He walked past her to the little kitchenette, opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a beer. He popped the top in her direction.
“I’m sorry you were feeling desperate and stressed and I finished your play—and did rather well, I think.”
“You really are an asshole. You don’t get it. You’re just a total—Yankee. We don’t do things that way in the South. We’re polite, we’re gracious.”
“Wow. Gracious. Yeah, I can see that.”
“Fine. Let me just make myself at home here.” She flung open the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “I should just go through your refrigerator. No, maybe I should explore your luggage.”
“You were already in here. Didn’t you explore my luggage then?”
“What?” She went dead still.
“Harold told me that you waited in my room for me this morning. Did you miss anything?” He walked back out to the bedroom area. There was a desk near the plate-glass window. A laptop sat on it. “There’s my computer. And there’s the closet. You’ve seen the kitchen. The bath is over there. Feel free to rummage through the shaving kit.”
“I didn’t rummage through anything,” she told him indignantly. But she had. She’d been in the closet. She slammed her beer down on the counter and strode over to where he stood. She found herself poking his chest. “There’s a big difference. A computer is totally…personal.”
“A computer is a machine.”
“My work was personal.”
“I’m sorry I finished your damn play. You’re just pissed off because it was good.”
“That’s not the point.” She was still jabbing him.
He caught her hand. “Isn’t it?”
“It was an invasion of privacy. And you don’t understand because you…you don’t know what it is to really have to work. To spend days raising beds, going home and writing, arguing with idiotic city officials over permits and praying that tickets will sell, so you can pay the professionals. You don’t know what it is to worry about your costuming budget while you’re watching someone you’ve come to care about take their last breath, or calling the nurse, or pouring water, or—”
“Or not really having a life of my own?” he asked.
She wrenched her hand free, suddenly afraid that she was close to getting hysterical. And she’d thought she had it all together. Time for the theater, for Gran, for Angie, for getting by…
“I have a life. I have a great life,” she stormed. She started to leave, shoulders straight, strides long, dignity entirely intact.
“Aurora.”
He caught her arm, and her own impetus brought her spinning around, smack into his arms.
Against his bare chest.
“Aurora…” His eyes were intense.
Then he said only, “Oh, hell,” and kissed her.
Lips over hers. Firm, vital, alive. Tongue slipping between her teeth. The scent of him, the feel of him…
God, it was good.
She meant to protest.
His tongue…
She could feel it everywhere, feel it where it wasn’t, feel it where she wanted it.
His hands…
Fingers through her hair, at the small of her back, crushing her against him. His pelvis, crushed to hers, the things she could feel…didn’t remember, did remember…longed to experience anew.
His lips broke from hers. Barely. She could still feel the rush of his breath. See his eyes. She moistened her lips. “I’ve…I’ve…”
“What?”
She meant to say, “I’ve got to go,” but the words wouldn’t come.
Jonathan’s words were hovering in her mind, at the tip of her tongue.
“I—I—”
“Say it.”
Oh, God. His hips. His fingers splayed at the small of her back. His naked flesh. The scent of him.
“I’ve…” I’ve got to go.
“Yes?” Softly, so softly, the words a caress.
“I’ve been told…”
“Told what, dammit? You’ve got to…?”
“Have sex.”
The words fell from her lips. She was instantly mortified. But she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move. A slight smile was curving his lips, and she found herself babbling once again. “I’m still angry. Furious. And…”
“And I’m still an asshole, but I’m the right sex, have the right inclination and I’m not put together too badly.”
She lowered her head. “Oh, Lord, I didn’t say that….”
“Shut up, Aurora.”
“But—”
“Please shut up, Aurora.”
“But—”
“Oh, hell,” he said again.
And once again, he kissed her.
She wasn’t sure when he turned out the light. She didn’t know how her clothing ended up on the floor.
Only that he was kissing her.
And that the breeze was soft, the sheets were cool, and he was bronze against them, just as she had imagined. Moonlight drifted gently in; the sound of the surf seemed amplified. Or was it the sound of her breathing, his breathing…?
It was the fantasy come to life. Sight, sound and touch, all tempered by moonlight, by magic. And more. Beyond the fantasy. His lips…here, there, everywhere. His hands…his tongue. His heat, liquid heat, coursing through her body. Inhibition lost in a sea of sensuality. Touching him, knowing him, being with him on the linen sheets, the air rushing over her where she burned. The feel of his tongue, moving, doing things that had been teased and hinted at in his kiss. Fantasy forgotten in urgency. Binding together, fusing together, moving, writhing, arching…and even thinking, absurdly, that of course it would be this mindless, this fantastic, she’d known he had big feet….
Then a moment of shattering crystal climax, so volatile that she lost the world in an ocean of fire and sensation. There was a cry, her own, and the room faded to black, then came alive again as the breeze caressed her once more, cool against the heat, gentle against the more violent force of nature that had seized her. The scent of the clean salt air returned, the feel of the sheets, the feel of his leg still cast over her own.
Then there was…
Reality.
This was a motor lodge. The rear of the bungalow was open to the beach and the sea. Someone might have walked by. Might have seen them, heard them.
And there was him, of course. Watching her now in the moonlight.
“I’ve got to go.”
His arms tightened around her. “Was that a wham-bam-thank-you-sir?” he asked softly.
“I have to go home. I have an eighteen-year-old daughter.”
“She’ll be fine for a while longer.”
She groaned softly. “I don’t even know you.”
“I’d say you know me quite well.”
She started to move. He rose above her. “Don’t go,” he said. He lips touched her throat. The brush of his fingers traced the flesh between her breasts.
“I—”
“There’s only one way to shut you up,” he said. And proceeded to show her.
She awoke, stunned. At first she wasn’t even sure where she was. She had been dreaming. A wild, erotic, decadent, unbelievable dream that had left her deliciously sated. But it wasn’t dark, and this wasn’t her room. The arm around her was real, and windows were open to the sand and sea and the extraordinary sight of the first light of day beginning to break in golds and deep crimson across the sky.
She jumped out of bed and began scrambling for her clothing.
Max was up instantly. “Aurora…?”
“The curtains!”
He drew them immediately, then went to her. She had fumbled her way into her clothing.
“The curtains are drawn. It’s all right.”
“My God, it’s morning.”
“It’s all right.”
“I have a child.”
“She’s eighteen.”
“Aurora, you didn’t do anything illegal. It was a great night. A beautiful
night.”
She dodged his arms, going for her shoes.
When she did, she saw what she hadn’t seen the night before. A script, lying next to the computer. A finished, bound play. She missed the title, but she saw his name.
She turned, staring at him in horror. “Maxwell Wulfson. The Maxwell Wulfson.”
“I don’t know about the Maxwell Wulfson.”
She backed away in horror. “The playwright. The New York playwright who’s had more Broadway shows than I can count.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s me. What difference does it make?”
“What difference? I sat there and said you couldn’t write, that you couldn’t imagine, that…that…oh, my God! How could you have let me go on?”
“Aurora, it didn’t matter.”
“Didn’t matter? It was just another way for you to let me humiliate myself.”
“Stop it. You haven’t humiliated yourself in any way. Your plays are wonderful, and if possible, you’re an even better actress than you are a writer. Come here, Aurora.”
“No! Oh, God, no!”
Before he could reach her, she turned and ran.
She could hear him coming after her. Nude, bronzed, muscled, toned…big-footed.
“Aurora!” He shouted her name, then remembered his state of undress and retreated.
She heard him swearing as she went racing out to the parking lot.
Seven
Max stood next to Mike’s wheelchair in the center of the rec hall, which had been transformed. The wedding guests were an interesting assortment, some in chairs at the tables, some in wheelchairs, and then, there was the younger crowd, the nurses, doctors, nurses’ aides, kitchen staff, gardeners and everyone else among the working populace of Paradise. Angie was there with three of her college girlfriends and a young man. The kid was tall, with an athletic build, light eyes and dark hair. Max knew he was Josh even before they were introduced. Angie whispered to him that he had left a message, asking if he could please come to the wedding. Since he had visited Mary many times in the hospital, she had decided it was all right to leave him a message back, saying that Mary would certainly welcome him.
Even Mr. Hollenbeck was there. He hadn’t responded to anything in more than a month, Max had heard. But Aurora—who had been doing her best to be civil when necessary, ignoring him the rest of the time—had insisted that he be wheeled in, hoping he might enjoy the music and pageantry of the wedding ceremony. Since Max had been handy, Aurora had given him a grudging thank-you when he had taken charge and rolled him in.
A number of Aurora’s cast and crew from the theater were there, including Jonathan, who had greeted Max warmly after his initial surprise but hadn’t offered an explanation for being there. Max didn’t intend to ask him what he was doing in Paradise. If Jonathan chose to tell him, he would do so.
The rabbi and priest were appropriately decked out for the ceremony. The music began, and Aurora entered from the hallway. Her dress was a soft blue knit with spaghetti straps and a softly flaring skirt. She carried flowers and walked with grace, a smile and a solemnity that served the occasion well. He found himself remembering what he had thought of her when he had first seen her. Hair a little short for his taste, yet the natural sun-bleached blond shade was appealing. A nice figure, but nothing extreme. Shorts and casual shirt. Sandals. Those direct blue eyes, that confident, no-nonsense manner. He’d certainly never thought her unattractive—just that she was very low-key for a gold digger.
Things changed.
And quickly. Just one kiss, that night on the sand. One touch.
And one night.
Now he couldn’t look at her without remembering the feel of her flesh. Without being tempted to stroke the bareness of her shoulders. He couldn’t remember a time when it had felt so good to hold a woman in his arms. Nor could he forget her bewilderment at what she had wanted, the passion and confusion of her outbursts. And those eyes, the way she had looked at him…
She took her position across from him.
Her eyes were on her grandmother as the traditional wedding march began and Mary entered the church. She had apparently been working very hard with her therapist, because she walked in. She was leaning heavily on Bart’s arm, but she walked in, and she was beautiful. Like Aurora, she was wearing blue. Soft silk that accented the silver gray of her hair. She came down the aisle slowly—they had to play the march a few times—but when she reached Mike, she was beaming as hard as he was.
Applause suddenly broke out. It was probably the first and last time he would ever witness such a thing at a wedding, Max thought, but it was appropriate and perfect.
Then the rabbi and the priest took turns speaking. The couple had chosen to write their own vows, and they were spoken clearly, and with a certainty that was almost spellbinding. When the priest asked, Max handed over the plain gold bands Mary had chosen.
A moment later they were blessed in English and Hebrew, and pronounced man and wife. Applause rang out again. The bride and groom exited and returned—with Mary back in her wheelchair—and another round of applause broke out. The DJ hired for the occasion picked up a mike and welcome the two as Mr. and Mrs. Wulfson. Their first dance would be to “We’ve Only Just Begun”—Mike’s choice—and Max and Aurora took their places behind the wheelchairs, wheeling the newlyweds around to the music as they held hands with each other.
From that point on, the wedding was pure fun. Nurses danced with patients in their chairs, the kids danced with one another, then with the inhabitants of the home, as well. Max was called upon by almost every octogenarian, and though he’d thought himself in pretty good shape, by the time he’d been through thirty or so wheelchair waltzes, he was getting sore. He hadn’t been the only one, either. Aurora had been doing the wheelchair fling, as well. As the afternoon wore on, he saw Mary whispering to Aurora, who touched Jonathan Smith on the shoulder. The two of them walked out on the floor, and the DJ played a swing number. The two of them slipped into position as naturally as twins all but joined at birth and danced beautifully.
“She’s a looker, eh?”
Max glanced downward. Daisy Marks was at his side. He had promised her the next dance.
“She’s a lovely young woman, yes.”
“She’s Mary, nearly fifty years ago,” Daisy said sagely. “She’s still breathing fire at you, though, huh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, don’t worry too much. I explained that all men were idiots.”
“Gee, thanks. I’ll try not to take that too personally, Daisy.”
“From what I understand, you were a horse’s ass.”
“Thank you, Daisy. That’s just about right.”
“The good things in life are worth fighting for, though. But then, you have that life of yours up in New York City. Starlets throwing themselves at you all the time. You’re going back soon, I take it.”
“Sunday night.”
“You should stay longer.”
“Can’t. Have to have most of a new play up and going by then.”
“You don’t direct, do you?”
“No, but a good friend is directing this show, and we’re tied into it together financially. If I don’t do my part…well, I’m old enough to know that some things you can compromise and others you can’t. Now, I believe you promised me this dance.”
“No. Aurora is standing over there by Mary. Go get her.”
“She may say no, Daisy.”
“And you haven’t heard the word before in your life? And gotten around it?” Daisy’s eyes were twinkling. “Remember, Maxwell Wulfson, anger is a strong emotion. You can’t be angry with someone if you’re not affected by them. Go dance.”
“Just for you, Daisy.”
She probably would turn him down, he thought. If he asked.
So he decided not to ask. He walked right up to her and took her arm.
Aurora stared at his hand on her arm, then into his eyes.
“Come on,” he
said.
“Oh, yes, sweetie,” Mary said. “Go and dance with a man who is on his feet and your own age,” she commanded.
He whirled Aurora out on the floor. The song ended almost immediately, and as if the DJ were in collusion with him, the next song was slow. Aurora was still in his arms, staring up at him defiantly.
“What are you so damned mad at?”
“You.”
“For being me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What did you want me to say?”
“That you were Maxwell Wulfson.”
“You knew I was Max Wulfson.”
“Well, somewhere along the line, you might have mentioned that you were a well-known playwright.”
“The subject never came up.”
“Then you could have brought it up. This whole thing has been so…mortifying.”
“It was all mortifying?”
“What else could I call it?”
“You could call it good. Or great. I would.”
“Oh, really?” She cocked her head, staring up at him. “You swept down here for your grandfather’s wedding. Now you’ll sweep back up to your black-tie affairs, your celebrity-filled world and the life you were leading. All I did was happen to catch you between actresses.”
“I live in New York, I work in New York, and yes, naturally, I have a social life in New York. But I’m telling you the truth when I tell you that I haven’t had many nights that meant as much to me as last night.”
“Why? Because I’m different? The small town girl?”
He shook his head. “Aurora Beck, you’re certainly not the barracuda I first met. You seem to think that everything in my world is easy.”
“It’s easier than here.”
“New York has its benefits. So does Paradise.”
“Oh?”
“Aurora, that theater is yours. You have total creative control.”
“You get to write whatever you choose.”
“Writing and having things staged the way I want are not always the same thing.”
“The music has stopped. You can let go of me.”
“Not until you admit something.”
With a Southern Touch: AdamA Night in ParadiseGarden Cop Page 18
