by Sandra Brown
“You didn’t like it, did you?” he demanded.
She held her breath for a moment, then shook her head furiously. “No,” she whispered, then said more forcefully, “no, no, no.”
“Ah, God.” He crushed her to him, rocking her back and forth slowly. His fingers laced through her hair to fit over her scalp and pressed her face against his chest. His lips brushed over her hair in a fervent kiss. After a while, he lifted her chin with his thumb.
His finger followed the heart shape of her hairline. “You’re so beautiful.” He mouthed the words rather than said them, but she understood. “I love the smoky color of your eyes, the shape of your mouth.” He outlined it with his fingertip. “Your hair is soft and shiny and natural, not twisted into some contrived shape.” He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. “You need to be loved, Shelley, by someone who appreciates the woman you are. Let me love you.”
“I don’t know, Grant.”
“We’re on your timetable. No pressure.” He kissed her then. His kiss was a deep and thorough melding of their mouths. He adjusted his body to hers and felt only a tremor of alarm when he cradled his manhood against her. His thumb stroked the warm skin of her neck and pressed against the pulsating vein.
“Will you go to the football game with me Saturday?” The question was a caress against her parted lips. He kissed her again with a gentle love bite on her lower lip. “After the game, the faculty is invited to the chancellor’s house for cocktails. Surely you wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me suffer through that alone.”
She thought his fingertip was gliding along the side of her breast under her arm, but his touch was so tender she couldn’t be sure. However, it was enough to make her breathless when she answered, “I guess I’d never forgive myself if I did.”
He sampled her mouth one more time, using his tongue like an instrument designed solely to give sensual pleasure. “I’ll be by Saturday at two.” He kissed her swiftly and hard, then left, closing the door behind him.
“Grant, slow down. Who do you think you are? The star halfback?” Her hand was locked tightly in his as he led her through the maze of the stadium parking lot toward the gates swarming with football enthusiasts.
“Sorry,” he said, slowing down. “I didn’t think an ol’ cheerleader like you would want to miss the kickoff.”
Ever since she had accepted his invitation, she had anguished over consenting to this date. Common sense dictated that she should have told him no. But each time she was with him, common sense seemed to desert her. If he felt confident enough to take her to the home of the chancellor of the university, why should she feel timorous about it?
She had answered his knock with a high sense of anticipation, and it was rewarded. He looked gorgeous. His dark hair was mussed as usual, but it gleamed in the autumn sunshine. He was dressed in a sport shirt and slacks that perfectly accentuated the lean, tough virility of his physique.
“You look great,” he said, taking in her striped skirt and a silk shirt that matched the cloudy-sky color of her eyes. Without pause or awkwardness, he drew her into his embrace and kissed her with the hunger of a starved man. After the initial shock of his thrusting intimacy had subsided, she wound her arms around his neck.
When at last they parted, each with a thudding heart and shortness of breath, he brought his lips against her ear and said, “We could skip the football game and have our own little match right here. I’ll referee and keep score. All you have to do is play along.”
She blushed furiously and shoved him aside to gather her blue wool blazer and suede purse. He was still laughing when he settled her into his sleek black Datsun 280 Z. They joked and teased while he negotiated his way through the heavy traffic on the way to the stadium. For the first time, they were relaxed with each other, meeting on equal ground as two adults, forgetting the dismal past and enjoying only the present.
“Aren’t football games fun?” he was growling in her ear now. They had been consumed by the throng. To keep them from getting separated, he had wrapped his arms around her waist and positioned her in front of him. He held her tight against him as they made their way slowly toward the ramp that led to their reserved seats.
His meaning didn’t escape her. She could feel the straining pressure of his masculinity against her hips. His breath in her ear, against her cheek, on the back of her neck, was a sweet airy caress. “I think you’re taking unfair advantage.”
“And you’re absolutely right.” He moved his arm up a fraction until it lay just below her breasts. No one in the mob would have noticed. “But can you blame a guy when he’s with the most beautiful woman on the whole campus?”
“Even more beautiful than Miss Zimmerman?” Shelley said with unusual cattiness, referring to the girl who had spoken to him outside Hal’s. “She’s obviously attracted to you and she certainly has a couple of fine attributes.”
“I like your attributes better.”
He jostled his arm enough to lift her breasts slightly and to convey his message loud and clear. Shelley’s sharp gasp caused the man beside her to whip his head around.
“Pardon me. Did I step on your foot?”
She shook her head. “No.” Grant’s chest vibrated with silent laughter.
They located their seats in time for the kickoff and were soon caught up in the excitement of the season opener. The afternoon was glorious. The sun was shining, though a northern breeze kept the temperature moderate. By the end of the third quarter Shelley had grown warm beneath her blazer and asked Grant to help her out of it.
After that she felt much more comfortable, but couldn’t help noticing Grant’s increasing restlessness. He wasn’t able to sit still even during lulls in the game.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned. He didn’t look unwell. On the contrary, he looked spectacular to her, the epitome of manhood. He had a wildness, a recklessness, about him that caused an aftershock in the system of every woman who came in contact with him. “Is something wrong?” she repeated, when he seemed disinclined to answer her.
“No,” he said brusquely. “Far from it.” He muttered a curse under his breath.
The home team executed an intricate play to gain twenty-five yards and the crowd rose to its feet, cheering with frenzy. Heedless, Shelley placed an anxious hand on Grant’s arm. “Grant?” she inquired worriedly.
He fixed her with the eyes that had been the subject of so many of her fantasies and asked, “Did you have to wear such a revealing blouse?”
Dumbstruck she looked down at her chest. The blouse itself was not particularly revealing, but the wind, deceptively mild, had molded the silk to the voluptuous curves beneath it, detailing her form. Unable to meet his eyes, she struggled to pull on her blazer again and then feigned absorption in the activities on the field.
The game progressed to a climactic conclusion, the home team scoring a touchdown in the final two minutes. Exiting the stadium was just as slow as entering had been. They walked side by side, his hand closed around the back of her neck, their hips bumping together as they walked.
“I wasn’t complaining, you know,” he said, causing her to blush.
“It wasn’t intentional,” she said tartly, pausing to face him until the tide of spectators shoved them forward again.
“I never thought it was. I’m sorry if what I said embarrassed you.”
The sincerity in his voice and eyes was too real to discount. She smiled her forgiveness. “And I’m sorry I acted so defensively.”
He squeezed the back of her neck lightly in understanding.
Once in his car and waiting in the line of traffic to leave the parking lot he said, “Do you mind stopping by my apartment? I have to change shirts and pick up a tie.”
“Fine,” she said, smiling, though her heart lurched at the thought of being alone with him again without the protection of a crowd of witnesses.
His duplex was a few blocks off campus in one of the more modern sections of town, an area no less quiet and pri
vate than Shelley’s neighborhood. He opened her door and helped her out of the low-slung car, escorting her up the stone walkway to his front door, which was flush with the straight Georgian facade of the house.
“I don’t have a cozy front porch like yours,” he said.
“But you have a wonderful apartment,” she replied, stepping inside. The lower level consisted of one large room with a fireplace and big paned windows. Behind louvered barroom doors, she could see a tiny kitchen. A spiral staircase led to a bedroom loft. One circular table in the main room was littered with textbooks on government and law, the thickness of which intimidated her. Magazines and records were piled onto bookshelves. Folders were stuffed into filing cabinets. It was neat, but well lived in.
“There’s a half bath on the other side of the kitchen if you need to freshen up,” he said, winding his way up the staircase.
“I’m fine. I think I’ll repair my makeup though.” She riffled through her purse, wishing her fingers would not shake so. She finally gave up finding a lipstick and opened her mirror compact.
It nearly went flying from her hand when he asked from above her. “How’re you doing down there? You’re as quiet as a mouse.”
“Fine, I—” Whatever she had been about to say never made it past the congestion in her throat. He was splashing cologne on his cheeks as he leaned over the railing of the loft … bare-chested.
His torso was covered with that fine dark hair that seemed to invite a woman to touch it, to test its crinkling texture with her fingertips. She found herself studying the hair just above his gold belt buckle. Vividly she remembered the way it had felt under her hand when she caressed him in the library. Her whole body felt oddly weak, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“I’ll be right with you,” he said, smiling down at her and retreating beyond her range of vision.
Using inordinate care to keep from dropping it, she closed the compact and replaced it in her purse, searching now for her hairbrush. Maybe if she concentrated on such ordinary tasks, she wouldn’t think about how he looked or the blood pumping through her veins like rich syrup.
“Dammit.”
The muffled curse came from the loft. She heard shuffling movements, another curse. “What is it?”
“A button just came off my shirt and I don’t have another clean one that goes with the coat I was going to wear.”
“Do you have a sewing kit?”
“Sure.”
“Bring it here. I’ll see what I can do.”
Within seconds, he was loping down the staircase with a speed that would have made her dizzy. “We’re in luck. There’s some blue thread in here,” he said, extracting from the sewing kit a card with several colors of thread wound around it. A slender sewing needle was secured in the cardboard.
She took the sewing implements from him, thankful for something to do so she wouldn’t have to look at him. He had left the shirt unbuttoned, and a close-up view of that wonderfully masculine chest was more disturbing than a distant one. “Where’s the button?”
“Here.” He passed the small white button to her.
“Are you going to … to … uh, take it off ?”
“Can’t you sew on the button this way?”
She swallowed. “Sure,” she said with a cocky assurance she was far from feeling. Somehow, despite palsied fingers, she managed to thread the needle with the pale blue thread.
“Should we sit down?” he asked.
“No. This is fine.”
The button was the third one down from the collar, which placed it in the middle of his chest. Pushing aside a wave of self-consciousness, she took the fine material between her fingers, held it taut and, slipping her other hand under it, pulled the needle through.
She worked as quickly as she could without snarling the thread. Ever aware of his chest just beneath her fingers, she tried to avoid touching him. Invariably, however, she was tickled by springy hairs or warmed by the skin under her hand. There were moments when he didn’t seem to be breathing. When his breath was released, she felt it on her forehead and cheeks. She could swear that the dull thudding she heard was his heartbeat, but it might have been her own. By the time she knotted the thread, her senses were reeling.
“Scissors?” she asked huskily.
CHAPTER 5
Scissors?” He repeated the word as though he’d never heard it before. His eyes were staring into hers, peeling away layer after layer of defense until he reached her soul. “I don’t know where they are,” he said at last.
“Never mind.” Not thinking, only wishing to end this project that had completely unnerved her, she leaned forward and caught the thread between her teeth, biting it in two. Not until then did she realize that her lips hovered a fraction of an inch from his chest. Her breath stirred the hair covering it.
“Shelley.” He sighed.
His hands came up to touch her hair reverently. She couldn’t turn away. Her brain was telling her to step back, escape, flee, but her body refused to obey. Instead she surrendered to the seduction of the moment. She didn’t even try to fight the compulsion that swept her toward him with the irrevocability of the tide. Sweetly she nuzzled him with her nose.
“Again, Shelley, again. Please.”
Apparently he was as transported by what was happening as she. His voice was uneven and thin, lacking its usual resonance. He placed his thumbs in front of her ears and encircled the back of her head with his strong, slender fingers.
She closed her eyes. When first her lips touched him, they were hesitant. But the graphic reaction of his body encouraged her. She kissed him again, slowly, with measured kisses that charted a path across the expanse of his chest.
When her lips encountered his nipple, she raised her head slightly. She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. Seconds stretched out into a small eternity. The hypnotic movement of his hands on her scalp stilled. He waited.
“Should I?” she whispered. “Do you want me to?”
“Do you want to?”
She made the decision subconsciously. Before she realized the full implications of the action, her tongue had slipped past her lips to flick over his nipple. Then she teased it further with delicate licks.
Grant gave a short cry before he took her in his arms. “Oh God, you’re sweet. So sweet.” She tilted her head up and he lowered his mouth to hers. Ravenous lips fused together. His tongue plunged into her mouth and de-flowered it, making it his. Careful of the needle she still held in her hand, she hooked her arm around his neck, drawing him downward, closer still. Her other hand splayed on the majestic chest, combed through the forest of hair, pressed the hard muscles.
Her breasts seemed to swell with emotion. He moved away enough to lower his hand and touch them. His knuckles moved gently over the sensitive buds, making them firmer beneath the silk. He fondled her so exquisitely that she called his name against his lips.
“Shelley, did you ever fantasize about this? About my touching you this way?”
“Yes, yes.”
“So did I. May God forgive me, but I did, and when you were much too young to figure in this kind of fantasy.” His lips moved back and forth across hers. “We can make all our fantasies come true,” he urged.
She leaned against him weakly, wanting to give in yet knowing it wouldn’t be wise. She loved him. At some point in the last ten years she had come to that indisputable conclusion. He was no longer an idol, the subject of youthful imaginings. He was the man intended for her to love, and she wanted that love to be fulfilled.
But to him, she might only be a novelty. While she had lived an unhappy life, pining for him, thinking of him constantly, dreaming impossible dreams, manufacturing romantic situations in her mind that would never happen, he had been living a hectic, whirlwind life in Washington. Had he really thought of her then, or were his methods of getting her into bed just more sophisticated than Daryl’s had been?
She had constructed a new life for herself out of the
rubble of her shattered marriage. Her plans for the future were carefully laid out and going according to schedule. Should she let Grant Chapman into her life, he might upset that schedule, if not destroy her plans for the future altogether.
The pain of leaving his embrace was worse than having a dagger pierce her heart, but she gradually pushed against him until he relented and let her go. She turned and walked to the window, staring out at the twilit evening. She heard the rasp of his zipper as he lowered it to tuck his shirttail into his trousers before doing it up again. Her ears picked up the sound of his muted footsteps on the thick rug as he came to stand behind her.
“I was never Missy Lancaster’s lover.” He hadn’t touched her, yet his words caused her to spin around, her eyes wide.
“Grant,” she said dolefully, “that has nothing to do with us. I’m reluctant for us to … to … sleep together, but not because of what happened between you and that girl in Washington.”
The relaxing of the lines on either side of his mouth testified to his relief. But his eyes lost none of their intensity. “I’m glad, because there was nothing between Missy and me. At least not what everyone thought. To have told the unmitigated truth would have been to divulge a confidence I couldn’t break.” His hand came up to grip her shoulders. “Trust me, Shelley. I’m not lying about this.”
Her eyes roved his face. There was no disguising the anxiety there. “I believe you, Grant.”
He sighed and released his death grip on her shoulders. “Thank you for that.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Shall we go? I can’t jeopardize my position on this faculty by being late to the chancellor’s party.”
A short time later, they left the duplex. He had retrieved his sportcoat from upstairs and knotted a necktie under his shirt collar. Shelley had retreated to the half bath to freshen her makeup—which truly needed it now—and to brush her hair.
The chancellor lived on an estate owned by the university. Set on a hill, the house was an imposing colonial with six white columns across a broad front porch. Grant parked the Datsun at the foot of the hill and they started up the incline on foot.
