Private Pleasures

by Janelle Denison

  She lifted a sassy brow. "How do you figure?"

  "They're nice to admire, fun to play with and provide hours of pleasure," he said, enjoying their playful, intimate banter.

  Her mouth curled into a private smile. "A gift that keeps on giving, hmm?"

  "Absolutely."

  He glanced back at the ring, impressed how it caught the light in an array of shimmering colors. Even he had to admit that the ring was stunning, in design and size. He'd never given jewelry to any of the women he'd dated before Mariah. That kind of gift seemed too personal and way too intimate. But he wanted to give Mariah this ring she seemed to admire, as a token of his affection for her. A reminder that he cared for her, liked having her in his life and wanted her there for as long as it lasted.

  "Do you like it?" he asked casually.

  She tilted her head, studying the ring thoughtfully. "It's different. And for as big as it is, it's very elegant."

  Pushing his fingers into the front pockets of his navy shorts, he released a breath before saying, "If you want the ring, it's yours." He grimaced at his brusque tone. Way to go, Nichols. That was a real romantic gesture.

  She gaped at him. "You're serious?"

  As serious as he could be about her and their relationship. "Would I joke about something so obviously expensive?"

  "It's a bridal set, Grey," she said wryly. "A wedding ring."

  A wedding ring? He blanched, and his stomach rebelled at the thought. He groped for his Turns before remembering he'd purposely left them at home, determined to survive the weekend without them. He should have known better.

  He gave a shrug that belied the tension coiling through him. "A ring is a ring. A trinket with only as much sentimental value as a person puts on it."

  She crossed her arms over her chest, looking mildly irritated. "And you obviously don't put much value on this ring."

  "Sure I do," he argued, not liking that she was discussing his feelings for her in terms of diamonds and gold. Now he knew why he'd steered away from giving jewelry to the women he'd dated in the past. "This ring would be a token of how much I care for you. A gift that you'd be able to wear and enjoy and that would remind you of me when you looked at it."

  She lifted a brow. "Sort of like a souvenir of our time together?"

  A souvenir? He bristled, but held his aggravation in check. Why was she making this so difficult when all he'd wanted to do was give her something that would bring her pleasure? Why did there have to be any excess emotional baggage attached to the gift? "Consider the ring a keepsake." He mentally winced. Damn, that didn't sound right, either.

  Her mouth thinned in displeasure. "Like something you'd give a mistress."

  Frustration flared within him, needling his temper. "I never said you were my mistress."

  "I would be if I accepted that ring under any other terms than what it's meant for," she said passionately. "That ring is supposed to bind two people in love, Grey."

  "Really?" A burst of cynical laughter escaped him, bringing with it an edge of hostility and defensiveness that made his voice rise. "A ring never made my father love my mother, nor did it bind my mother to any of her subsequent four husbands. And I seriously doubt the newest ring she slipped on her finger is going to keep her eternally devoted to my newest stepfather!"

  Long moments passed as they stared at one another. Tourists and locals walked past, but Grey paid them no heed. His jaw clenched hard. God, he hated the mixture of incredulity and shock etched on Mariah's face, but she'd wanted honesty. And he'd only given her a small dose of the unattractive truth about his past.

  "Your mother has been married five times?" she finally asked, her quiet voice filled with disbelief.

  "Yeah," he said roughly, vividly remembering two of those divorces as a youth, and the confusion and resentment that grew with each separation. "And following every breakup, my mother always fell into a deep state of depression, ignoring everything and everyone, including me, to wallow in self-pity until another man came along and gave her the smallest bit of attention. She'd cling, thinking herself in love, wanting that elusive emotion so badly she imagined it even though it wasn't there."

  It had been a vicious cycle of men and relationships with his mother, one that Grey had been inevitably thrust into the middle of. And with each new beau of his mother's he'd grown more belligerent and hostile in an effort to hide his pain. His own father hadn't wanted him, had verbally degraded him, and his mother had been so wrapped up in her own search for happiness and acceptance he'd become nothing more than a nuisance, an extra piece of baggage she had to tow along for the ride.

  His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Quite a track record in the Nichols family, wouldn't you say?"

  She gave her head a brisk shake, compassion softening her features. "It's not your track record, Grey."

  "Exactly." Nor would it ever be, he'd vowed long ago. If he didn't get married he wouldn't have to worry about divorce. And if he never had children, there wouldn't be anyone to suffer from his lack of parenting skills, or from his inability to love.

  Disgusted with their topic of conversation and how terse he'd been with Mariah, he turned and walked away, his focus on the clear blue lake beyond all the shop fronts.

  Mariah started after him, not about to let him take the easy way out. He couldn't make a statement like that then walk away, leaving her teetering on the edge of something far more profound. As difficult as this might be for him, it helped her to understand his reasons for keeping his heart under lock and key. And possibly give her the ammunition to battle his fears.

  She halted his stride with a hand on his arm. "Grey, wait." His body stiffened, and when he finally met her gaze, the misery and emotional turmoil reflected in his eyes yanked at her heart.

  "Oh, Grey," she whispered, wishing she had the ability to chase away the dark shadows eclipsing his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

  His frown deepened. "Why should you be sorry?" he asked, his tone gruff. "My mother's failed relationships aren't your fault."

  He'd misunderstood. She was sorry for the young boy who'd seen the worst of relationships and marriages. She was sorry that experience had taught the man he'd become to be wary of commitment. And she was so very sorry he thought of marriage as something distasteful, rather than the joyful union she knew it could be. Her own parents and grandparents were proof that love went a long way in a relationship if two people were willing to work at it.

  She'd seen the best of marriage. He'd seen the worst. Could she blame him for being so cynical?

  "And it's not your fault, either," she said gently. "You aren't responsible for the choices your mother made."

  He averted his gaze, but not before she caught a glimpse of vulnerability. "Maybe not, but my mother's short-lived relationships and my father's resentment of his marriage are proof that love, if such a thing even exists, doesn't last."

  She sighed in frustration. A light breeze blew off the lake, ruffling his sable hair across his forehead and flirting with the skirt of the summer culotte outfit Grey had bought for her. She waited for a more significant comment from him, but when it was obvious he had no intention of talking further, she decided it was time to make him listen.

  Touching her ringers to his jaw, she turned his face back toward her, ignoring the ominous slant of his brows. "Nobody ever said marriage was easy, Grey. My parents had plenty of disagreements, but they communicated and worked through their problems. That's how you make love last Marriage is a commitment, a pledge to respect one another and compromise when you both want different things. You can't ignore obvious problems or bail out of the relationship at the first sign of trouble."

  "You bailed on me," he hastened to point out.

  She couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips. Only Grey would think of their breakup that way. "That's different. You left me nothing to fight for. If you gave me something, anything worth fighting for, I'd be by your side forever."

  He cocked a brow. "Something like m
arriage?"

  She was gratified to see that the mention of marriage hadn't caused him to turn pale this time. Hope bloomed within her. "I'd like your love first."

  He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. Then he pulled in a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped his flow of words with a hand pressed gently to his warm lips. She didn't know what he'd been about to say, but she didn't want him to shatter this fragile moment with a denial or excuses. That, and she wasn't finished with him.

  "Don't say anything, Grey. Just think about everything I've said, okay?" She didn't wait for a response because she didn't need one. "You know how I feel about you and that hasn't changed in the time we've been apart. But I don't want you to tell me you love me because you think it's something I need to hear. When and if you ever say those words I want it to come from your heart."

  Removing her hand from his mouth, he pressed her palm onto his chest Beneath his beige knit shirt his heart beat at a rapid pace, almost frantically. "What if that never happens?" he asked uncertainly. "Love, that is."

  It would, she thought, if only he'd allow himself to search within his soul for what was already there. An emotion most likely rusty from neglect, but with time and care, his ability to love could be something brand-new and wonderful for him. "If love never happens for you, then I guess we weren't meant to be. And if love does happen, you'll know it without any doubts."

  Skepticism shone in his eyes, and his hand tightened over hers. "Dammit, Mariah, I don't want to lose you, and I hate being without you."

  She smiled. "That's a real good start to love."

  He looked surprised, but not totally adverse to the thought. He drew her closer with a possessive sweep of his hand along her spine. An instantaneous heat flared within her, matching the fire in his eyes.

  "I hate it when another man touches you," he growled low and deep in his throat.

  She laughed, feeling light inside. "I think that's called jealousy, not love."

  "I still hate it," he muttered, his lip puffing out in a boyish pout.

  She smoothed a hand along his shirt collar. "You're sharing, Grey, and communicating. That's part of what love is."

  A wicked sparkle entered his gaze. "I'll show you some communication." Boldly he stroked a hand over her bottom and squeezed.

  "Grey!" Her admonishment attracted the attention of a few people nearby, reminding her they were in a public place. Heart pounding, she pushed away from him, attempting to skirt his advances. It was just like him to take the edge off their serious conversation with playful overtures, but she truly didn't mind.

  "I'm talking about the verbal kind of communication," she chastised in a low voice.

  He reached for her again and she tried to elude his grasp. But he was agile and quick and she ended up right back where she'd started. In his arms. He gave her a lascivious look that made her toes tingle. "Yeah, you like it when I get verbal, don't you?"

  A thrill of excitement rippled through her. Oh, she did. Shamelessly.

  "Ah, Grey." She sighed. Doing what came naturally, she slipped her arms around his neck. She didn't care who glanced their way, because she knew they looked like a couple in love, even if Grey wouldn't admit to such an emotion. "What am I going to do with you?"

  "Oh, I'm sure I can think of something," he murmured, wiggling his brows suggestively.

  Hands on her hips, Mariah scanned the board games stacked on the top shelf in the entryway closet of Mark's mountain house, searching for a way to pass a few hours until bedtime. As busy and enjoyable her afternoon with Grey had been, she wasn't the least bit tired. If anything, after their talk she felt invigorated and hopeful, and nowhere near ready to end an almost-perfect day.

  Hearing Grey pad barefoot into the living room from the kitchen, she glanced over her shoulder and watched him set two glasses on the coffee table and pour wine into each. Behind him, a small fire crackled in the hearth, taking the slight mountain chill from the room.

  He lifted his head and met her gaze, his mouth quirking in a smile that started a pleasant tickle in the pit of her belly. "What are you doing?"

  "I found some games earlier and thought it would be fun for us to play one."

  He adjusted the only lamp in the room to low, giving the room an intimate setting. "I vote for strip poker."

  She shot him a pointed look. "You know how lousy I am at card games."

  "That's what I was counting on," he drawled, a sexy gleam in his eyes.

  Shaking her head, but unable to summon any real irritation at his obvious scheme, she glanced back at the flat boxes on the shelf, and spotted one of her favorites. "How about a game of Scrabble?"

  He settled himself on the couch. "I've never played before."

  "You're kidding?" His serious expression told her he was not. She reached for the game, deciding it was time he learned one of her family's favorite pastimes. "Scrabble is one of those ail-American games that never go out of style. It's right up there with Monopoly."

  "I've never played Monopoly, either."

  She gaped at him, shocked and amazed that someone had survived childhood without the pleasure, fun and frustration of landing on the square that said, "Do Not Pass GO, Go Directly To Jail. Do Not Collect $200." She approached the couch, board game in hand. "How about backgammon?"

  "Nope."

  "Yahtzee?"

  He gave his head a negative shake.

  Setting the Scrabble game on the coffee table, she sat on the cushion next to his. "What games did you play?"

  He handed her a glass of wine and took a long swallow of his own. Finally he said, "I was a whiz at solitaire."

  She was certain he was teasing, until she saw a flicker of something truthful and raw in his gaze. Solitaire. As in one. As in alone.

  She tried to dismiss the swell of compassion filling her chest, knowing he wouldn't want any part of it. "Your parents never played games with you?"

  "My mother was too busy trying to please my father to play games with a child," he said blandly, watching the pale gold liquid swirl in his glass. "And my father wasn't exactly the bonding type."

  She took a drink of wine, thinking of her own happy childhood, filled with wonderful memories and an abundance of love and laughter. Her parents had always been there for her and Jade, to support them, guide them and give them the best possible childhood they could. The memories of her youth were fond ones, the kind of memories she hoped to pass on to her own children one day.

  "Didn't you do anything as a family?" she asked. "Camping? Barbecues? Going to the beach?"

  "Nope. I was lucky if my father showed up for dinner at night and cuffed the back of my head in greeting." His lips slashed into a sardonic smile. "My parents didn't exactly marry under traditional circumstances."

  She tucked her legs beneath her, settling closer to him. "What do you mean?"

  Grey squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head back on the couch. Damn. She was going to make him exhume old memories. But isn't that what he'd promised her he'd try to do? Give her a piece of his past and share the reasons why marriage and children held little appeal for him?

  Blinking his lashes open, he released a tight breath and let the truth spill out. "The reason my parents married is because my mother got pregnant with me. My father owned up to his responsibility, but I learned early on that I was more of an inconvenience to Aaron Nichols than anything else. A reminder of the mistake he'd made and the price he'd had to pay for it."

  Mariah looked horrified at the prospect. "Surely your father loved you."

  Harsh laughter escaped him. "If he did, I never heard it, nor did he show it." His mother hadn't been one for open displays of affection, either, at least not with him. Oh, he was sure in her own way his mother cared for him, but never had she told him, "I love you," and he had never spoken those words. To anyone. How could he when they'd mock everything he'd experienced as a child?

  "My father was great at dishing out insults and making me feel wort
hless," he went on, recounting the events of his childhood. "Like the time I was playing ball with a friend in our front yard and I missed a catch, tripped over my own foot and fell. My father was standing out on the porch watching, waiting for something, anything to give him an excuse to ridicule me. He immediately pounced on my clumsiness and proceeded to bellow out what a clumsy idiot I was for falling on my face and missing such an easy catch. And from there his ranting escalated, as it always did."

  Shock transformed Mariah's features and seemed to render her speechless. Well, he wasn't through shocking her yet. Standing, he walked to the fireplace, grabbed the poker and jabbed at the dying embers in the hearth.

  "My friend was smart enough to leave, but I had nowhere to go. While the neighborhood watched, my father yelled about how I'd never amount to anything and how miserable I made his life. And while my father humiliated me, my mother cowered on the front porch and watched the whole thing." His stomach churned at the recollection.of his father's verbal abuse, and his mother's weakness and inability to help her child or herself. "Then he grabbed me by the shirt collar and dragged me into the house to dole out more insults."

  "Your mother didn't say anything?" she asked incredulously.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, a sardonic grin on his lips. "She never did."

  She gasped, her eyes rounding in astonishment. "Why in the world not?"

  "My mother was too damned afraid of losing my father, of making him mad. She never said a word, and she never interfered with my father's tirades, even when they were directed at her." And in the end it hadn't matter that she'd been submissive; Vivian Nichols never gained the love she'd craved from her husband, the kind of attention Grey had so desperately wanted from his mother when he'd been a child.

  He tossed another log on the fire and watched the sparks filter up the chimney. "When I was a little boy, all I wanted was to please my father, but I learned early on there was no pleasing Aaron Nichols. He was hell-bent on despising me, and taking his anger and hostility out on me and occasionally on my mother."