by Mary Campisi
“And now you can have me. All of me.” She rubbed her breasts against his chest, moaned as their tongues mated in a deep kiss of passion and need. Her words were as tantalizing and seductive as her body, shivering through him. He wanted her and he had to have her. Now.
“I need you.” He groaned and jerked against her. “You’re torturing me.”
“Then let me end your torture.” She clasped his face between her hands and slid onto his sex with a deep, lusty sigh.
It was over after that. Harry didn’t remember who came first or how it even happened. There were moans and whimpers, cries of delight and pleas for release. Who rode whom, how, where—at one point, they were on the lush carpeting—it was a blur, and it was the most incredible sex he’d ever known. Once wasn’t enough, twice would never be enough. After the third time, he pulled her close and for the first time in too many years knew true peace.
Chapter 8
Nate sanded the cherry wood, pleased with the initial results. He’d selected this type because of its tight grain and smooth texture. He’d have to be careful with the spindles; he didn’t want any rough spots. It had to be perfect. He’d started the project three weeks ago, borrowing Gino Servetti’s workshop so Christine wouldn’t know what he was doing. It had been a real challenge to get here after work and on Saturday mornings, and he’d hated like hell lying to Christine, but it was her surprise. If he’d built it in his own workshop, the chances that she’d snoop around or end up finding out by pure coincidence were too risky. Gino hadn’t been his first choice because of his past relationship with Natalie, but he’d been desperate to get this piece done for his wife.
Three more nights, four at best, and he’d be finished. The next challenge was how to give it to her. Should he just put it in the spare bedroom, take her by the hand, and when she spotted the cradle in the middle of the room say, “What do you think about a baby?” Did that sound ridiculous? Did he care? They hadn’t talked about a baby, but then they hadn’t not talked about one either. It didn’t have to be tomorrow or even next month, but Nate would be forty in a few years; they should at least start talking about it.
And he hadn’t missed the way she’d looked at Bree Kinkaid’s swollen belly when they’d run into her last Saturday. Or the smile she gave Bree’s two-year-old, Lindsey. Christine was thinking about it; he’d bet his wedding ring on it. Nate grabbed his beer, took a long pull, and admitted he was thinking about it, too. He spent the next hour wiping down the wood and putting the first coat of varnish on it. One day, his child would sleep in this cradle. The thought slowed his hand as he pictured Christine’s belly swollen with their baby.
“Nate. What are you doing here?”
He’d recognize Natalie Servetti’s voice anywhere, like sex served up hot and ready. Nate glanced up, spotted the tank top and jean shorts, and shrugged. “Working.”
“I see that.” She moved close to him, too close. Natalie always had a game, but he was no longer interested in playing it. “What is it?”
She wasn’t stupid; she knew it was a cradle. He dipped his brush in mineral spirits. “It’s a cradle.”
“Hmm.”
He worked the brush in the mineral spirits, letting the bristles saturate. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d get the message and leave. Probably not. That was one thing about Natalie: She really believed no man could resist her. What she didn’t know was they all thought she was an easy target who could be had with a cheap dinner and a six-pack. That used to be Nate’s style, quick and uncomplicated. Until he met Christine and life changed; he’d changed.
“I miss you.” She eased her hand down his back, slid her fingers in the back of his jeans.
“Hey!” Nate jerked away and glared at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
She smiled, her full lips glistening pink. “Playing,” she said, her voice soft and low. “You used to like it.”
“I’m married.”
She shrugged, fingered the neckline of her tank top. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Don’t. Look, you need to find somebody else.”
“I don’t want anybody else, Nate.” Her dark eyes grew bright as she whispered, “Just you.”
Carmen and Marie Servetti did their daughter no favors by granting her every whim. They should have taught her the value of no just as they’d taught their sons. Nate wrapped the brush in plastic wrap and placed it on the workbench beside him. “I gotta go.” He grabbed the empty beer bottle and said, “If you see Gino, will you tell him I’ll be back tomorrow night?”
“Sure.” She eyed the bottle in his hand. “Can you at least have a drink with me? For old times’ sake?” She didn’t wait for him to respond but turned and made her way to the refrigerator in the corner.
Damn, he was not going to get out of here without having a drink with her, probably some idle chit-chat, too. Oh, hell, he might as well do it and be done. Nate waited while Natalie peered inside the fridge, her shorts riding high and exposing a splash of butt cheek—for his benefit, no doubt. She straightened, pulled out two beers, and waved them at him. “Just a sec.” She turned her back to him, set the bottles on the counter, and fiddled with the opener. “One more sec.”
How long did it take to open a bottle of beer? Nate sighed, regretting his decision to spend one extra second with her. The old Nate would have ignored the puppy-dog sad eyes and high-tailed it out of here, but Christine had softened him up, taught him about compassion for other people, even ones he didn’t particularly like.
“Come and get it.” Natalie burst into his thoughts with a sultry command that did nothing but annoy him. She’d eased onto the old plaid couch that had been in the place for at least fifteen years and had no doubt seen more than its share of X-rated entertainment. Gino had thrown a sheet over it and that’s where his dog, Hound, slept while he worked. Except Hound wasn’t here right now and Natalie was in his spot looking all cozy. Nate moved across the room, snatched the bottle from her, and took a long pull on his beer, calculating the amount of time it would take to finish it and not appear rude. Six minutes? Seven? No more than eight. That was his limit. Natalie sipped her beer, eyes on him. “Sit down.”
He shook his head. “I’m good.” He was not sitting on that couch with her. Ten grand said if he did, she’d latch onto him and head for his zipper in three seconds. How had he ever thought her desirable? He pictured Christine, warm, welcoming, not filled with subterfuge or scheming. She didn’t need to throw sexual innuendos at him; she was damn sexy all by herself. Just being her.
“You really don’t want to be with me?”
No, I never wanted to be with you. “I’m married, Natalie. I love my wife.”
Her dark eyes grew bright, and he knew the second before the tears started that he should have just shut up and finished his beer. “You used me, didn’t you?” She sniffed, swiped a hand across her cheek. “You never cared about me.”
“Natalie—”
“Don’t pretend.” She crossed one long leg over the other. “We were good together. You know we were.”
Those eyes challenged him to deny it. How could he tell her the truth. You were about filling a need, like getting a caffeine jolt. You were never long-term. He took another drink, debated the best way to salvage her self-esteem and escape in the next five minutes. Damn, but he’d been here too long already. He settled on a meaningless response. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” She bit her lower lip, sniffed again. Was she playing him? Getting him to feel sorry for her? For what?
“It does matter, Nate.” The tears started again, slipping down her cheeks onto her chin. “I love you.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that.” He glanced at his watch. Damn, he’d been in this spot almost eleven minutes but he couldn’t leave on a comment like that. He had to set her straight. “Natalie, listen to me.” He gentled his voice. “It’s never going to happen between us, okay? Whatever we shared is done. Gone.”
“Is it because she’s rich? Is that
why you picked her?”
The tears kept coming, but her tone had switched. Anger? Jealousy? Hell, he was no good at this crap. “I picked Christine because I love her. That’s it.” And then, because he was tired and wanted to get the hell out of here and home to his wife, he said, “I don’t love you, Natalie. I never did.”
She buried her face in her hands, let out more sobs and maybe a wail or two, her shoulders shaking. “Come on, don’t do that. There are a lot of nice guys out there. You’ll find one.” If you stop sleeping with them the second they look at you. More sobs, more shoulder shaking. Damn. He glanced at his watch again: another eight minutes wasted. “Hey.” He moved to pat her shoulder, stumbled toward the couch.
“Nate?” Natalie’s voice echoed in his head as though she were in a tunnel and not a foot away. He tried to take another step but grew dizzy. “Let me help you.” She slid the beer from his hand and guided him to the couch. “There. Just relax.” Her face was fuzzy, her words, too. He rubbed his eyes, refocused. More fuzziness.
“I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Nate.” The tears were gone, the sadness, too. “Nothing at all.”
Hours or maybe minutes later, Nate woke up with a kink in his neck and a sore back. His head wasn’t in great shape either. What the hell had happened? He worked his eyes open, fought a wave of dizziness when he tried to straighten, and fell back onto the grimy couch cushion. The last thing he remembered was Natalie’s voice, telling him something. What was it? He ran a hand over his face, tried to piece it together. He’d been working on the cradle when she showed up and started with her song and dance about missing him and loving him more than her own breath. That part, he’d be happy not to remember. She’d insisted he have a beer and because she was not going to leave him alone until he did, Nate agreed. The crying jag started again and when he moved to pat her shoulder, he stumbled. Did he land on the couch? Had she helped him? What the hell had happened? He glanced at his watch: 1:30 a.m. He had to get home. Christine knew he was working late, but not this late.
He should tell her what happened. Anytime a person was involved with an ex-lover and blocks of time he couldn’t remember was not a good thing. Nate dragged his gaze to the cradle resting on the workbench. He blinked until it came into focus. One day it would hold their baby. In four days when the last coat of varnish had dried, he’d take it home and confess everything: the real reason for the late nights, Natalie Servetti’s visit, the blackout. He would tell Christine because he couldn’t not tell her. All he needed was a few more days and then he’d make everything right. Nate stood and took a step toward the door. The room spun and he stumbled, his stomach bouncing and threatening to erupt. When the extra saliva pooled in his mouth, he knew he was going to puke. He made it to the 2x2 box Gino called a bathroom, knelt down, and puked into the rust-rimmed commode until there was nothing left but dry heaves. When he could move, he crawled out of the bathroom and leaned against the wall. The truth hit him as he sat there, sweating, cotton-mouthed, and groggy. Natalie had drugged him.
***
Christine spent the rest of the day caught between visions of Nate in bed with her this morning and picturing how he would react when she told him they were going to have a baby. She’d driven to the next town to purchase a pregnancy test lest the store clerk at Sal’s spill the news. Had Christine imagined it, or had Nate pressed a possessive hand on her belly the last few times they’d made love? Had the action been intentional, maybe a subconscious desire for a child? In the last few months, he’d begun sliding a smile her way whenever Miriam began dropping not-so-subtle hints about expanding the Desantro family. Even Lily had started asking when she was going to get a niece; apparently that was her preference. Once Christine told Nate about the baby, they could tell Miriam together. Lily might have to wait until after the first doctor appointment, since telling her was like publishing it in the Magdalena Press, and naturally, Uncle Harry would want to know, not the details of course, just the outcome.
She would not tell her mother, and whether that was cruel or childish was not the point. Gloria Blacksworth was not a part of her life anymore. Maybe if she had stopped playing the victim in life and had taken responsibility for the disasters she’d created, she would have been more human, thus, more forgivable. This baby would be brought up in a home filled with love and commitment. And respect.
The afternoon sped by with two loan applications and a budget. The budget happened to be Mimi Pendergrass’s niece, and while she was a nice girl with a “can-do” attitude and a teaching degree, she’d spent the first two years of college sucked in by credit card debt. Christine explained the need to consolidate debt and how to do it. When the young woman left, spreadsheet in hand and a follow-up appointment for next week, Christine wondered if Mimi had sent her. Bring it on, Mimi. I can handle anything you throw my way. Pop said he’d work the crowd at The Bleeding Heart Society the way he used to do when he was selling raffle tickets at the St. Guadalupe Festival. Well, he’d done more than that when he offered her services in the fund-raising department. Pop had told her afterward not to worry if she wasn’t well schooled in fund-raising because he was, and with him backing her, they couldn’t lose. The man sure had energy and a mind that never stopped.
Pop would be excited about the baby. He’d tell her a story or three about when his wife was pregnant and the stories would include food, namely pizzelles. There would be tears and such longing that Christine would hope she and Nate could grow old with feelings like that.
Tonight was a new beginning for the Desantro family, a celebration of life and love. She’d stop at the grocery store and pick up a pork tenderloin, one of Nate’s favorites. By the time he got home, she’d have it ready with a salad, baked potato, and a cold glass of beer. Tonight she’d fill his belly and his heart.
When the doorbell rang at 4:18 p.m., the pork was in the oven, and Christine had sliced cucumbers and red onion for the salad. Cherry tomatoes were next. She set the knife aside, wiped her hand on a dishtowel, and made her way to the front door. Maybe it was the deliveryman with the charm bracelet she’d ordered for Lily: a gift in a string of gifts for her sister. Each one delighted Lily, no matter how small. Christine opened the door, expecting to see the deliveryman with a box, but the person on the front step was a beautiful woman in a melon-colored sundress with a tote slung over her right shoulder.
“May I help you?”
“Christine?”
The woman’s voice was low and sultry. “Yes?”
“I’m Natalie Servetti.” The brunette paused, flashed a wide smile. “I know Nate.”
“Oh.” Oh. And then, because she’d been raised to respect politeness, no matter the situation, she asked what she would later regret, “Would you like to come in?”
The woman’s smile spread. “Thank you.” Christine stepped aside as Natalie Servetti glided past her in a haze of perfume and self-assurance. She beelined to the fireplace mantel, her gaze latching onto the photos of Christine and Nate’s wedding: sharing a kiss, holding hands, standing next to Lily, Uncle Harry, and Miriam.
“Nate always did take a good picture.” The woman turned away, dismissing the rest of the photos that included more glimpses into the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Desantro, and sat on the couch.
Why was she here? And how fast could Christine get her to leave? Today was a special day, one she and Nate would remember as the beginning of their family, and no woman from his past was going to ruin that. Still, etiquette crept through her determination to be rid of the woman. “Would you like something to drink?”
“As long as it’s not a shot of Jack, then sure.” Of course she’d said that so Christine knew she was familiar with Nate’s habits. “Water’s fine.”
Christine made her way to the kitchen, poured two waters, and tried to think of a way to get rid of the woman. She glanced at her watch. Nate would be home in a little over and hour and his ex-whatever was not going to be here. In fact, if
Christine had to spray the entire house with disinfectant and light candles to rid herself of the woman’s scent, she’d do it.
“Here you go.” Christine handed her a glass of water and tried not to notice the glossiness of the woman’s hair, the long legs, the large breasts. But mostly, she tried to ignore visions of Nate knowing these body parts, enjoying them with great familiarity. Past was past; none of it mattered but now.
Natalie sipped her water, set it down on the walnut end table Nate had made, and crossed one leg over the other. “I like what you’ve done to the place.” Her comment was just another reminder of the past relationship she shared with Nate. “Quieted the testosterone buzz a little.”
“Thank you.”
She sighed, placed a hand on the tote that rested beside her. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”
Spoken as someone who knew that was exactly what Christine was wondering.
“I’m curious.” She kept her voice even, her expression bland. The woman could lambaste her with all the innuendos she wanted and she would get no reaction. Years of living with Gloria had taught Christine how to mask her true emotions.
“I had to come.” She batted her dark lashes, locked her gaze on Christine and pulled her in. “There are a few things you should know.”
She paused, her voice dipping in sympathy as though to imply, Since you haven’t figured them out yet, I’ll help.
“Nate and I go back a long way. He was friends with my brother, Gino, in high school. I was younger, but I always had an eye on him.” Her lips pulled into a slow smile. “He always had an eye on me, too. We got together and it was good, but explosive. You know how that can be when there’s so much passion, you can’t contain it.” She flung both hands in the air and laughed. “Fireworks. In bed and out. It was exhausting.”
Christine sat very still as Natalie Servetti’s words seeped through her pores, swirled to her brain, and settled in her soul. It was one thing to imagine the man you loved with another woman but quite another to receive a testimony from the other woman.
