"Good!" Tira said with barely controlled rage. She glared at the other woman. "Would you like to have coffee with me, Jill?" She asked, and drew back the hand that was holding the cup of lukewarm coffee. "Let me introduce you to Miss Cup!"
Jill barely stepped back in time as the coffee cup flew through the air and hit the floor inches in front of her. Her eyes were wide open, and her mouth joined it. She hadn’t expected her worst enemy to fight back.
"My, my, aren't I the clumsy one!” Tira said sweetly. "I dropped Miss Cup and spilled my coffee!”
Jill swallowed, hard. "I'll just be off,” she said quickly.
"Oh, look," Tira added, lifting the plastic coffeepot the waitress had left on her table with a whimsical smile. "Mr. Coffeepot's coming after Miss Cup!"
Jill actually ran. If Tira hadn't been so miserable, she might have laughed at the sight. As it was, she apologized profusely to the waitress about the spilled coffee and left a tip big enough to excuse the extra work she'd made for the woman.
But it didn't really cheer her up. She went back home and started sculpting a new piece for the gallery. It wasn't necessary work, but it gave her something to do so that she wouldn't spend the day remembering Simon's hard kisses or thinking about how good Jill would look buried up to her armpits in stinging nettles.
The next day she was asked to serve on a committee to oversee Christmas festivities for a local children's shelter. It was a committee that Simon chaired, and she refused politely, only to have him call her right back and ask why.
She was furious. "Don't you know?" she demanded. "You had Jill rub my nose in it for—how did she put this?—chasing you to
the opera!"
There was a long pause. “I asked Sherry to give you the ticket to the opera, since she couldn't use it," he confessed, to her surprise. "If anyone was chasing, it was me."
She felt her heart stop. "What?"
"You heard me," he said curtly. There was another pause. "Work with me on the committee. You'll enjoy it."
She would. But she was reluctant to get closer to him than a telephone receiver. "I don't know that I would," she said finally. "You're not yourself lately."
"I know that."He was feeling his way."Can't we start
again?"
She hesitated. "As what?" she asked bluntly.
"Co-workers. Friends. Whatever you like."
That was capitulation, of a sort, at least. Perhaps he was through trying to make her pay for John's untimely death. Whatever his reason, her life was empty without him, wasn't it? Surely friendship was better than nothing at all? She refused to think about how his kisses had felt.
“Is Jill on the committee?'' she asked suddenly, wary of plots.
"No!"
That was definite enough. "All right, then," she said heavily.
"I'll do it."
"Good! I'll pick you up for the meeting tomorrow night." "No, you won't," she returned shortly. "I'll drive myself.
Where is it?"
He told her. There was nothing in his voice to betray whether or not he was irritated by her stubborn refusal to ride with him. He was even more irritated by Jill's interference. He'd made a bad mistake there, taking out Tira's worst enemy. He'd been depressed and Jill was good company, but it would have to stop. Tira wasn't going to take kindly to having Jill antagonize her out of sheer rivalry.
Tira went to the meeting, finding several old friends serving on the committee. They worked for three hours on preparations for a party, complete with an elderly local man who had agreed to play Santa Claus for the children. Tira was to help serve and bring two cakes, having volunteered because she had no plans for Christmas Eve other than to lay a trap for that mouse in the kitchen. Another woman, a widow, also volunteered to help, and two of the men, including Simon.
He stopped her by her car after the meeting. "The boys are having a Christmas party Saturday night in Jacobsville. They'd like you to come."
“I don't..."
He put a big forefinger across her soft mouth, startling her. The intimacy was unfamiliar and worrisome.
"Charles can do without you for one Saturday night, can't he?" he asked curtly.
"I haven't seen Charles lately. His brother, Gene, is in the hospital," she said, having forgotten whether or not she'd mentioned it to him. "Nessa isn't coping well at all, and Charles can't leave her alone."
"Nessa?"
"Gene's wife." She wanted to tell him about Nessa and Charles, but it wasn't her secret and letting him think she and Charles were close was the only shield she had at the moment. She couldn't let her guard down. She still didn't quite trust him. His new attitude toward her was puzzling and she didn't understand why he'd changed.
"I see."
"You don't, but it doesn't matter. I want to go home. I'm
cold."
He searched her quiet face. "I could offer an alternative," he
said in a soft, velvety tone.
She looked up at him with cool disdain. "I don't do casual affairs, Simon," she said bluntly. "Just in case the thought had crossed your mind lately."
He looked as if he'd been slapped. His jaw tautened. "Don't you? Then if your affair with Charles Percy isn't casual, why hasn't he married you?"
"I don't want to marry again," she said in a husky voice, averting her eyes. "Not ever."
He hesitated. He knew why she felt that way, that she'd been betrayed in the worst way. Her father-in-law had told him everything, but he was uncertain about whether or not to tell her that
he knew.
She glanced at him warily. "Does Jill know that you're still grieving for your wife?'' she asked, taking the fight right into the enemy camp. "Or is she just an occasional midnight snack?"
His eyebrows arched. "That's a hell of a comparison."
"Isn't it?" She smiled sweetly. "I'm going home."
"Come to Jacobsville with me."
"And into the jaws of death or kitchen slavery?" she taunted. "I know all about the biscuit mania. I'm not about to be captured by your loopy brothers."
"They won't come near you," he promised. "Corrigan's hired a new cook. She's redheaded and she can bake anything."
"She won't last two weeks before Leopold has her running for the border," she assured him.
It pleased him that she knew his brothers so well, that she took an interest in his family. She and Corrigan had been friends and occasionally had dated in the past, but there had been no spark between them. In fact, Charles Percy had always been in the way of any other man and Tira. Why hadn't he noticed that before?
"You've been going around with Charles ever since you left John," he recalled absently.
"Charles is my friend," she said.
"Friend," he scoffed, his eyes insulting. "Is that what it's called these days?"
"You should know," she returned. "What does Jill call it?"
His eyes narrowed angrily. "At least she's honest about what she wants from me," he replied. "And it isn't my money."
She shrugged. "To each his own."
He searched her face quietly. "You kissed me back the other night."
Her cheeks went ruddy and she looked away, clutching her
purse. "I have to go."
He was right behind her. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the warm threat of him all down her spine, oddly comforting in the chilly December air.
"Stop running!"
Her eyes closed for an instant before she reached for the door handle. "We seemed to be friends once," she said in a husky tone. "But we weren't, not really. You only tolerated me. I'm amazed that I went through all those years so blind that I never saw the contempt you felt when you looked at me."
"Tira..."
She turned, holding up a hand. "I'm not accusing you. I just want you to know that I'm not carrying a torch for you or breaking my heart because you go around with Jill." Her eyes were lackluster and he realized with a start that she'd lost a lot of weight in the past few months. She looked fra
gile, breakable.
"What are you saying?" he asked.
"That I don't need you to pity me, Simon," she said with visible pride. "I don't really want a closer association with you, whatever Jill says or you think. I'm rearranging my life. I've started over. I don't want to go back to the way we were."
He felt those words like a knife. She meant them. It was in her whole expression.
"I see," he said quietly.
"No, you don't," she replied heavily. "You're sort of like a drug," she mused. "I was addicted to you and I've been cured, but even small doses are dangerous to my recovery."
His heart leaped. He caught her gaze and held it relentlessly.
“What did you say?"
"You know what I mean," she returned. "I'm not going to let myself become addicted again. I have Charles and you have Jill. Let's go our separate ways and get on with our lives. I was serious about the pistol and the mouse, you know, it wasn't some face-saving excuse. I never meant to kill myself over you."
"Oh, hell, I knew that."
"Then why..."
"Yes?"
She turned her purse in her hands. "Why do you keep engineering situations where we'll be thrown together?" she asked. "It serves no purpose."
His hand came out of his pocket and lifted to touch, lightly, her upswept hair. She flinched and he dropped his hand with a
long sigh.
"You can't forget, can you?" he asked slowly.
"I'm trying," she assured him. "But every time we're together, people speculate. The newspaper stories were pretty hard to live down, even for me. I don't really want to rekindle speculation."
"You never cared about gossip before."
"I was never publicly savaged before," she countered. "I've been made to look like some clinging, simpering nymph crying for a man who doesn't want her. My pride is in shreds!"
He was watching her narrowly. "How do you know that I don't want you, Tira?" he asked deliberately.
She stared at him without speaking, floored by the question.
"I'll pick you up at six on Saturday and drive you to Jacobs-ville," he said. "Wear something elegant. It's formal."
"I won't go," she said through her teeth.
"You'll go," he replied with chilling certainty.
He turned and walked to his own car with her glaring after him. Well, they'd just see about that! she told herself.
It was barely a week until Christmas. Tira had the party for the children to look forward to on Christmas Eve, to help her feel some Christmas spirit. She had an artificial tree that she set up in her living room every year. She'd have loved a real one, with its own dirt ball so that it could be set out in the yard after the holidays, but she was violently allergic to fir trees of any kind. The expensive artificial tree was very authentic-looking and once she decorated it, it could have fooled an expert at a distance.
She had a collection of faux gold-plated cherubs and elegant gold foil ribbons to use for decorations, along with gold and silver bead strands and fairy lights. For whimsy, there were a few mechanical ornaments scattered deep within the limbs, which could be activated by the touch of a finger. She had a red-and-white latch-hook rug that went around the base of the tree, and around that was a Lionel "O" scale train set—the one she'd seen in the window of the department store that day she'd come across Simon on the sidewalk. She'd gone back and bought the train, and now she enjoyed watching it run. It only lacked one or two little lighted buildings to go beside it. Those, she reasoned, she could add later.
She stood back and admired her handiwork. She was wearing a gold-and-white caftan that echoed the color scheme of the tree, especially with her hair loose. It was Saturday, but she wasn't going to the Hart party. In fact, when Simon rang the doorbell, he wasn't going to get into the house. She felt very smug about the ease with which she'd avoided him.
"Very nice," came a deep, amused voice from behind her.
She whirled and found Simon, in evening clothing, watching her from the doorway.
"How...how did you get in?" she gasped.
"Mrs. Lester kindly left the back door unlocked for me," he mused. "I told her that we were going out and that you'd probably forget. She's very obliging. A real romantic, Mrs. Lester."
"I'll fire her Monday the minute she gets back from her sister's!" she snarled.
"No, you won't. She's a treasure." She swept back her hair. "I'm not going to Jacobsville!"
"You are," he said. "Either you get dressed, or I dress you." "Ha!" She folded her arms across her chest and dared him to do his worst.
The prospect seemed to amuse him. He took her by the arm with his good hand and led her down the hall to her bedroom, opened the door, put her in and closed it behind them. He'd already been here, she could tell, because a white strapless evening gown was laid out on the bed, along with filmy underthings that matched it.
"You...you invaded my bedroom!" she raged. "Yes, I did. It was very educational. You don't dress like a siren at all. Most of your wardrobe seems to consist of cotton underthings and jeans and tank tops." He glanced at her. "I like that caftan you're wearing, but it's not quite appropriate for tonight's festivities."
"I'm not putting on that dress."
He chuckled softly. "You are. Sooner or later."
She started toward the door and found herself swept up against him, held firmly by that damned prosthesis that seemed to work every bit as well as the arm it had replaced.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised softly. "But you're going."
"I will...what are you...doing?"
She'd forgotten the front zip that kept the caftan on her. He released it with a minimum of fuss and the whole thing dropped to the floor, leaving her in her bare feet and nude except for her serviceable white briefs.
She gaped at him. He looked at her body with the appreciation of an artist, noting the creamy soft rise of her breasts with their tight rosy nipples and the supple curve of her waist that flared to rounded hips and long, elegant legs.
"Don't you...look at me!" she gasped, trying to cover herself.
His eyes met hers quizzically. "Don't you want me to?" he asked softly.
The question surprised her. She only stared at him, watching his gaze fall again to her nudity and sweep over it with pure delight. She shivered at the feel of his gaze.
"It's all right," he said gently, surprised by the way she was reacting. "I'm not even going to touch you. I promise."
She drew in a shaky breath, held close by one arm while his other hand traced along her flushed cheek and down to the corner of her tremulous mouth.
What an unexpected creature she was, he thought with some confusion. She was embarrassed, shy, even a little ashamed to stand here this way. She blushed like a girl. He knew that she couldn't be totally innocent, but her reaction was nothing like that of an experienced woman.
His fingers traced over her mouth and down the curve of her pulsating throat to her collarbone. They hesitated there and his gaze fell to her mouth.
The silence in the bedroom was like the silence in the eye of a hurricane. If she breathed the wrong way, it would break the spell, and he'd draw away. His fingers, even now, were hesitating at her collarbone and his mouth hovered above hers as if he couldn't quite decide what to do next.
She shivered, her own eyes lingering helplessly on the long, wide curve of his mouth.
He moved, just slightly, so that her body was completely against his, and he let her feel the slow burgeoning of his arousal. It shocked her. He saw the flush spread all over her high cheekbones.
"Tira," he said roughly, "tell me what you want."
"I don't...know," she whispered brokenly, searching his pale, glittering eyes. "I don't know!"
He felt her hips move, just a fraction, felt her body shift so that she was faintly arched toward him. "Don't you?" he whispered back. "Your body does. Shall I show you what it's asking me to
do?"
She couldn't manage words, but h
e didn't seem to need them. With a faint smile, he lifted his hand and spread it against her rib cage, slowly, torturously sliding it up until it was resting just at the underside of her taut breast. She shivered and caught her breath, her eyes wide and hungry and still frightened.
"It won't hurt," he whispered, and his hand moved up and over her nipple, softly caressing.
She clutched his shoulders and hid her face against him in a torment of shattered sensations, moaning sharply at the intimate touch.
He hesitated. "What's wrong?" he asked gently. His face nuzzled against her cheek, forcing her head back so that he could see her shocked, helpless submission. He touched her again, easing his fingers together over the hard nipple as he tugged at it gently. The look on her face made his whole body go rigid.
Her head went back. Her eyes closed. She shivered, biting her lip to keep from weeping, the pleasure was so overwhelming.
If she was shaken, so was he. It was relatively chaste love play, but she was already reacting as if his body was intimately moving on hers. Her response was as unexpected as it was flattering.
"Come here," he said with rough urgency, tugging her to the bed. He pulled her down with him on the coverlet beside her gown and shifted so that she was beneath him. His rapid heartbeat was causing him to shake even before he found her mouth with his and began to caress her intimately.
"Simon," she sobbed. But she was pulling, not pushing. Her mouth opened for him, her body rose as he caressed it with his hand and then with his open mouth. He suckled her, groaning when she shivered and cried out from the pleasure. He was in so deep that he couldn't have pulled back to save his own life. He'd never known an exchange so heated, so erotic. He wanted to do things to and with her that he'd never dreamed of doing to a woman in his life.
His mouth eased back onto hers and gentled her as his hand moved under the elastic at her hips and descended slowly. Her legs parted for him. She gasped as he began to touch her, sobbed, wept, clutched him. She was ready for him, and he'd barely begun.
Even while his head spun with delight, he knew that it was wrong. It was all wrong. He'd been too long without a woman and this was too fiery, too consuming, for a first time with her. He was going in headfirst and she wouldn't enjoy it. But he couldn't stop himself.
Books By Diana Palmer Page 194
