It was private, this connection. A secret. The only kind of secret in the universe that one couldn’t keep because it always, wonderfully, took two.
Her hands clutched his arm, her fingers biting as if they were the talons of a bird, then loosened, slowly. Slowly her hands climbed up his shoulders, roped around his neck. Slowly her eyes turned drowsy. Slowly that ready-to-bolt tension seeped out of her muscles…and suddenly, swiftly, wildly, she was kissing him back.
Stefan had never known a hundred women, never wanted to, could never see a purpose in playing where the stakes didn’t matter. Satisfying sexual needs may have relieved frustration, but there was no real fun unless there was a serious potential for dynamite and danger, unless the woman made his blood spin.
She made his blood spin—faster than the fire tail on a comet. She might not have wanted to be kissed, but when she kissed back…she kissed back. His tongue dipped in the secret corners of her mouth, tasted, came back for more. Her throat arched for the pressure, yet she returned his openmouthed kiss with pressure of her own.
In a hundred ways, she had already shown him that she was a sensual, vulnerable woman. But he never anticipated an outpouring of emotion like this. Her long strong body bowed, leaning into his. She shivered, hard, when his hand slid from her side to cup a firm, full breast. She made a raw, soft sound as if he hurt her, when he could not have hurt her; his touch could not have been more reverent, more gentle, more cherishing.
It was as if she’d dammed up needs and feelings for a century, as if she’d never let them loose before. At his nape, her hands were kneading, kneading, the way a kitten so unconsciously expressed pleasure. He stroked down her long, supple body, feeling her flesh yield and warm through the heavyweight sweatshirt, feeling the sweet curve of her hip fill his palm as he dragged her over his lap.
Fire this hot could burn a man up, and he was already aroused harder than pain. Her fanny nestled where he hurt most, yet she would not sit still, her hands as restless as her mouth, stealing kisses faster than he could give them to her free. Their noses bumped. Her elbow stabbed his ribs. Her awkwardness and urgency moved him, inflamed him, as no skilled seductress ever could. He thought of the woman in her jade cameo, that striking and unforgettable image of both innocence and a natural rich, deep sensuality. Paige’s response was fierce and frantic, as if she were just discovering gold and was afraid that dream would disappear in a puff of wind, a wrong breath, a beat of time.
He was not going to disappear.
He might burn up and explode, but positively he was not going to disappear.
She bucked away from him suddenly, lifting her head, her drowsy eyes suddenly bolting wide and huge. Beyond the cool crunchy sound of the incredibly uncomfortable leather couch, there’d been no sound, no change, nothing he knew that had startled her. But the blaze in her soft brown eyes was kin to fear, sick-sad fear, and shock. Just as quickly, her whole posture turned rigid.
“I don’t know how this happened,” she said desperately.
He had no idea how to soothe her, because he had no idea what she needed soothing from. He touched her cheek. “I kissed you, lyubeesh. You kissed me back. It’s okay. I don’t think this takes complicated analysis.”
“But…I didn’t mean to. We were just watching Star Trek…” She glanced wildly at the TV. Star Trek was long over. Men dressed very foolishly like gorillas had taken over the screen. Her eyes whipped back to his, still looking dazed and confused. “Stefan, I thought we were friends.”
“I hope this, too. I hope this strongly.”
“I didn’t…I never…meant to lead you on.”
“Lead me on?” It was a helluva time to have his knowledge of English fail him, and something about that phrase painted two flags of color on her cheeks.
“Lead you on means to tease you.” She swallowed. “To make you think I was inviting a chance to sleep with you. To lead you to believe that. Unfairly.”
That, he had no trouble understanding. Perhaps it was time to admit to a character flaw. “No one, lambchop, leads me anywhere. It is a problem I’ve had my whole life, that I listen to my own heart, my own conscience, and cannot seem to follow where anyone else is determined to so-called lead me.” He grappled again for more words, since those didn’t seem to be reassuring her worth carrots. “We neck, yes. But we did not get it on. We did not hit your sack. You still even have your socks on. No reason to be afraid, Paige.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said sharply.
Poker was no game for her; she was disastrous at fibbing. But he said gently, “I probably said wrong word. You know how bad I am with my struggling language. But I am relieved to hear that you’re not afraid of me.”
“I’m not,” she said again.
“Good. Because we would have to discuss this fear, if that were so. I would not harm you, not do anything you did not want, not ever deliberately scare you. A man would do that, in my eyes, is frog.”
As if suddenly realizing she was still on his lap, she scrabbled off quickly…but she also suddenly chuckled.
“I not mean anything funny,” he said quietly.
“You didn’t say anything funny. You just said something wonderful. I agree with you, any man who would force a woman is a low-down frog. But Stefan, I was not afraid you would do that.”
Low-down. He mentally stored that term, sure he would use it again now that he knew it made her smile. Temporarily, though, there seemed no recovering from how uncomfortable she was with him. Deliberately he glanced at his watch. “Good grief, I didn’t realize it was this late. I better go home, to work, and you must get back to work, too, lambchop.”
“You couldn’t be more right.”
Stefan left, but his assessment of the situation was the total opposite. Nothing was right. Something very serious, in fact, seemed to be wrong. She’d come apart in his arms as if she were a lover born for him. That kinship of spirits was rare and precious, and he could not believe he had mistaken her response.
So she was afraid. Of something.
Somehow he had to find a way to uncover whatever it was.
Five
Paige locked herself in the workshop for an hour. Never mind that Stefan had totally broken her concentration. Until he’d come over—and sandblasted her entire afternoon—she’d been on a roll. Finally it had happened. A breakthrough.
Partially finished cameos were strewn all over the shop—projects in jet, tortoise shell, amber and mother-of-pearl—but they were coming fine. It was the coral cameo for her sister that had been giving her fits, and it was the one that mattered most to her.
She’d done all the base work. She’d already removed the rough backing, lubricated the first cuts with water, and carefully, painstakingly filed the exterior layers. The next step was the actual car
ving.
For two blasted weeks, she’d studied that coral upside and down, willing it to talk to her, frustrated that she could not see the truth in it, the vision, the potential picture.
But this morning, she’d picked up excitement. Squirm-in-her-seat, bounce-up-and-down excitement. Few things on earth required more rigid and exacting discipline than cameo carving, and Paige both demanded and expected that rigid discipline from herself. But when serious creative inspiration hit, her mood soared hopelessly into the stratosphere.
It had hit like a sniper’s bullet, all at once. Suddenly she saw it. Two potential faces in the coral. Echoed in the two shadings of color, one rose, one paler—the profile of one woman shadowing another. And oh, man, that was so much like her sister, so perfect. Gwen’s self-image was so different than the woman Paige knew her sister to be. Gwen never saw herself as beautiful, as wonderful and warm and giving and compassionate, the way her sisters saw her, the way everyone saw Gwen but Gwen.
And it was there in the coral.
Or it had been earlier in the day.
An hour later, Paige tossed down the graver in disgust, stomped around the shop slamming drawers and putting away tools. Concentration was her gift, her talent, her forte. She never had a problem with it. Ever.
Until That Man had come into her life.
Scowling, she trudged down the hall into the kitchen and yanked open the door to the refrigerator. Some absentminded nitwit had put the peanut butter and bread in the fridge after lunch. More to the point, the same nitwit had forgotten to defrost anything for dinner. She slammed the refrigerator door closed. She wasn’t hungry anyway.
She stalked toward the stairs, figuring a nice long shower would shake her out of this restless mood. The phone rang when she was on the third step. She hesitated—no way she wanted to talk with anyone right then—but it could be Abby. Her oldest sister almost always called on Thursdays. The answering machine picked up after the second ring, but it was a man’s mellow tenor on the line.
The Unwilling Bride Page 6
