Betrayal

by Christina Dodd

  It was almost time.

  He was getting so he knew without even looking.

  His watch alarm went off. Three thirty-seven p.m.

  Eight days left.

  He licked the salt, shot the tequila, and bit the lime. And shuddered. To Penelope he said, “Arianna Marino knows everything that goes on in this valley.”

  Penelope nodded. “I know. I came here to stay because it was cheap, and I knew the place, and I knew I would be safe.” She laughed, and her laughter cracked in the middle. “But wherever I go, there I am.”

  Chapter 47

  Noah didn’t know how Primo did it, but somehow, without moving from behind the bar, he stage-directed a fight between the vineyard workers and the orchard workers. The ruckus began quietly, and Penelope paid no attention to anything but her liquor. The argument became an uproar; then, with the suddenness of a summer storm, fists and chairs were flying. A single punch sent one worker slamming into Penelope’s barstool as she hunched over the bar.

  She turned, and for a moment, Noah thought she was going to launch herself into the fight.

  Primo gave a roar, vaulted the bar, lowered his head, and rushed the crowd.

  Drinkers fled before him.

  Noah grabbed Penelope’s arm and hustled her out the door.

  They stepped out into late-afternoon sunshine.

  Penelope blinked and staggered.

  Noah caught her, steadied her. “Come on; I’ll walk you to your room.”

  She looked at him sideways. “What’s the matter? Afraid if you don’t I’ll go back to the bar?”

  “Afraid you’ll fall on your face.”

  “Did you not see how Primo was watering my drinks? I’m only tipsy.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “And I wanted to be roaring drunk. Number fourteen.” She pointed at the grimy white door not far from the office.

  “Why?” He guided her across the parking lot.

  “Why number fourteen? Because Primo put me in… Oh. Why do I want to be drunk?” She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “It’s an anniversary.”

  “Your anniversary.” Her wedding anniversary.

  Noah hadn’t realized her grief for her husband was so fresh. So real. Sunday, when he’d dragged her out of Nonna’s house and enjoyed her body, and she had responded… she’d been using him as a substitute.

  Wow. That would teach him to imagine stuff about soul mates and eternal love.

  “Which anniversary?” he asked.

  “The first.”

  He thought he’d misunderstood her. Or she’d misunderstood him. Or… something. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  As Penelope used her key card to open the door, he followed her inside. The minuscule room contained a dresser and a queen-size bed, and two of the ugliest lamps he’d ever had the bad fortune to see. But at least the furniture covered most of the hideous carpet.

  He’d been inside a room at the Sweet Dreams Hotel one time, the same day he’d told Penelope he no longer wanted her and she’d left with her mother. He’d come to the Beaver Inn looking for a fight, and when the bartender refused to serve him—he was still underage—he’d gotten belligerent. By the time the bouncers hauled him out of there, he was covered with bruises and contusions, and Arianna Marino said she wasn’t sending him back to his grandmother in such disgraceful shape. She’d slapped a steak on his swollen-shut eye, shoved him in a motel room, and told him no one would ever know if he cried.

  No one ever did.

  Now he barely stopped himself from saying, again, that he would get Penelope a room at the Bella Terra resort.

  She must have known what he was thinking, because she said, “I can afford this. Okay?”

  “Right. I understand.” He did. She had her pride.

  He had his pride, too. Or at least, he should have his pride. He should care if she used him as a sexual substitute for her beloved husband.

  One lousy shot of tequila, and the sleazy motel room was looking good… because Penelope was in it.

  He had to get out of here. “Are you going to be all right now?”

  “All right?” She stood swaying, staring at nothing. “No. I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again.”

  Uh-oh.

  In a sudden movement, she stepped to the bed, gripped the comforter, and threw it down on the floor. “As long as you had to come and interfere with my well-deserved drinking binge, why don’t you make yourself useful?”

  “Like… how?” He could think of only one way: using the bed. But he was a guy with a one-track mind. When it came to women, he was usually wrong about… well, everything.

  But when she grabbed his shirtfront, he knew he wasn’t wrong about this.

  “Make me forget,” she said. Her wide brown eyes were sorrowful, but mostly… they were angry. Angry at him? No, angry at life for dealing her such a lousy hand.

  He understood that all too well. “I can’t. I shouldn’t.” God, he sounded coy.

  But he really shouldn’t.

  “What? You shouldn’t take advantage of a woman who’s been drinking? You shouldn’t take advantage of a woman in mourning? Or you just don’t want to start it up between us again?” She dug her fingernails into his shirt, into his flesh. “Because I’ll tell you, Noah, the thing I remember best about you is that you were good in bed. And the other thing I remember is… after dumping me like that, you owe me. And you know it.”

  He did owe her. Nine years ago he had treated her like hell.

  But this… this was wrong. She was tipsy. She was in pain. If they had sex, tomorrow she would be sorry.…

  Maybe.

  But worse… he would enjoy it. He would revel in it. Whatever he did with her now would be the most wonderful moment—moments—of his lousy, worthless, miserable life. Sex with Penelope would be no sacrifice, and that was the only way he could justify rolling around on the bed naked.…

  He had to think of something else.

  Her pleading eyes? Her rosy cheeks? Her luscious body pressed so tightly against his?

  He was hard, ready, and in agony.

  And apparently, she decided he had thought about it long enough. Standing on her tiptoes, she took his lower lip between her teeth and bit. Hard.

  Chapter 48

  Restraint shattered. Well-intentioned thoughts died. The only emotions left were lust and need, and they took command.

  Noah picked Penelope up and tossed her on the bed.

  The hard, cheap mattress bounced beneath her.

  She smiled, her objective achieved.

  She kicked off her sandals. They arched through the air and smacked the wall.

  He reached for his belt.

  She sat up and pulled her shirt over her head.

  He saw the warm, soft swell of her breasts above the constriction of her bra—and his damned zipper couldn’t open fast enough.

  Penelope seemed to be having no trouble with her zipper. It slid right down. She kicked off her pants.

  Her rose cotton bikini panties wrapped her lush hips, her waist so tiny he could span it with his hands. And he forgot about his jeans, still clinging to his hips. He forgot about his shirt, his shoes, the removal of which were necessary for normal, naked sex.

  Instead, he reached out with wondering fingers to stroke her hourglass profile. Then, like a boy, he grabbed the front clasp of her bra and popped it open.

  Her breasts sprang free, beautifully round, creamy, and full, with taut brown nipples that pointed at him. Beckoned him. He cupped the richness, marveling at the velvety texture.…

  She shoved his greedy hands out of the way. She pushed his jeans and underwear down to drop around his ankles.

  His dick stood at attention, erect and ready to serve.

  “Perfect,” she whispered.

  Vaguely the idea floated through his mind that this was too fast, too violent.

  Then she cupped his balls with one hand, held his erection at the base,
leaned forward, and took him into her mouth.

  One flick of her wet tongue zapped hot lightning on the tip of his dick. Electricity arced through him. For one mindless moment, he almost… almost came. Then he caught a strand of her hair and tugged.

  She let him go and looked up, her big eyes wild and hungry.

  “If you want satisfaction, you’d better stop now.”

  She slid backward on the mattress and opened her arms—and legs.

  He didn’t fling himself on her. Not quite.

  He didn’t devour her. Not quite.

  But he was on top of her immediately, mouth open, licking, tasting, kissing, sucking.…

  She was as frantic as he, as needy, as voracious. She kissed his shoulder, then his chest. She ran her hands down his spine. She caressed his butt before pulling him closer to her, so his dick pressed against her belly, and she undulated against him in an ordeal of pleasure.

  They were sideways on the bed. Her bra still hung off her shoulders. He still wore his turtleneck T-shirt, and his jeans and underwear hung off his ankles.

  Neither of them cared.

  His blood thundered in his veins.

  Her breath panted against his skin.

  They grappled in absolute silence, as if every ounce of energy needed to be spent in this living moment, this now.

  Now.

  He reached between her legs, opened her. She was damp, ready.

  And he needed a condom. He needed a condom. Where was his condom?

  He carried a condom. Always.

  But… the condom was in his wallet. His wallet was in his jeans. His jeans were around his ankles.

  Like a teenage boy taking his first shot at sex, he writhed, groped, and fumbled, located the wallet, opened it.

  The condom’s gold plastic package and the black leather of his wallet had formed some kind of bond, and he had to wrestle the package out, furious with the delay and growing more desperate by the moment.

  While his trembling hands worked feverishly, Penelope stroked his hip, slid her fingers across his stomach, explored his balls with her cupped hand.

  She was not helping. And she knew it.

  At last the condom popped free.

  He forcefully tore the package open.

  She helped him don the sheath.

  Finally… he slowed down. For just a second. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to ease inside.…

  Ease… inside…

  As he slid home, they groaned in unison.

  Nothing in his life had ever felt as good as being joined with Penelope. It was desire incarnate. It was a reunion. It was a love story fulfilled.

  He looked into her face.

  Her long lashes were damp, her brown eyes swimming with tears.

  Anxiously, he smoothed her hair back from her face.

  She whispered, “Have you ever had something feel so good it makes you cry?”

  He nodded. Right now. But he couldn’t speak.

  “Please.” She flexed her muscles inside. “Hurry.”

  That was all he needed.

  He moved out and in. Out and in. And then—they were thrusting together, fierce with need. Lust rioted along his nerves. He held her tightly, trying to meld the two into one. Her scent mixed with his, forming a perfume heady and rich.

  She wrapped her legs around him, digging her heels into his thighs, demanding more.

  He slid his hands under her bottom, lifting her higher, getting farther inside her. All the way inside her… and it would never be far enough.

  Every primitive instinct in him insisted that he possess her, imprint himself on her.

  She yielded, softened, gave him everything she had.

  Their sex was brilliant, swift, powerful, bright, primal.

  As she climaxed, her hoarse cries echoed in his ears. Her body bonded with his. She demanded.

  And he gave, a violent orgasm totally out of his control, come spurting from him in hot jolts as he drove inside her again and again.

  This was mating, a bondage for them both. Forever. An eternity.

  Slowly, the agony of pleasure eased.

  Little by little, the ferocious tumult came to a stop.

  He was gasping, sweating, collapsing with exhaustion. He eased his weight on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, wanting never to let the moment end.

  Still totally attuned to her, he listened to her breathing. Heard the first hitch. He embraced her, held her, remembering those tears as they joined. Heard another hitch. Felt her body shake beneath his. He slid his hands under her head. The sheet beneath her head was damp… with her tears.

  “I know I’m a selfish shit and maybe I’m flattering myself,” he said, “but this isn’t about what just happened between you and me, is it?”

  She shook her head.

  Thank God. Still cradling her, he said, “Then you need someone to talk to, and you know you can trust me. Please, Penelope. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She was crying now in earnest. “Today’s the first anniversary of my baby’s death.”

  Chapter 49

  Noah’s heart stopped. He slowly came up on his elbow.

  No wonder Penelope had fallen apart today.

  Her husband. Her mother. And her baby?

  Penelope didn’t seem to be crying, yet tears slid down her cheeks in a soft, steady stream, as if so many tears had gone before they knew the way.

  He toed his shoes off, kicked his pants off his ankles, strove to be less a beast of instinct and more a man with a modicum of sensitivity. Leaning over her, he stroked the hair back from her fragile face. “Tell me.”

  “When Keith was killed, I was pregnant, six months along. His death… It was a shock.” She put her hand over her heart as if to contain the ache. “Some poor trucker had a heart attack, crossed the white line, hit him head-on. The trucker survived. Sent me flowers and a letter of apology from his hospital bed.” She shivered. “Reading that was the most awful… He felt horrible. He said if he could do it over, he’d rather be the one who died than my young husband.”

  “I’m sure he meant it.”

  “I’m sure he did.” She stared fixedly at the ceiling, not acknowledging Noah at all. But she didn’t move away from him, either. “My father-in-law is a lawyer. He wanted to sue the trucker, said it would give the baby security. I talked him out of it. Keith had some life insurance; we had a house; I had a job.… Suing was just Ronald’s knee-jerk reaction, some kind of male power-trip need to do something.”

  Since Noah was experiencing a male power-trip need to do something to help her, he could understand.

  “Keith was a good guy. He had gone against his parents’ wishes to marry me. Me, a girl from the L.A. ghettos, part Hispanic, illegitimate, with no lengthy family history that reached back to the first settlers of Cincinnati. We were happy. His parents were not, although once I got pregnant they settled down a little. We were eager to have a family. Mind you, Keith and I weren’t violently in love, but I’d done that once before and—” She stopped in midsentence.

  “Once was enough?” Noah suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  Noah thought that while Penelope might not have been violently in love, any guy who married someone so different from him probably had it bad for her. But he wasn’t going to say that. “You got the bad news about Keith and…?”

  She shivered. “I was afraid for the baby. I mean, how does such a fragile being survive the storm of grief and shock I experienced? But my ob-gyn reassured me, and showed me that the baby was fine, safe inside me. I arranged Keith’s funeral, dealt with my mother-in-law’s hysteria—”

  “He was an only child?”

  “Yes, and Barbara’s grief far overwhelmed mine.” Penelope’s mouth twitched in what could have been an ironic smile. “My mother… my mother couldn’t come to the funeral. She said it was because Mrs. Walters was ill and demanding. I should have realized.… She knew I needed her. She was always there when I needed her. I should have re
alized… But it never occurred to me how wrong it was that she didn’t come.” Penelope shivered again, and goose bumps sprang up on her skin. “I hadn’t ever found out about the first occurrence of breast cancer. Still…”

  “You were in shock.” Noah helped Penelope to sit up, turned her so the head of the bed was at her back, put pillows under her for support. “There was no way for you to know, and anyway, what could you have done differently?”

  “Nothing.” Her skin was chilled. “I guess nothing.”

  Noah brought the covers up from the foot of the bed, pulled them over her, brought her close to give her warmth.

  “We made it, my baby and me, through almost another two months. I could feel her move every day. I worried about stuff, mostly about Barbara obsessively trying to take over my child. I planned ways to combat her influence. I talked to my mom about moving to Portland, but she didn’t sound too enthused.” A frown knit Penelope’s forehead into little wrinkles that looked partially like unhappiness, but more like bewilderment. “She sort of hurt my feelings.”

  “You didn’t know what was happening in her life.” He cradled Penelope’s head in his arm, watching her, gauging her distress as if he could do something to assist.

  There was nothing. In the face of such grief, he was powerless.

  “I don’t know what she was thinking.” Even now, Penelope sounded baffled. “Things were going badly with her treatment. I was going to find out soon enough, so why not tell me?”

  “Because you’d suffered a horrible shock and you were pregnant. And maybe she hoped for a miracle?”

  “Yes. That sounds like my mother. After all, she’d managed to raise me and put me through college, and fight cancer one other time. She believed in miracles.” Penelope paused as if remembering her mother. “She said—and she was right—that financially I couldn’t make it if I moved to Portland. The housing market was bad and getting worse every day. If I sold, I was going to lose money, a lot of money. Plus, it would have been a gamble to give up the security I had with my firm. And let’s not even talk about the nightmare with insurance. Without Keith, I was on my own. I had to support myself and the baby. I mean… on my own unless I wanted to take money from my in-laws, which I did not, because—”