by Jo Goodman
"You know very well how it fastens," she said, bristling. "I am certain you have released a fair number of women from them."
"Flatterer," he said. "I'll turn my back and you can untie it, and it will be our secret. Then you can sit back and curl up in the corner of that couch. Who knows, you may even be able to sleep for a few hours. I am supposing you have not slept more than an hour here and there since Victor's accident."
"Well, I certainly cannot fall asleep here."
He ignored her objection. "I am turning my back."
Katy hesitated for all of five seconds. She wondered what it was about Logan Marshall that made her fall in with his most outrageous suggestions. Maybe he understood her too well, she thought unhappily. Perhaps he only suggested things she was halfway to thinking herself. The idea did not bear scrutiny.
The furtive rustling of all that fabric made Logan smile. He stirred Katy's tea and waited for her all-clear signal. "Much better," he told her when she finally let him turn around. She had drawn up her legs to one side and her head and shoulder rested against the back of the settee. "Would you like a blanket?"
"No. I told you I am not going to fall asleep here. How would I explain that to Michael?"
Logan gave Katy her tea. "Drink this." He sat down at the other end of the settee, turning slightly in her direction. "Why do you have to explain anything to Michael?"
"Because he is going to want to know why I wasn't there for the will reading."
"So tell him you were with—what was her name?"
"Jane. She was my dresser at the theatre."
"So tell him you were with Jane."
"Lies usually have a way of getting found out," she said. "Never mind. It's my problem, not yours. I don't know why I care about lying to Michael anyway. He is a—"
"Yes?"
"Nothing." Her weariness was going to make her say something she would regret. Katy vowed to be more cautious. She sipped her tea. "What did you put in this?" she asked, coming to attention.
Logan reached across the couch to steady Katy's saucer before she spilled her tea. His hand brushed hers. The contact was brief and light and powerful enough for Logan to feel the wanting as a burning just under the surface of his skin. He withdrew his hand more quickly than he meant to. "What does it taste like?" he asked, striving for lightness.
"Whiskey."
"That's what it is."
Katy set her saucer down and wrapped her hands around the dainty, gold-rimmed cup. The warmth of the cup did nothing to lessen the tingling in her fingers. She told herself it was the whiskey. Any other explanation was unacceptable. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked, eyeing Logan suspiciously.
"No." He raked his dark hair and loosened a few buttons on his black swallow-tailed coat. It parted, revealing a black sateen vest and pristine white shirtfront. "I was hoping it would help you relax," he said, picking up a snifter of brandy. "I am not trying to seduce you, Katy. I respect your loss. Victor was a friend of this family, remember?"
She nodded, raising her cup. "I'm sorry. I hardly know what I am doing or saying these days. The accident was such a shock, and then Dr. Turner told me..." Not realizing she had Logan's absolute attention, she let her voice drift off and drank more tea.
He waited as long as he could to hear the rest of her sentence. "You were saying?" he asked casually.
"Oh... I don't know if I should." Katy shrugged, her eyes filled with misery. "I don't suppose it matters anymore. Dr. Turner was Victor's doctor, you see, and he came to see me after he heard about Victor's accident... well, actually he came to see Michael and me together and told us,"—she took a steadying breath—"told us that Victor was dying of cancer."
"Oh, Katy." Logan did not know what else to say. Her pain was very real to him.
"He says Victor would have been fortunate to live a full year. I think Victor was in some pain, but he would never talk to me about it. He never said a word that there was anything seriously wrong with him, never hinted at it. I cannot help but think that I failed him, that I should have somehow known. He gave me so much, Logan. I never gave enough back."
Tears dripped silently from her dark, luminous eyes. Logan did not dare touch her for fear of betraying some emotion other than sympathy. "Your handkerchief," he said, pointing to where she had tucked it in the tight sleeve of her black mourning gown.
Katy looked away, withdrew the fine linen square, and pressed one corner to her eyes to stem the flow. "I don't know why I am telling you any of this," she said brokenly. "Victor should be here listening to me. He is the one I want here now, not you."
Logan's slumberous, heavy-lidded eyes hid what he felt in that moment. He remained immobile at his end of the settee, still as stone.
Finishing her tea, Katy set down her cup. "I should go," she said, staring at her hands. The handkerchief was a knotted, useless ball now. She stood and wavered slightly on her feet. Logan was at her side immediately. He helped her sit down, ignoring her objections when he put her feet on the settee and took off her shoes.
"There," he said, placing a cream wool blanket over her. He gave her a decorative throw pillow. "For your head."
"This really is not necessary," she said.
Logan stared at her, waiting. He did not change his stance until she was lying down, then he tucked the blanket around her. "When was the last time you ate? And if you have to think about it, it was too long ago."
"It was too long ago then," she murmured. Her eyelids fluttered. She fought to keep them open. "I don't want anything to eat."
"You didn't want to go to sleep earlier either."
"I am not going to sleep," she said. "Just resting."
"Of course." Logan stood over Katy, watching her. He looked at the delicate whorl of her ear and the feathered arc of her brow. Her skin was pale, still marked in places with tears, and her lashes were spiked. His cool gray eyes followed the line of her nose and rested briefly on her splendidly sculpted mouth. He looked away then, and after a few minutes, he walked quietly from the room.
* * *
"Where the hell was she?" Michael paced the floor at the foot of his wife's bed. Once he grabbed one of the corner posts and rattled it so the entire bed shook. "Where the hell is she? Did she say something to you before she went to the funeral?"
"Nothing," Ria whispered. Realizing that Michael had not heard her, she repeated herself more loudly. "We did not talk at all today. She came to see me last night, but she never mentioned any plans for this evening."
"Did she talk about the will?"
"No! She talked about Victor. She is taking his death hard, Michael. She loved your father."
"My father left her half of everything! Half!" He spun on his heel, his face taut with rage. His eyes were like splinters of glass. "At the worst I expected he would leave her a third. A quarter seemed likely. But half! He was out of his mind. My father was absolutely out of his mind!"
Ria brushed a wisp of hair away from her mouth. Her dark emerald eyes appealed to her husband. "Have some pity, Michael. Can you not feel for what was happening to your father? Dr. Turner told you Victor knew he was going to die. I know what he must have thought, what he must have felt."
"Stop it, Ria. You are not going to die. You are going to have a baby. Stop comparing your situation to Father's. It is not the same thing at all."
She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw things. What she did was swallow all the hurt and pressed the pillow more tightly against her swollen breasts.
Michael was not watching his wife. He was staring at the floor, his hands jammed in the pockets of his bed jacket, and he was tasting the flavor of something Ria had said in his mind. "The cancer," he said softly. "It stands to reason he was scared, that he would not be thinking clearly when he made the will..."
"What are you saying, Michael?"
But Michael did not hear Ria. He walked to his own bedroom and began dressing. He would wait for Katy, he decided. If she returned tonight or tomorrow, he'd
be waiting. The sooner she understood that he held the upper hand, the better.
* * *
Reaching across the bed for Victor, Katy's hand found nothing but a pillow. She sat up with a start, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. It was a horrible, chilling realization to know that Victor would never be within her reach again.
Slowly her hands dropped away from her face. She lifted her head and looked around, the unfamiliarity of the setting making her uneasy.
Still groggy with sleep, it took her several moments to recall that she had been with Logan after the funeral and that she had never left Marshall House. She had a dim recollection of sitting in the parlor with him and an even dimmer memory of protesting while he was carrying her out of the room. Obviously he had not cared about her objections, because she was in one of the Marshall House bedrooms now, sitting in one of the Marshall House beds, and wearing something that belonged to a Marshall House woman. She sighed, plucking at the sleeves of her voluminous nightshift. Logan was a force to be reckoned with.
As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Katy could make out the room's sparse appointments. There was a corner brick fireplace, a large cherry wood wardrobe with brass handles, a ladder-back chair on the left side of the bed, and an oval table on the right. The table held a washing basin, a pitcher, and several towels.
Katy put her legs over the side of the bed, resting her heels on the frame. Her hands cradled her head and her fingertips pressed against her temples. The raging headache she had had earlier was now a dull ache. Feeling stronger, Katy stood up and went immediately to the wardrobe. She was relieved to find her clothes. She left them there and returned to the bedside, where she poured water into the basin and washed her face. Her eyelids were tender and faintly swollen from crying. She drenched one of the cloths with cold water, folded it, and held it over her eyes for a few minutes. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed out the hour. Katy counted three.
She swore softly. It seemed impossible that she could have slept so long or so deeply. If she had not reached for Victor, she might well have spent the entire night in Logan's home. It did not bear thinking what Michael would do if he ever found out.
Katy dropped the washcloth and patted her face dry. Still holding the towel, she moved to the bedroom's sole window and parted the heavy velvet drapes. Fifth Avenue was quiet. A cat strayed into the circle of lamplight on the corner and leaped away again. A closed carriage moved slowly down the street. The driver's chin rested on his chest and his head bobbed with the motion of the carriage. Katy smiled to herself, realizing the man was sleeping. She hoped the horse knew the way.
Dropping the drape, Katy turned away, still smiling.
Logan was standing just inside the bedroom, one hand on the doorknob. His hair was tousled and though his eyelids seemed heavy with sleep, there was a certain watchfulness about him. He was wearing a quilted robe tied loosely at his waist. The satin looked cool against his skin, and the color was the same pewter gray as his eyes.
"I heard you moving around," he said. "My room is just next door."
"I am sorry I disturbed you."
Logan's hand dropped away from the doorknob, and he took a step further into the room, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his robe. His eyes slid over her quickly, assuring himself that she was all right. The nightgown he had pilfered for her from one of the maids was yards too big everywhere but in the length. The hem just reached the top of her ankles. Her bare toes played with the fringed border of the large area rug. Her gown's scooped neckline was too generous for Katy's shoulders and the soft cotton fabric rested precariously at the edge of her left shoulder.
"Is there something I can get for you?" he asked, his voice husky from sleep.
A carriage, she should have said. But instead she looked at Logan helplessly, willing him to understand what she could not put into words. Loneliness was a powerful ache inside her. "I woke up looking for Victor," she said.
Invisible pressure squeezed Logan's chest. The heaviness inside of him made it difficult to breathe. "That will probably happen for a long time to come. It's natural that you are going to miss him, especially in bed."
Katy looked away, hugging herself. The room was not the least cold, and yet she was chilled to the marrow of her bones. "Is that why I want..."
Logan waited. The air was very still. The question she could not finish hung between them.
"I loved him," she said finally, softly. "So why do I want... why..."
Crossing the room, Logan stood in front of her. He applied just enough pressure against her chin with his fingertips to get her to look at him. "What is it you want, Katy?" he asked.
She stared at him. His hand was warm against the side of her face. Her eyes dropped to his mouth and stayed there. "I want to feel alive again."
"You will," he said. His fingertips trailed down her cheek and throat. His thumb rested in the delicate hollow of her throat. He remembered when his mouth had touched her there. He remembered the salty-sweet taste of her skin, the fragrance that was uniquely her own. "This is not the right..."
"Take me to bed, Logan." Her arms circled his neck as he lifted her.
"You will hate yourself for this," he told her.
"Probably."
He bent his head and caught her lips with his. The contact was brief, a mere promise. As he lowered her to the bed, the edge of her shift finally fell over her shoulder. "I have been waiting for that since I walked in here." His mouth skimmed the line of her collarbone as he stretched out beside Katy. Her skin was cool. He heard her indrawn breath when his tongue touched her. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Touch me again."
He did. Raising himself slightly, Logan touched the downy soft skin of her temple with his mouth. Her pulse beat lightly against his lips. It made him smile. "Undo your hair," he said.
Katy took the pins from her hair, never once looking away from Logan. It seemed that he could hold her immobile with those eyes of his. They were like hot liquid silver in the dimly lit room. She dropped the pins over the side of the bed and closed her eyes as Logan's hands slid under her head. He cradled her briefly in the palm of his hands. "Look at me, Katy. I want to see your eyes when I touch you."
Her eyes fluttered opened. Logan combed out her hair with his fingertips so that it spilled over her bare shoulder. "Milk and honey," he said, looking at her hair against the pale cream of her complexion. The silky strands slid off the curve of her shoulder and lay against the pillow. Logan's forefinger trailed from her ear to her neck, paused, then went lower until it met the neckline of her nightshift. He traced the edge slowly, dipping just below it on his second pass. "I think we should get you out of this," he said. "But first..." His mouth lowered over hers, finally delivering on the earlier promise.
Katy's lips parted as she matched Logan's hunger. Her mouth was warm and inviting and accepting. The kiss he slanted across her mouth made her rise up to meet his body. She felt herself straining against him, trying to touch him with her breasts and stomach and thighs. Her hands circled him and her nails made a little rasping sound as they scraped across the slippery satin of his robe. She knew he was not wearing anything beneath it, had known it when he first stepped into her room. It had not occurred to her to tell him to leave. Perhaps even then she had known what she wanted from him.
One of her feet nudged aside the hem of his robe. Hiking up the length of her gown, Katy was able to feel his bare calf against hers. Their knees bumped. Logan's legs parted, trapping one of Katy's between them. She whimpered with frustration.
The tiny sound made Logan's heart race. He murmured Katy's name as he tugged on her lower lip. His tongue slipped inside her mouth and rubbed the soft underside of her lip. It swept the ridge of her teeth and clashed intimately with her tongue. She broke the kiss, breathing shallowly, and pressed quick, tasting kisses along his jaw and at the corners of his mouth. A moment later she was deepening the kiss, pressing into his mouth, re
peating his earlier motions. Her fingers traced the velvet lapels of his robe, making him want the feel of her against his skin. He held his breath when her hands slipped between them and found the sash of his robe.
She pulled at it, untying it. Her hands slid up his smooth, warm skin and eased the robe off his shoulders. He sat up long enough to shrug out of the robe, then lay beside her, partially covering her with his body. She could feel the hardness of him pressing against her belly. She moved, adjusting her position so that her thighs cradled him. This time it was Logan who moaned, frustrated by the barrier of Katy's nightgown. His hips ground against hers. He was somewhere between feeling relieved and feeling tortured. Turnabout was fair play.
Logan's hand smoothed Katy's shift over her breast. His thumb passed back and forth across the tip, feeling the nipple harden. When he heard her tiny sound of pleasure, he shifted his attention to her other breast, then he bent his head and circled her nipple with his mouth. His tongue laved the fabric, wetting it, and he suckled her between his lips.
It was maddening. The feel of his mouth, the wet cloth against her breast, the ridge of his teeth, all of it was maddening. Katy had not meant for Logan to take time with her. She had wanted him close, quick, and fierce. She would not have cared if he had hurt her. It may even have been preferable to what he was doing to her now, a fitting punishment for betraying Victor. Surely she would be damned for letting this man have her now, for wanting this man to have her, and for finding pleasure in the touch of his hands and the caress of his mouth.
"Please, Logan," she said on a thread of sound. Her fingers tugged on the dark hair at the nape of his neck. "Hurry. Don't make me—" She bit her lip and swallowed her words and the urgent, throaty murmurings that he was creating in her.
But Logan would not be hurried. He never said it in so many words; he showed her in the lengthy exploration he made of her ear, tracing the whorl with his tongue and whispering her name so reverently that it could have been a prayer. He kissed her closed eyes, her cheeks, and found the hollow of her throat with his mouth. Her shift was removed in precise increments as Logan built excitement and savored anticipation. In the end she was the one who pulled it over her head. His deep chuckle sent a frisson of heat down her spine.
