by Cindy Gerard
She closed her eyes on a sensual sigh. Not just any man. A little shiver of excitement eddied through her. He was a sensitive man, a needy man, loving and giving and voracious and vital.
What she and Clay had shared last night had been beautiful. And wonderful. And incredible. And a hundred other things she couldn't put to words.
And now, apparently, she decided, fighting an unexpected ache of loss as she drew her conclusions from his absence, it was also over.
Well, what did she expect? It wasn't as if there was any love lost between them. It wasn't as if they liked each other or anything. Anything like love.
She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. Talk about sleeping with the enemy.
Battling another unwarranted sting of disappointment, she cursed that part of her that had conjured up notions of love and romance and knights in shining armor. She cursed her sentimental heart.
"Face it, Matilda," she told herself pragmatically. "What you shared last night had nothing to do with romance. It had everything to do with shock and fear and adrenaline. And sex. It had a lot to do with sex. Don't confuse the issue."
But for some reason, she was confused. Very confused, because it had felt like so much more.
"So," she wondered aloud, sifting through her muddled thoughts, "where do you go from here?"
If you're Clay James, evidently you exit stage left. Given their history, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that he'd bailed. It shouldn't have hurt, either. But again, for some reason, it did. It hurt even more than her knee when she forced herself to bend it. More than her head that pounded in complaint when she sat up on the edge of the bed.
Gathering her hair away from her face with one hand, and the sheet to her breasts with the other, she looked around the loft bedroom. To the unknowing eye, it appeared as pristine and celibate as it had after every other night she'd spent here while Emma and Sara Jane had slept in the bedroom downstairs.
Only it wasn't pristine. Not anymore. And last night had ended what many would be surprised to learn was several years of celibacy for her. But, oh, what an end, she thought as she limped to her duffel and rummaged around for panties, a pair of old jeans and an oversize kelly green sweater.
End, she concluded, as she struggled into her clothes then dragged a brush through her hair, seemed to be the key word here.
End. She mulled the word around in her mind. It had to be one of the most efficient words in the English language. Concise. Severing. Final.
Well, that was fine. And it was definitely for the best. "I mean, really. Maddie Brannigan and Clay James together … as a couple?" she mused aloud, hoping that hearing the words would imprint on her mind how ridiculous the notion was. It wasn't only laughable, it was ludicrous.
Committed to that conclusion, she faced the loft stairs and prepared herself to face the music. It took as much strength of will as it did physical stamina, but she gathered both and hobbled barefoot down the steps to confirm what she'd already guessed. Not only had Clay left her bed, he'd left the cabin. He wasn't far, she was sure, but far enough to drive home his point. He was sorry about what had happened between them. Well, so was she. Sort of. Not as much as she should be.
His obvious regret stung, though. She hadn't been prepared for the bite.
"Well, you should have been," she muttered as she limped to the kitchen. He hadn't bargained for last night. He'd made it clear, in fact, what a bad idea he thought it was.
Boy, had he been right. This was a mess.
"You made the deal," she reminded herself unnecessarily as she filled a mug with coffee from a pot that appeared to have been brewed hours earlier. "You're the one who said, There is no later."
Only there was. And it was here. And so far, it wasn't much fun.
Leaning back against the counter, she wrapped her hands around the warm mug and tried to figure out how she was going to face him. It was the classic uncomfortable morning after. Only it was worse because they didn't have just one morning to muddle through, but several more to weather.
She hadn't gotten past how to deal with this first one when she heard the cabin door creak open, then close.
She'd known meeting his eyes wouldn't be easy. It turned out that it was worse than hard. That was because some small part of her—the eternal, sappy optimist, probably—had been holding out a tiny pocket of hope. She wasn't sure why, but she'd been hoping she was wrong. Hoping that his disappearing act didn't mean what his eyes assured her it did.
No morning-after lover's smile tilted his lips or softened his eyes. No words like "Last night was wonderful, let's go see if we can make magic together again," tumbled from his sensual lips—lips that had cruised over her body with such intimate attention to her needs.
The memory of his mouth and his hands and his body poised over hers sent an arc of arousal sizzling through her blood, a wave of longing that weakened her knees and stalled her breath.
It was those touches, those memories that were confusing her. She'd seen a side of Clay last night she'd never seen before. A tender, giving side that had been as sensual as it was surprising. As welcome as it was refreshing.
All that was gone now. The look in his eyes—cautious, assessing, wary—brought her back to the moment like an ice-water shower. Reality was staring her in the face: this was no willing lover wanting to take her back to bed.
This wasn't even a friend. This was a man truly and totally at a loss as to how to handle the morning-after regrets of a mistake of epic proportions.
"How are you?" he asked gruffly, still rooted like an oak tree just inside the door. His hand went up stiffly, a vague gesture meant to encompass her entire body. "How's the knee? And your head? There are aspirin in the bathroom if you need them."
She held his gaze for only a moment, wondering why she was searching for a sign that he was concerned about more than just a physical inventory of the state of various injuries to her body. But there was nothing more than a clearly self-conscious effort on his part to act concerned, seem concerned.
Coward. Why don't you ask me about my heart, she thought miserably. Ask me if it's aching. Ask me about my pride, it's not in the best shape, either.
She nipped those thoughts at the bud stage. There was nothing wrong with her heart. It had no investment here. Her pride, maybe, but not her heart.
Shape up, she ordered herself mentally. You're both grown-ups here. This isn't the first time two consenting adults who had absolutely nothing in common had found common ground in the dark of night in each other's arms.
Chalking up her melodramatic musings to a little leftover shock, she lifted her chin and met his scowl. "My knee's fine," she assured him.
"And the head?" he persisted, walking toward her.
She couldn't help it. When he drew near, she flinched and moved away. He stopped, his big hand poised midair before he reached past her to snag the coffeepot and fill his mug.
She ducked her head and bashed herself for worsening what was already a difficult situation. He'd only wanted coffee. He hadn't been reaching for her—out of affection or pity or any other emotion.
She forced a shaky breath. "Fine. The head is fine," she said with a smile that convinced neither of them that she was as relaxed about this mess as she pretended to be.
Thankfully he didn't press, and she didn't offer more information. Instead, they both stared uncomfortably at anything and everything but each other.
Silence settled. Strung with tension. Crowded with unease. Through it she could hear the soft sound of his breathing, the rustle of his chambray shirt against his skin, and outside, the whisper of the wind through the pines. Above it she could hear the rumble of his regrets and the sound of her pride shattering. Beneath it all she could hear the roar of the mistake she had made.
And it had been her mistake. She'd done the asking. She'd extended the invitation, then made sure he couldn't refuse it. That meant it was up to her to fix it—end to hopefully salvage some self-respect in the process.
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She'd let him see her vulnerability only once before. She'd promised herself then that she'd never let it happen again. If she didn't want to crumble like a week-old cookie, she was going to have to pull herself together. Fast.
"Look," she said, all false bravado and blind determination, "about last night."
"Maddie," he began, the promise of an apology heavy in his tone.
"No, wait." She hurriedly cut him off, stalling whatever guilt-ridden words he was about to say. She couldn't stand hearing them. Not yet. Maybe not ever. "I need to say this, Clay. And you need to hear it."
When he conceded with a scowl and a reluctant nod, she drew a deep breath and began again. But not before she walked away from the counter and several feet away from him. Distance was imperative if she was going to get through this.
"Here's the deal," she said, looking from her coffee mug to the view of the mist-shrouded valley outside the window. "I had a need last night. Evidently, so did you. We … we were both caught up in a huge adrenaline rush, maybe even a little too much firsthand knowledge of how precarious life really is. Of how one moment could potentially be the last. And of how fragile we are as a human race."
"Fragile," he repeated as she finally mustered the courage to face him. His mouth was grim, his dark brows drawn low over the unnatural calm of his eyes. "Human race."
"Yes," she said, ignoring the fact that she felt about as convinced as he looked. "It was a moment, Clay. One that I promised myself I wouldn't regret when it was over. And I don't regret it. I don't want you to, either."
He hadn't moved. His expression hadn't changed. He looked like a thundercloud about ready to let loose as that tell-all muscle began to twitch above his right eye.
"Just what am I supposed to feel—if you don't mind my asking."
Her gaze skittered from his to her hands, which were still clutching the coffee mug in a death grip. What is he supposed to feel? Something. Something for me, maybe, she thought morosely, knowing by the hard look on his face that the possibility of that happening was negligible to nonexistent. And knowing that they still weren't friends. Last night hadn't changed that situation.
"Well, for starters, as I said, no regrets." She was determined not to let him see the pain she was at a loss to explain away or understand. "And for heaven's sake, no guilt."
Statues should stand so still. "And that's it. No regrets. No guilt."
This wasn't going exactly how she'd thought it would. He was supposed to look relieved. What he looked was royally ticked off.
"We-e-ll." She drew the word out and tried again, groping for the key to his reactions. "I … I guess we could both feel fortunate that … that it was a pleasurable experience," she suggested a little uneasily.
"Pleasurable?"
He looked like he'd like to chew nails, spit them out and pin her to the wall with them.
"Yes," she said warily. "It … it was pleasurable. Anyway, it was for me … that is, what I remember of it was."
Nuclear warheads presented less threat than the look on his face. "What you remember?"
Now she'd done it. His reaction—confusing as it was—had rattled her so much that she'd taken the coward's way out. She'd resorted to the old "I don't remember everything" ploy. Lame. Totally lame, but now that she'd chosen that road, she wasn't about to make a U-turn.
"Well, after all, I was a bit … traumatized. I mean, I … I'd had quite a scare. And I was exhausted. I guess I just, well, don't get me wrong, I remember making—" she stumbled over the words but made herself continue "—making love with you," she managed softly and prayed to God she didn't embarrass herself more by blushing, "but … but a lot of details are … are kind of fuzzy."
His jaw clenched to granite. "Fuzzy?"
She wished he'd quit repeating everything she said, like the words left a foul taste in his mouth and he had to spit them out or gag on them.
"Well, yes. I mean, it … ah, it … well, it wasn't exactly—I mean, I," she clarified when the blue-gray of his eyes turned to a cobalt hue that reminded her of gunmetal or a sunset storm. "I wasn't exactly—"
"Stop." He set his mug on the counter with a thud, held a hand in the air like a traffic cop. "I get the picture. You weren't at your best. Last night wasn't the best. And now what is best is that we just forget it ever happened. Does that about sum it up?"
When she just stood there, stung by the anger in his voice and his dark glare, he answered for her.
"Fine. That works just fine for me." With a final, probing look, he shoved away from the counter and stalked out the door.
* * *
Clay got as far as the bottom porch step before he stopped. For a long, riotous moment, he considered marching right back in there, hauling that mule-headed woman into his arms and kissing that crushable mouth of hers closed. She couldn't talk about guilt and regret and the human race and pleasurable experiences then, by God. Or about not remembering everything.
Well, he remembered. His memory was just fine, thank you very much.
Damn her. Damn her. But wasn't it just like her to tick him off when what he'd wanted this morning was another … hell. It didn't matter now what he'd wanted. Just like it didn't matter that he'd wanted to wake up beside her this morning, but had decided she might need a little space to herself to sort things out.
She needed space all right. Right about now so did he. A couple thousand miles ought to do it, but he'd have to settle for the woodshed. It was back to business as usual between them. Like last night had never happened. Like it never meant anything.
Evidently to her it hadn't. Well, it hadn't meant anything to him, either, he assured himself, ignoring the ache in his gut that tried to tell him otherwise.
"'Fuzzy,'" he muttered as he stalked to the wood pile and snagged the ax. "'Didn't exactly remember.'" Iron hit wood with a bone-jarring thwack. What a bunch of bull.
She remembered. She couldn't have come apart for him the way she had and then not remember.
As least, he wanted like hell to believe that was true. Because he remembered.
Everything.
Every shivery little sigh. Every pulse-altering moan. The silk of her skin, the heat of her body, the taste of her lips. Most specifically, he remembered the moment he'd decided that they may have wasted the better part of their adult lives fighting, when they could have been making love.
Sweet love. Complete love. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Love as emotionally right as it was physically unparalleled.
Or so he'd thought last night.
Thwack!
Well, it was a stupid thought. And not worth the time it took to form it.
Maddie Brannigan was still the same smart-mouthed, independent little shrew she'd been all her life. They still had nothing in common. Nothing going for them but chemistry, biology, and as she'd so baldly pointed out, a mutual need.
She'd made her position on that as clear as a mountain stream. Last night had been a convenience for her. A necessary outlet for pent-up fear and, oh, yeah, an adrenaline rush.
Well, that's all it had meant to him, too. And he was going to stay out here until he was as clear on that fact as she was.
* * *
Maddie sneaked a peek out the cabin window and looked for a sign of Clay through the light drizzle. She didn't quite understand his anger. And he'd most definitely been angry.
She'd thought he would have been relieved that she was letting him off the hook—there was no way she could be wrong about that. What was wrong, she decided, as she heard the steady thwack of his ax splitting firewood, was how she'd handled it.
If she'd had it in her to feel pity for anyone but herself right now, she'd probably have felt sorry for him. She'd bruised his ego. It wasn't the escape she was offering that was giving him trouble. It was the idea that she'd implied that his lovemaking wasn't memorable enough for her to … well, to remember.
Well, shoot. It was tough to give a guy an out when your heart, for no good reason, wa
s making noises about breaking—which of course, it wasn't. Not even close.
She pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane. She couldn't afford to let him know just how well she remembered last night. In fact, it had been the most memorable night of her life.
He'd touched her with his tenderness, moved her with his ardor, nearly destroyed her with his dedication to giving her pleasure.
Every caress, every brush of his lips to her skin was etched like golden engravings in her mind. Even as she'd stood there this morning, facing him for the first time, denying how special last night had been, every erogenous zone in her body had yearned for his touch … to tantalize, to liquefy, to electrify.
But it was more, even more than that. She hadn't realized how badly her heart hungered for the love she thought she'd seen in his eyes and felt with every stroke of his body into hers. Hadn't realized her soul had cried out for the mate she'd foolishly believed had been right underneath her nose all these years.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Love. Soul mate. Ha. Double ha.
Catering to her bruised pride and her sore knee, she made her way slowly to the bathroom. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she groaned and considered a mercy killing—her own.
Her temple was red and purple with bruises, her face was a mass of tiny scratches and her eyes were rimmed with dark circles. Then there was her hair. It looked like she'd styled it with the help of direct current from an electrical outlet.
She braced her palms on the ledge of the sink and hung her head. The laugh, when it came, was tinged with a touch of hysteria and a demeaning dose of tears.
"Well," she told her sorry reflection, as she sucked in a rallying breath and resolved to see herself through this without losing any more of her dignity, "faced with the prospect of waking up to this every morning, can you really blame any guy for running out on you?
"No," she answered herself realistically. "You can't blame a guy at all."
Neither was she going to blame herself for what had happened, she decided as she turned on the cold water, splashed her face liberally and tried to undo some of the damage. She wasn't going to blame herself for indulging in a need that had felt righteous and wondrous and new.
