by Ann Major
She was horrified by the pleasure she felt at his compliment, horrified at the warm, wonderful confusion that was totally enveloping her, leaving her defenseless.
She stared at him, speechless for at least a minute. She wanted to think of something to say that would be so spiteful he would leave her alone, but words failed her. All she could do was sweep haughtily out of the kitchen into her bedroom. She slammed the door on the low rumble of his male chuckle.
He was seducing her, teasing her, laughing at her for her weakness where he was concerned. As experienced with women as he was, he probably considered her an easy conquest. Somehow she had to summon the strength to fight him. But as she made her bed and picked up her things, she was aware of every sound that came from the kitchen. He sang and he clattered plates. Pots banged on the stove.
She decided her only option was to ignore him, to try to stay as far away from him as she could possibly get. So she went into the living room to dust. But wherever she went, he allowed her no peace. He called her into the kitchen saying he didn't know what plate to use or where the salt and pepper shakers were. And when she was reaching up to get the objects he wanted, he was right behind her, his body so close, so warm, that it was all she could do to resist the fatal impulse to step back into his arms. The rest of the morning and the afternoon he pestered her in the same way.
Later that night, after dinner and the dishes, he went up to bathe, and she thought she was safe. But while she was cleaning the pantry, he called down to her from his bedroom.
At first she ignored him, but he wouldn't stop calling to her. Surely he was the most stubborn man on earth.
When she trudged up the stairs at last, she found him standing in the middle of his bedroom trying to look hurt and helpless. He said his shoulders were so sore from the wreck that it hurt him to lift his arms and button his shirt. It took only a second for her senses to register his physically disturbing state. His unbuttoned blue shirt contrasted with the dark bronze of his damp skin. He smelled clean and male. She caught the sensual scent of his aftershave. His black hair was jet dark, wet and curly.
They were alone. This was their last night together. Her last chance. She should run back downstairs at once.
But she could only stare at him, thinking he was as darkly beautiful as a muscled pagan god. She could only feel dizzy and weak with a sickening longing to touch him and caress him.
His blue gaze was electric. "Come here, Norie," he commanded gently.
She began to tremble, but she lacked the strength to move either toward him or away from him. It was he who closed the gap between them with two swift silent strides.
His shirt swung open further. He stood so close she could feel the heat from his body, see the wetness that glistened on his bare chest.
He had asked her to button his shirt. In that moment it was as if she had no mind of her own. Very slowly she reached toward him, intending to bring the edges of his shirt together. Instead her fingertips slid beneath the soft blue fabric to touch the hard curves of his muscular chest and torso. She felt bone and muscle. His skin was like warm, polished bronze. Her slim fingers tangled in the hair on his chest and then splayed in wonder over the place where his heart pounded with excitement.
He sucked his breath in sharply as her soft hands moved on, wandering in sensuous exploration, lovingly pushing his shirt aside, over his shoulders, then more urgently wrenching it off, and tossing it to the floor. Gently, her lips followed the path of her hands, kissing him first in the spot that concealed his violently thudding heart, then following every curve of his hard muscles.
She would have stopped touching him and kissing him, if only she could. But she was hot, as hot as he was. At last she lifted her head helplessly, and found that his blazing eyes were upon her radiant face. His gaze studied every inch of her face with such tenderness that she almost stopped breathing. Very slowly he leaned down and kissed the black shining curls at her temples. Then her cheek. Then her throat. She felt his breath falling warmly against her skin like heated velvet whispers. Only the tumultuous drumming of his heartbeat betrayed his restraint.
"Don't fight it," he whispered. "You can't." He balled his hands into fists. "I know, because I can't, either." His voice was a ragged, hoarse sound.
Very gently he drew her into his arms and toward the bed. And she let him.
He was right. She couldn't fight him. She was weak. She wanted him too much.
His hand curved along her slender throat. His finger wound a strand of silken black hair into a sausage curl and released it, letting it bounce against her satin throat.
"Open your lips," he instructed huskily.
He brushed a soft, sweet kiss across her mouth, and then he, too, was lost. All of his careful control was disintegrating. He was shaking against her. His breath drew in sharply, loudly, fiercely. He kissed her again, harder and hotter than before. He held her so tightly she felt that her own body was fused into his. His mouth moved against hers, his tongue moist and urgent as it slid between her parted lips to taste the warm, sweet wetness within. She let her tongue touch his.
Node's knees became weak, but it didn't matter because he was lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the bed.
Her lashes fluttered lazily, hopelessly shut as he stirred her with his lips and hands to erotic, feverish, passionate ecstasy.
Outside, the flat Texas landscape was bleak and barren and frozen. The wind was howling wildly. It was going to be another stormy night.
Inside, the two lovers were lost to the world and conscious only of each other. For them, there was only the wonder of their passionate extravagant present. For Noreen, only the wonder of having Grant at last.
He was still forbidden.
He was still a Hale, no matter how he denied it.
Tomorrow she would probably be sorry.
But tonight, as she lay enfolded in his crushing embrace beneath crisp cotton sheets, he was hers. Recklessly, gloriously, completely hers.
She abandoned herself heedlessly to the night, to the mounting passion of her lover, to her own wildness that had lain dormant until now. At last, she discovered the ecstasy that she had read about in books and always wanted but never known, not even during the brief unhappy years of her marriage.
After it was over-their fierce, molten mating-he buried his lips in her silken hair and breathed in the sweet, clean smell. She ran her hands over his magnificent body that glistened with sweat, and she reveled in the beautiful strength of his hard, muscular physique.
Tears of joy flooded her eyes.
She felt vulnerable, soft.
Gently he brushed her wet cheek. "Forgive me," he murmured quietly.
"For what?"
"For all the wasted years." He clasped her tightly. "For that first night in Austin, all those years ago. For your wedding day when I insulted you with the kind of kiss no brother-in-law should ever give a bride."
"Don't," she whispered shudderingly. She put a fingertip to his lips.
"I was wrong, Norie. So wrong. I thought… I thought I was protecting Larry."
"I know."
"I always loved you, but I couldn't admit I was wild with jealousy when you married Larry. I couldn't admit that you might love him. I treated you badly. I stood by and watched Larry pit you against Mother. He always loved to be fought over." Grant ran a light finger down her belly. "No more. At last you are mine."
Noreen let him stroke her hair, let him kiss her again. She even let him remove the wedding ring she'd continued to wear for Darius's sake. Yes, tonight she belonged to Grant. Tonight was their dream. Tomorrow would be soon enough to awaken to reality.
His black head lowered and his parted lips moved over hers tenderly, nibbling for a time, forcing her mouth open again, slowly, teasingly, while his hands traced over her body and then pulled her closer. She could feel his heat beginning to flame all over again.
"I thought you were hurt."
He laughed softly. "I have miracul
ous recuperative powers."
Noreen's hand slid down his hair-roughened chest, stroking his flat muscled stomach, hesitating, then moving lower. She touched that hot, warm part of him that told her just how fully aroused he was.
"Indeed you do," she whispered on a wanton giggle.
"And you're one sexy… librarian."
"Oh, Grant," she breathed against his lips and threw her arms about him. "I thought things like this only happened in books."
"So you like this better than reading?"
"Much… much better."
He chuckled huskily.
And that was the last thing either of them said for a very long time.
When Grant awoke the next morning, he was alone. Outside, everything was covered with a layer of frost and the sky was white and wintry. Inside, the room was cozily warm. Norie must have turned on the heater before she'd left him and gone downstairs.
If only she'd stayed in bed, it would have been so much easier to face her. He got up quickly and began to dress. The hall outside was icy as was every other room in the house except his and the kitchen.
Norie was in the kitchen bending over the stove. She looked pretty in her looped earrings and a pale yellow dress that emphasized her slim waist and the curve of her breasts. The sight of her made him remember last night. His heart gave a leap of pure happiness.
He smelled bacon and eggs, freshly brewed coffee and baking biscuits. The wooden table in the middle of the room was set with handmade red place mats and blue china. Everything was so charming, so perfect, and the most perfect thing of all was Norie.
He shut the door, and she turned, and he watched the flush on her cheeks rise in a warm blush of color. Their glances met. He smiled, and she set the spatula down, hesitating, but only briefly, before she stepped joyfully into his open arms.
He kissed her gently, on the brow first, and then her mouth, and she surrendered heedlessly to his lips. He thought, this is how marriage would feel. He would wake up, and she would be there-every day.
"I feel very lazy, very spoiled," he said. "Can I do anything?"
"I wanted to spoil you. Did you sleep all right?"
"Perfectly."
"And your knee?"
"Much better."
"Everything's almost ready. Nothing fancy."
"I don't want fancy." He reached out to touch her cheek.
"The phone's back on," she said quietly.
Her eyes, meeting his, were intense and thoughtful. She turned back to the eggs, and Grant opened the refrigerator out of old habit just to inspect its contents. Inside, he saw a turkey.
"So you're going to cook a turkey for yourself out here, all alone?"
Her face changed. "I-I cook Christmas dinner every year."
"For anybody special?" he demanded, sounding both stiff and disconcerted.
The room grew hushed.
She wouldn't look at him, but he saw the color rise and ebb in her cheeks. She seemed to hesitate. "If you're asking about another man, there isn't one."
His stomach tightened. What was she hiding? In some indefinable way, she had erected a barrier. He felt shut out of her life again and angry about it. But what right did he have to say anything?
"How long till breakfast?" His voice came out harsh and loud from the strain of controlling both his curiosity and his temper.
She had turned away and was stirring something on the stove. The spatula was clanging rather too loudly. "Six or seven minutes."
"I think I'll walk down to my car." His words, his manner, were a careful insult.
"Fine."
At the door he turned. "Norie… "
She drew a sharp breath. "Just go."
He jerked open the screen door and stomped out, his footsteps crunching into ice and shattering the frozen stillness of the morning.
A wan sun shone through the thin white clouds and made the layer of frost on his black Cadillac sparkle. It was going to take a wrecker, all right, to get it out of the ditch. Grant wouldn't know till then if he would be able to drive it or if it would have to be towed. But his mind wasn't really on the car. It was on Norie.
Last night, she'd been sweet and warm and loving. This morning she couldn't wait until he drove himself and his car out of her life.
Why?
Impatiently, he grabbed Norie's rolled-up newspaper and pulled it from her mailbox. Then he headed briskly back to the house.
Six minutes, she had said. He stopped in the middle of the road to think. Okay, so she had managed without him for five years. She was independent and proud. It was stupid to think he could storm into her life and take over in the first forty-eight hours. His gaze wandered over the farm. Not bad. For a woman alone, she had a lot to be proud of.
Sure, the house could stand some paint, but in the sunlight with every window pane glimmering, it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd thought in the darkness the other night. A magnificent spiderweb hung on a low branch. In the frozen sunlight, it seemed to be spun out of crystal gossamer lace. Along a fence a line of bare trees stood out sheer and black. The farm and its isolation appeared peaceful, almost beautiful this morning. He remembered how she liked to grow things. Maybe she was afraid he would want to take her away from all this. Maybe there were people here, friends who mattered as much to her, or more, than he ever could.
Grant felt on edge. He'd never liked going slow, waiting. Hell, they'd already lost seven years.
He started back to the house. He was barging around the back of it when his ankle caught on a handlebar, and he fell against a low shrub. He barely managed to catch himself.
"What the… "
At his feet he saw a tangle of shiny red metal and wire wheels. A tricycle. He pulled the thing out of the hedge and set it upright on all three wheels. For some reason he remembered the clumsily hand-painted cookies. Her little friend must have left it.
He remembered how she'd always loved children, and it seemed a shame that she had to content herself with little friends she had over to paint cookies, a shame that she didn't have any of her own. She would make a wonderful mother; she would be nothing like his own unmaternal, socialite mother. He could give Norie marriage, children.
"Grant!"
He looked up.
She was in the doorway looking soft and lovely and calling him to breakfast.
Over breakfast the barrier between them was still there. But he tried to enjoy himself, anyway. The food was perfect, but he hardly tasted the biscuits and the bacon and the coffee. All that mattered was Norie. He tried to concentrate on her. She was telling him as she had on that first night about her childhood in north Texas, about her parents. Soon she had him talking about himself, telling her how he'd always wanted to know his real father but his mother was ashamed of that early marriage and would never allow it. But all the time Grant was talking, he kept wondering what was wrong.
"So how did you end up here?" he asked at last, switching the conversation back to her.
"The very same day Larry was buried, after I got home to Austin, Mike Yanta, the school superintendent here, called me and offered me a job. It seemed like the perfect solution."
"And was it?"
"In a way. I love the school, the children, the story hours. I know everybody in town, and everybody knows me."
"The perfect life." His voice was unduly grim.
"More or less. For me anyway."
"But are you fulfilled?"
He wanted just one word from her, one word to show that she cared. But even before she answered, he knew she wouldn't give it.
"Are you?" she whispered.
"I used to think so. I was a success. That's all I considered. Until I met you."
"I probably make a tenth of your income, but it's all I need." She was twisting her napkin nervously.
Her all I need certainly didn't include him. A little muscle jumped convulsively in his jaw. "I told you part of the reason I came was business. Larry named you as his only beneficiary."
"But
I thought… "
"Mother controlled most of the money, and she still does. But Larry had a sizable trust all his own. I've managed that trust for you for the last five years and more than tripled the original amount. You are not a poor woman."
Norie was very pale, and she was shredding the napkin into pieces. "I told you I don't want it."
"But it's yours," he said harshly.
"I-I don't feel that it is. Georgia wouldn't want me to have it."
"Mother changed her mind about you a long time ago."
"I don't believe you!"
"When you ran away, when you never came back to claim your inheritance, Mother came to realize that you hadn't married Larry for his money after all. She wanted me to come here. She even told me to tell you that she's sorry. I was wrong about you, too. In the beginning I thought you were after Larry's money. Hell, you weren't even after Larry."
"Not till you came and your coming made Larry so mad he wanted to show you and Georgia he could live his own life. But he failed. We both failed."
"It took me a while to figure out that's how it happened. I was a fool not to see the truth the minute I met you. You're the most honest woman I've ever known, and the most loving."
Her eyes grew enormous and she gripped the table. "Grant… You're just as wrong about me now as you were then. I'm not the saint you seem to think I am."
"To me you are. You shouldn't be living alone. You should be married."
"I've been married."
"You should have children this time. Do you remember telling me that you wanted a big house with four children? You even knew what their names would be."
She turned white. "Homer, Electra, Galatea, and… Darius," she whispered, rising slowly from the table.
He laughed. "So you still remember?"
She seemed uneasy suddenly. "I used to be such a bookworm. Those names appealed to me when I was a child."
"You planned a big family. Aren't you waiting a little long to get started?"
A burning color washed back into her face, and she said quickly, "Life doesn't always work out the way we plan it."
"It's not too late."
