Aftershocks

by Catherine Coulter

  "I was wondering how you would.. .taste."

  He stared at her an instant, then felt himself responding as if she had been loving him. "I'm sorry I asked," he said in a ragged voice.

  "And I am glad." George pressed upward, drawing him deeply into her.

  He made love to her again, even more slowly this time, pacing both of them, until finally she buried her face into his throat and moaned her climax.

  "How nice," he said, kissing her temple. But George was asleep.

  When Elliot woke the next morning, George was gone. There was a note propped up by the coffeepot. "I'll miss you. Beware the phantom towel. George."

  Chapter 7

  The Saturday night air was damp and chilly, though the San Francisco fog did not reach as far south as the airport. Elliot steered the Jaguar smoothly into a parking space close to the airport elevators. The parking garage was as empty as it ever got; it was nearly midnight. He smiled to himself as he pictured George's surprise at seeing him. She had called him once from New York and they had made plans to go sailing on Sunday. He really hadn't intended to come pick her up, but the evening had seemed long and empty, as had the entire week.

  He walked through the airport, checked the arrivals board and made his way to the gate. For once, the plane was on time. He stepped back as the passengers came into the waiting area, and paused a moment when he saw George, filling his eyes with her. Her hair was pulled away from her face and fastened with a clip at the back of her neck. She was wearing a burgundy wool pantsuit, every bit as expensive as her Gucci boots, and she wore no makeup. She raised her head slightly, shifting her carry-on bag, and he saw the shadows beneath her tired eyes. She looked unutterably weary. She nearly walked past him.

  "George," he said softly.

  She turned toward the sound of his voice. Her incredible violet eyes widened at the sight of him, and for a moment she stood very still and simply stared at him. Almost miraculously, all signs of weariness disappeared from her face. Her eyes brightened, and he felt shaken at the naked joy in her gaze. Despite himself, he felt a surge of possessiveness.

  "Elliot!" She dropped her bag to the floor and flung herself into his arms. She laughed and hugged him, kissing his cheek, his nose, his chin, "What are you doing here? Oh, how marvelous! What a wonderful surprise!"

  Elliot closed his arms more tightly around her and lifted her off the floor. For a long moment, he simply held her against him, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair, feeling the soft yielding of her body against him.

  "A bloody long week, George," he said, and lowered his mouth to hers. He heard someone chuckle and drew back. Jesus, he thought, he was nearly thirty-eight years old, and here he was acting like a horny teenager in an airport! He made the mistake of looking into her eyes. No one, he thought, should have such expressive eyes. She was consuming him with that look, her longing so palpable that it stunned him. He patted her back awkwardly and leaned down to pick up her bag.

  "Do you have luggage?" he asked.

  "Yes, but only one bag," she said, her voice breathless. "The Braden-Tyrol folk provide my clothes for all the filming and even for my appearances. All I had to take was comfortable stuff, like jeans and my jogging shoes."

  He rucked her hand into his. "You look tired, George."

  "Perhaps, just a bit," she said, smiling up at him.

  "We'll sleep in tomorrow," he said.

  "I suppose your temperamental Jaguar is running tonight?" George asked, her eyes sparkling as she took a double step to keep stride with him.

  "Don't be a smart ass, lady, not when Fro saving you twenty-five bucks in taxi fare."

  She arched a perfect brow at him. "I'll just have to figure out a way to pay you back for all your trouble," she said blandly.

  Later, at home, as he pulled her against him and gently stroked her back to calm her, he felt her breath becoming even again and felt her heartbeat slow against his chest. He realized he felt utterly calm, at peace with himself and the world. It was frightening, frightening as hell.

  On the edge of sleep, George said vaguely, "I can't imagine still being alive after that. Will you always make me feel like I want to shout and cry and laugh all at the same time?"

  Always. "Yes," he said, and pulled her more tightly against him. No knee socks tonight, Elliot thought inconsequentially, as he listened to her breathing even into sleep. Her panty hose lay in a pile by the bed, her expensive clothes scattered beside them. He felt her fingers curl in the hair on his chest as she burrowed her face into his shoulder.

  "My houseplants," George said suddenly, coming half awake. "I hope Marty remembered to water them."

  Elliot laughed. "Anyone who cooks as well as Marty wouldn't forget," he told her. "Maybe she's even planted some cumin for you."

  "Jerk," George said vaguely, and promptly fell back into a deep dreamless sleep.

  They wouldn't be sailing that day, Elliot thought, when he woke up near eight o'clock the next morning. Sheets of rain streaked down the bedroom windows. He sat up when he saw George emerge from the bathroom, wearing one of his huge beach towels.

  She stopped a few feet away from the bed and smiled at him. "Even though your beard looks scratchy, I'll keep you."

  Elliot ran his hand over his jaw. "I always have an eight o'clock shadow." He didn't touch the blanket that had fallen below his waist. "What are you doing up so early, George?"

  "I'm going to make you a wonderful, high cholesterol breakfast, sir, since you are not only a very important person but also very sexy."

  He groaned, remembering vividly her only attempt at an omelette. "George," he said, "how did you survive before you met me?''

  "Well," she said, grinning angelically, "don't forget all the hot dogs and peanuts at the stadium."

  Elliot threw back the covers, stood up and stretched. He could feel her staring at him, and it pleased him that she admired his body.

  "Would you take a shower with me, Elliot? You never have before, you know."

  "But you've already showered."

  "I didn't use any soap."

  "I have created a monster," Elliot said thoughtfully, and lunged for her. He grabbed a corner of the towel, and she yelped and ran into the bathroom.

  "Can I wash you?" George asked when they stood pressed together under the shower.

  "Only at your own risk, sweetheart," he said.

  "Is that a promise?" she whispered, kissing his chin.

  Her soapy hands were wandering lazily down his chest. "Yes," he said.

  George was thorough. She started with his hair, then moved slowly down his body, scrubbing every inch in her wake. "Damn it," he growled finally, "We're going to run out of hot water, George!''

  She gave him an impish smile and slipped to her knees. She carressed him, as lightly as a butterfly's wings. He felt near to bursting when she finally reared back to rinse him. But still she didn't rise. He drew in his breath sharply, and waited.

  The tentative touch of her lips on him was like a bolt of liquid lightning, and his fingers clutched her wet hair.

  He felt her hands stroking his thighs, sweeping around to his buttocks. Suddenly, she released him, coughing, and sat back. "This is going to take a lot of practice." she said.

  "Come here, you tease," he growled, and pulled her to her feet. He lifted her. "Wrap your legs around me, George," he said.

  "Oh," George said as he eased inside her. "This is better than my fantasy," she whispered against his mouth.

  But he knew he couldn't pleasure her like this.

  "Before we drown, let's get out of here," he said. She laughed at the regret in his voice.

  It was close to noon before they made omelettes. "Is this enough cholesterol for you, sweetheart?"

  George eyed the beautiful creations regretfully. "Just a bit for me, Elliot. I've got to lose two pounds by next Wednesday."

  "What!" he thundered at her. "God, George, I can see your ribs sticking out from here!"

  "I know," she sa
id calmly, "but television adds a good ten to fifteen pounds."

  "So where are you going to lose it? Off your big toe?"

  "My breasts are too big. Do you know that they had me wearing a special bra that flattened me?"

  Elliot slapped some butter on his wheat toast. "Jesus," he said. "That's ridiculous."

  "I know," she said in the same calm voice, "but it's my choice of careers and I must obey the rules. Ben thought it was funny, said his wife wouldn't be so jealous of me anymore once she saw me looking as flat in front as in back."

  Elliot motioned irritably to the table. "Well, sit down and eat something."

  "The funny thing is," she continued, shaking her head as she sat down, "and I tried to tell the ad men this, I can't lose weight off my bosom. It comes off everyplace else, but not there."

  "You're bloody perfect just the way you are."

  "And you, my lord very important person, are prejudiced."

  "I am a bloody man, George, and I don't want you any skinnier." He thrust a piece of toast heaped with butter and honey at her. "Eat or it will be the worse for you."

  She laughed and obligingly bit into the toast, mentally calculating the calories.

  It stopped raining in the early afternoon and they went jogging on the beach near Seal Rock. George had a smooth gait, and Elliot discovered that she had no difficulty keeping up with him. They finally collapsed on a blanket Elliot had brought.

  "Elliot," George said, staring out over the gray waters of the Pacific, "tell me about your accountant. I'm not pleased with mine at the moment. He gave me some rather stupid advice on a high-risk tax shelter—oil drilling in Oklahoma—and I lost the last of my respect for his ability."

  "George," he said, laughter lurking in his voice, "I'm an old man who knows more about jogging than tax shelters."

  "Come on, Elliot. I saw several prospectuses in your study, and I—"

  "Aha," Elliot pounced. "You're worried that I'll lose my shirt!"

  George had the grace to blush. "Well, it is something that I'm quite good at, really. I honestly thought I wasn't natural when I went to college. I was terrible in biology and English and history. Then, three years ago, when I was finally making more than enough money to survive, I dabbled in the stock market and with excellent results." She flipped over on her stomach and rested her chin in her hands. "The one prospectus you have on the limited partnership for condominiums in Santa Barbara, well, that one sounds interesting and bears some looking into. Would you like me to study it for you?"

  For a moment, he only stared at her, remembering himself at twenty-three. He wouldn't have recognized a tax shelter if it had bitten him then. In fact, he wondered if tax shelters had even been invented then. He looked into her very serious and very beautiful face and said, "I suppose you've heard that doctors are notoriously naive with money?"

  "Well," she said fairly, "doctors have other things to worry about, and I'll bet you were excellent in biology."

  "Do you know how unusual you are, George? Other than your crazy name, that is."

  She shrugged. "Everyone has different talents, and, of course, I won't be a model all my life. Who knows what I'll be doing after I'm thirty?"

  "Maybe you'll be a madam at the Mustang Ranch."

  "But," George shot back, her eyes twinkling, "madams can't have sex, can they? That, I never want to give up!"

  He laughed and pulled her over against him. "Kiss me, madam," he said.

  "Only if you promise to let me study that prospectus for you."

  His eyes were on her soft mouth. "George," he said, smiling, "you can study anything you bloody well want to."

  "Does that include you?"

  "I am number one on the list." She lowered her mouth, for the first time the aggressor. "You are so beautiful," she breathed, nipping at his lower lip, then lightly gliding her tongue over his mouth. He felt her thigh press lightly into his groin and realized for the first time that they were on a public beach.

  "Damn," he muttered, and gently pushed her off him.

  She slanted a provocative look at him and, without conscious thought, ran her tongue over her lips. He groaned, and jumped to his feet. "Come on, George, before I throw you down on the wet sand and ravish you."

  "Come where?" she asked, rising to her knees.

  "Home to bed, of course."

  He sought to distract himself as they walked along the beach back toward the car.

  "Tell me about your week in New York."

  "Weil, you'll be seeing my face on the tube, probably the end of this next week. It's only a short ad, but you wouldn't believe the hours that went into making it."

  "Tell me about it. I know about as much about your work as you do mine."

  "Up at 5:50 A.M. and into makeup and wardrobe by 6:30. You see, the makeup has to highlight the particular outfit I'll be wearing, and the wardrobe man and makeup man enjoy arguing endlessly about whether or not my eye shadow should be purple or green. Then it's usually sit around and wait for the technicians and the director to get their act together. In this case, the wretched horse in the ad simply wouldn't cooperate. And then it rained."

  "And you evenings?" There was a slight edge to his voice that surprised him. Thankfully, George didn't seem to notice.

  "Parties. And smiling and drinking Perrier until I feel like I'm going to float away. At least there's Damien."

  "Who," Elliot asked carefully, "is Damien?"

  "A dear friend who also happens to own a very popular nightclub. I've known him for years."

  "George, you haven't lived for years!"

  "Well, about four years, then. He helped me when I was first breaking in."

  "But you never went to bed with him."

  She gave a small, secret smile. She said only, "No, I was waiting for you, you see. Oh, I forgot. I told Tod about you. Don't be surprised if he shows up on your doorstep, unannounced, and asks you all sorts of crazy questions about your intentions toward me and all that."

  "George, how old is this Damien?"

  "Damien Whyte is his name, and he's about thirty, I guess. Why?"

  "Just curious." But he wasn't; he was suddenly jealous and it appalled him.

  "Elliot," George asked suddenly, her voice light and bland, "what do you think of marriage?"

  "It's a necessary institution, I suppose," he said readily enough, though his thoughts were still whirling elsewhere.

  "Was your first marriage very unhappy?"

  "It's been along time, George," he said, "and to be perfectly honest, I don't remember all of it now. There were quite a few fights and upheavals. Elaine was a very emotional woman. I don't mean that in a negative sense, at least not now. Perhaps then I did. I was so bloody tired most of the time, and so involved with medicine, that the last thing I ever wanted was to argue with my wife. In hindsight, I suppose I simply withdrew from her, not really caring what she thought or did. The final straw for Elaine was when she told me she was pregnant. I remember that I just stared at her, thinking about the enormous responsibility of a child. After I got over the shock, it was too late. She'd had an abortion."

  "I'm sorry," George said, fiercely delighted that this Elaine was far away.

  "I was an ass, and I couldn't really blame her for walking out on me." He stopped suddenly. "God, I haven't thought about Elaine like that in years."

  "Then," she said, scuffing the toes of her sneakers in the sand, "you aren't really against marriage."

  "I like my life the way it is," he said.

  She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and gave him a winsome smile. "I do too,"

  "So what do you want me to say to your brother Tod?"

  "Tell him that you're the sexiest man in town and his sister has great taste and chased you until you collapsed in defeat."

  "The only time I've collapsed is with you under me!"

  "Perhaps," George said with great seriousness, "you had better not get that specific with Tod. He's so funny. He's quite a playboy, but he ex
pects me to be the cute little innocent sister."

  "Well, you are cute and little." And you're all of twenty-three, he wanted to tell her. The fifteen years that separated them couldn't be erased. He knew she was infatuated with him. He was her first lover. At least she would never forget him. He said abruptly, "There's a Thanksgiving party next week. Will you be in town?"

  She glanced at him in askance, but followed his lead. "Yes. Is it some kind of a doctors' party?"

  He nodded. "It's rather a tradition with David and Doris. Yes, all doctors and their wives. Actually, there are a couple of women doctors and their husbands."

  "And were you a couple in past years?"

  He grinned at the sharpness in her voice. "Yes, but fickle as hell, never the same woman twice, except for Eileen. This year all the men will likely trample me in a stampede to get near you."

  "Who is Eileen?"

  "Eileen Raeburn, an attorney here in town. Smart lady."

  "I see," George said. She lowered her lashes so he wouldn't see the jealousy in her eyes. "I look forward to seeing David and Doris again," she said. "You know what I'd like to do first?"

  "Something noncontroversial, I hope."

  "Oh yes. Since I'm going to meet all these doctors, I'd like to see them in their natural element first. I've only visited your office once, Elliot, but I've never seen your empire. Can I come and visit tomorrow?"

  "Why not?"

  He realized why not when he walked with George down the hospital corridor the following afternoon. Her casual jeans were gone, replaced with a gray wool dress, gray heels and elegant makeup. She looked as if she'd just stepped off a fashion page, utterly out of place in a hospital and too beautiful to be believed. It occurred to him that she had taken pains with her appearance to please him, to make him proud of her. He led her into his office first. "You remember Lisa Dickerson?"

  "Oh yes," George said brightly. "Hello. It's nice to see you again."

  "Miss Hathaway," Lisa said. "Dr. Mallory told us you would be visiting today. Everyone is anxious to meet you."

  "I'm sure," Elliot said dryly. "Why don't we start with the Nuclear Medicine section first, George?"