Less than seventy-two hours, a voice whispered in her head. That was how long—how little—she’d known him. Less than three days. Too soon to be kissing him like this. Too soon to be intimate.
Destiny doesn’t care about time. That voice was Glory’s, filled with laughter and life and always, always hope.
And Mama Odette’s: When it’s time for somethin’, it’s time. You can’t hurry it along, no more than you can stop it flat-out. That’s just the way it is, chile.
Her and Robbie. Right now. Just the way it was.
He drew back, taking a breath, and she did the same. They were both barefooted, their breathing loud and uneven in the quiet room. His pants hung low on his narrow hips, and her dress was unbuttoned to the waist. His lids were heavy, his dark eyes hazed, and tension knotted his muscles, giving him a deliciously aroused aura. She sensed that hers was the same.
Deliberately she undid the remaining buttons on her dress, shrugged and let it slide off her shoulders. She pulled his shirt off next, ruffling his hair, then gave his trousers the nudge they needed to fall to the floor. He kicked them aside and stood there in nothing but boxers, tented over his erection, his muscles long and lean and taut, his skin practically quivering with need.
The room darkened as the approaching storm blocked out the sun. The breeze was cool, stirred by the ceiling fan, and the air was heavy and close with anticipation. It crawled along her skin and made her hands unsteady as she opened the front clasp of her bra, then slid it loose, as she guided her beribboned cotton panties over her hips and let them fall.
His gaze dropped from hers, skimming over her body, leaving tingling in its wake, and he swallowed convulsively. His features were sharp, his control nearly gone, but he didn’t reach for her.
“It’s not too late,” she said. “You can walk away.” But, of course, he couldn’t, not today. Someday, he would. He would finish with her, and in a few months, maybe a year, he would fall in love with a woman of his own social class, his own race, and they would marry and have children and live a conventional wealthy, white Southerner life. But first, for at least a time—a few weeks, a few days or maybe just this hour or two—he would be Anamaria’s.
He swallowed again, and a shudder rippled along his muscles, then he stripped off his boxers. “The only walking I intend to do is to that bed. I’ve waited too long…”
Less than seventy-two hours. Though her seventy-two hours had really been a lifetime. Destiny.
She crossed to the nightstand, to the few items she’d unpacked there when she’d arrived, and pulled out a box of condoms. Her grandmothers and aunties taught their girls to be prepared, but it rarely seemed to matter. Duquesne women used every kind of birth control known to man and still conceived. When it’s time, it’s time. Powers greater than pharmaceuticals and barriers decreed when a Duquesne should be born. Still, telling Robbie now that condoms were no likelier to prevent pregnancy in her than the impending rain didn’t seem a good idea.
As she tore open the box, he moved to stand close behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders like feathers drifting onto grass. His fingers squeezed lightly, a gentle massage, and she closed her eyes, head tilted to one side, a soft satisfied groan escaping her.
He slid one arm around her middle, pulled her snug against him, and brought his mouth to her ear. “Concentrate, Anamaria. Open the box. Take out a condom. Give it to me so I can…”
The obscenity he whispered would have annoyed her any other time or from any other man, but at that moment, with its hard letters and soft sounds and its inherent naughtiness, it couldn’t have seemed more appropriate.
She ripped the box open and showered a dozen plastic-wrapped condoms on the night table. Robbie picked up one, but she caught his hand, prying his fingers open. “Mine.”
With her free hand, she pushed him back onto the bed, kneeling on the mattress beside him. He looked amazing, sprawled out, as relaxed as a breathtakingly aroused man could be. His arms and legs were long, muscular, powerful—impressive for a man whose idea of time well spent was in a fishing boat. Dark hair curled lightly across his chest, thickening as it moved down his body, and his arousal…
She smiled as she tore open the plastic and removed the latex inside. The plastic fluttered to the floor as she unrolled the condom over his erection, taking her time, stroking, petting, making him groan. Protection in place and sweat beading on his forehead, she knelt over him, taking him inside her, sliding slowly enough to make herself groan, to bring her own beads of sweat.
And then he was completely inside her, filling her, stretching her, completing her. Fate, destiny, broken heart—none of it mattered. Only one word came to her dazed mind.
Mine.
The storm came not long after they did, bringing cooler air and rain that fell in a deluge. Thunder shook the old house as lightning flashed through its windows, one moment revealing, the next throwing shadows. When the rain blew in through the west-facing windows, Robbie got up to close them, and the temperature immediately began to climb again.
When he returned to the bedroom, Anamaria was standing at one of the side windows that remained open, a sheet carelessly wrapped around her. It looped low in back, showing the long, elegant line of her spine and the beginning curve of her hip, and in front it revealed more of her breasts than it covered.
She was beautiful. Flawless. She looked like some sort of wanton African Greek goddess, her skin smooth and soft, her body perfect, her features erotic in their exoticness. There was an air of innocence about her, despite the tousled hair, the sweat drying on her skin and the wicked little smile that curved her mouth. Looking at her, he could see the sweet little girl from the picture, standing outside the church, wearing a gap-toothed grin and a pretty pink dress.
But it was the woman that little girl had become that made his mouth go dry and brought his erection back to life.
The woman he still couldn’t imagine in the everyday routine of his life.
She didn’t glance his way or give any sign that she knew he’d returned. “Mama and I liked the rain when I was little, but when it came down like this, so hard you can’t see ten feet, I always thought we would wash away into the river. And when it rained at night, I slept in Mama’s bed so that if we did wash away, at least we would wash away together.”
A look came across her face—surprise, confusion, sorrow. I don’t remember much about living here, she’d told him. Now she could add one more memory to the list. How many times had she feared they would wash away before her baby sister actually did? Had she felt guilty? Had she feared that, because she’d thought it, she’d caused it?
No wonder she’d locked away the past.
He went to her, wrapping his arms around her. Her skin was chilled and damp; so was the sheet. He pulled it more snugly around her, then shared his own heat with her. For a time she rested her head on his shoulder, flinching only slightly when the thunder and lightning came. The rain beat down the grass, and streams poured across the yard to empty into the ditches out front. The air outside was sweet and wet, and inside it was warm and smelled of cookies and perfume and sex.
Pretty damn good sex. Best he’d had in…
His jaw tightened. Better not to finish that thought. The best sex ever should mean something; it should be with a woman who was part of his life, not just for a week or two, but forever. The best sex ever should have something to do with love and commitment and belonging together, the two halves of a whole.
“You’re thinking too much.”
He realized that she’d turned her head to study him and wondered what she’d seen. That he was regretting that she wasn’t the woman he wanted? That he wasn’t the man she needed? He wanted someone who would meet all the expectations people would have of a woman in his life. She needed someone who didn’t give a damn about anyone’s expectations except their own. He wanted someone who cared about reputation, status and fitting in, and she needed someone who wanted only to fit into her life.
He wanted a different woman. She deserved a better man.
He swallowed a sigh and rested his chin against her hair. “Thinking too much. That’s something no one’s ever accused me of.”
“You’re the irresponsible one.”
“The shallow one,” he agreed. “The superficial one.”
“The one who cares about appearances.”
He did. He wasn’t proud of it, but he’d never denied it. Maybe it was some flaw inherent in him. Maybe it was because neither Rick nor Russ had ever cared what anyone besides their closest family and friends thought. Maybe Granddad and Grandmother and the snootiest of his relatives had influenced him too much, but he did care.
But in that selective we-are-special Calloway way. It had never mattered if everyone in town knew he’d drunk too much. It hadn’t meant a thing that they all knew he’d been reckless and wild and thought himself above the law for more years than youth could explain. It didn’t mean a damn thing if they knew he dated the wrong women. Dating was insignificant.
A serious relationship, marriage, children…those were damned significant. Those required the right woman.
He was shallow. Superficial. And a first-class bastard.
When his silence drew out, Anamaria’s muscles tensed, then relaxed again. She raised one hand to curve her fingers gently around his wrist. “Don’t worry. We Duquesne women are very good at keeping secrets.”
Her tone was calm, level, and it angered him. She shouldn’t be so accepting. She should kick his ass out the door—should have done that instead of touching him. But she didn’t, and he was damned grateful because he didn’t know if he could stay away.
Lightning struck nearby, the crack deafening, and the fan overhead whirred to a slow stop. Without electricity, the house went quiet except for the sounds of their breathing, hers settled, his harder to come by. His chest was tight, and so was his gut. He would give this month’s income for a cold beer or, better still, a shot of whiskey.
He might give his soul for two shots.
With her free hand, Anamaria traced the caulking that held the new windowpane in place. “Why would someone throw bricks through my windows?”
“Kids looking for fun.”
She gave him a wry look. “You call that fun?”
“When you’re young and stupid….” He shrugged. “You don’t think it was random?”
“No. It’s just a feeling…I know, you don’t believe in mumbo jumbo.”
No, but he believed in instinct and intuition, and he damn sure believed in stalkers. They’d almost lost Russ and Jamie to one the year before. “Why would someone target you?”
“Because of the questions I’m asking about my mother.”
“Her death was an accident, so there’s nothing to hide there. You think one of her boyfriends doesn’t want to be outed all these years later? Maybe the baby’s father?”
“Charlotte,” she murmured. “That was her name.”
Glory’s affairs and her baby’s life had ended more than two decades ago. Could it possibly matter now to Charlotte’s father if Anamaria discovered his identity? Robbie would like to think no, certainly not enough to resort to threats, but he knew better. If the man was married, if he was prominent, if he had family, yes, he might want his indiscretions to stay in the past. After all, Glory and Charlotte were dead. There was no payoff to his secret coming out now, just consequences.
And most people preferred to avoid consequences.
“It will be impossible to prove who fathered Charlotte,” he pointed out. “Your mother kept his identity secret, and there’s no DNA for comparison. Unless he’s willing to talk….” And if he was behind the bricks through the windows, that wasn’t likely.
She watched the rain, her expression distant. Her voice was distant, too, when she spoke. “People talked about Mama—women, mostly. They said she was easy, a tramp, a whore. They looked down on her for having us kids without a husband, and they looked down on her even more for letting Lillie and Jass live with their fathers. They said she was a bad mother.”
Her smile curled to life like a flower unfurling to the sun. “They couldn’t have been more wrong. She was funny and happy, and she loved everything. She played with me and sang songs and told me stories about all the Duquesnes who had already passed.”
“Do you remember any of the songs and stories?” Robbie asked quietly.
“I do.” Then the smile faded. “But Mama Odette and Auntie Lueena and Auntie Charise sang the same songs and told the same stories. I don’t know if my memories are of Mama or them.”
“Does it matter?”
Surprise raised her delicately arched brows. “How can it not matter?”
Gathering a handful of trailing sheet, he began maneuvering her backward to the bed. “The songs and stories are the same. You know Glory shared them with you. Does it matter if you remember them in her voice when, in fact, it might have been your grandmother’s or your aunt’s?” He nudged her onto her back, then unwrapped the sheet as if opening a holiday gift. But no Christmas present in thirty-two years could compare to the sight of Anamaria, naked and beautiful on her white cotton, lace and embroidered bed.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice suddenly breathy as he nuzzled her breast. “When you look back on this afternoon someday, will it matter if I’m in the picture, or will any woman do as well? After all, it’s the same act. You’ll know you had sex with me. Will it matter if you picture some pretty blue-eyed blonde in my place instead?”
Guilt twitched in his gut and between his shoulder blades, but he shoved it away, concentrating instead on her nipple, ripe and swollen and eager for his kiss. When he took it between his teeth, her breath caught, and when he sucked it hard, her fingers laced through his hair, holding his head.
He supported himself on one arm and slid his free hand over her rib cage, satiny skin stretched taut over bone, down to her belly, between her thighs. She opened to him, accepting his fingers, giving a soft keening cry as he slid first one, then another, inside her, as his thumb massaged that small nub of flesh.
He brought her to orgasm, grabbed a condom and did it again, reaching his own orgasm just when he thought the need would kill him. Need. Not wanting. When the shudders eased, he sank down to lie against her, his slick skin pressed to hers, his cheek resting on her shoulder. His heart pounded, and his muscles quivered, sending an occasional spasm through his entire body.
She held him, stroking him, her touches soothing now, comforting. And after a time, after he’d begun to recover, she spoke once again in that calm, accepting voice. “You can replace me in your memories with all the blue-eyed blondes you want. I don’t expect anything more than this from you.”
Robbie stiffened, but he didn’t reply. Maybe that was the problem: no one expected anything from him. No one counted on him, no one relied on him, no one believed he was capable of stepping up, accepting responsibility, being a man.
He didn’t even believe it himself.
But damned if he didn’t wish Anamaria did.
Chapter 6
The power was back on, the rain still fell and Anamaria sat at the kitchen table, wearing a white nightgown of cotton batiste. The hem bore a ruffle that tickled her knees, and two more served as sleeves on the thin shift. Her feet were drawn up in the chair, one knee bent, her hands clasped around it.
It was nearly seven o’clock, the sky darker than usual because of the rain. She gazed out the window, wondering who had thrown the bricks that afternoon, why they’d done it, if they were out there tonight in the woods, watching.
The shiver that danced down her spine was almost enough to make her close the blinds.
Across from her, Robbie was finishing the last of his dinner. She’d fried red potatoes, onions and peppers, added chopped ham and cheese and topped it off with fried eggs. The fragrant aroma would last far longer than the food.
She’d put on the gown when hunger had driven them from bed, but he’d got
ten dressed, down to his shoes. His clothes hadn’t even wrinkled in their hours on the floor; still, they couldn’t disguise the fact that he’d been well and truly made love to that afternoon.
So had she. And for the first time in her life, she understood what her family had meant by the Duquesne passion. What had happened in her bedroom hadn’t been just sex. She’d been experiencing that since she was sixteen and had enjoyed it, more with some than others.
No, this had been Robbie. She might be interchangeable with other women for him, but he had his own inviolate place in her life. He had taken away her breath and left her a different woman.
Underneath the table, her hand drifted to her stomach. He might have made a mother of her. She had no special gift to tell, though Auntie Charise did. One look, and she would know.
Anamaria preferred to find out the old-fashioned way. She would be back in Savannah by the time her next period was due. Robbie would be sleeping with another woman, and when he thought of her—if he thought of her—it would be as his dirty little secret.
She closed her eyes. She was strong. She was a Duquesne, destined to love well and unwisely, to never marry and to have beautiful daughters. Robbie was so handsome that any daughter of his would be beautiful.
“Anamaria.”
She looked at him and found him looking back, his expression troubled. He knew he was going to break her heart, and he regretted it. She didn’t. Oh, sure, she wished things could be different, but she would never regret this affair.
“What you said earlier—”
She knew exactly what he was talking about: replacing her in his memories. Unwilling to discuss it now, she slid her feet to the floor, rose and carried their dishes to the sink. While her back was turned, she managed a credible smile, then faced him. “What happens in my bedroom stays in my bedroom.”
He opened his mouth as if he might argue, then closed it again. He found it easy to not pursue difficult conversations. It was one of the benefits of privilege, she supposed, or of being the youngest child, the favored grandchild, the handsome, sexy, charming sweet-talker.
Scandal in Copper Lake Page 10
