Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you, too,” Eric’s mother returned breathlessly. “And you can call me Jane. And this is Dick behind me.” Eric’s father nodded in greeting. “Oh, I haven’t even said hello to you yet!” she said to Eric, throwing her arms around him and smothering him with kisses.

  “Mom!” Eric was glad to see his mother, too, but Jesus. This was totally over the top. His mother had practically fainted on the telephone when he’d told her who he was bringing with him.

  His mother broke their embrace. “Can I kiss you, too?” she asked Monica shyly, opening her arms. “Just a little one?”

  “Of course,” said Monica.

  Eric rubbed his forehead, wishing he had a tranquilizer gun. If this was the way it was going to be for the whole weekend, he’d never make it. Hopefully, his mother would calm down soon and start acting normal. He hadn’t seen her this crazed since Tom Jones played Bismarck when he and Jason were in eleventh grade.

  Eric’s eyes caught his father’s while his mother gathered Monica in a rib-crushing embrace. They stared at each other, each knowing what was going through the other’s mind about the farm, each knowing that this wasn’t the place to discuss it. They’d talk about it later with Jason.

  His mother released Monica, who still seemed able to breathe, much to Eric’s surprise. “Oh my,” Eric’s mother said in a chiding voice to Monica. “Honey, you are just skin and bones. We’ve got to fatten you up.”

  Monica laughed pleasantly, a great acting job if Eric ever saw one. He’d love to know what was going through Monica’s mind right now. Probably something along the lines of: Who is this insane farmer’s wife? Well, she’d been warned.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Eric’s mother said giddily. “I’ve got your room all made up for you kids. Dick, grab their bags.”

  “I can do it, Dad.” Eric picked up his and Monica’s bags, following his mother, father, and Monica up the stairs. They had no sooner started their ascent than Monica whipped her head around to look at him. “Our room?” she hissed, eyes popping with distress.

  “I told you before we left New York,” Eric murmured under his breath. “There are twin beds.”

  Upstairs now, he peeked into his mother’s old sewing room, where there was now a double bed and a dresser. Jason and Delilah’s room. As he told Monica, this meant they would be in his and Jason’s old bedroom in the single beds. His mother would give her speech about how what they do back in New York was their business, but until they were married, they wouldn’t be sharing a bed under her roof.

  “Here we are,” he heard his mother trill. Eric hauled his and Monica’s bags into his old bedroom, freezing as he walked over the threshold. Gone were the old single beds with the scratched pine headboards; in their place was a double bed.

  “Now I know you two aren’t married,” his mother said, twisting her hands nervously, “but your father and I discussed it, and we decided it was time we joined the twenty-first century. So here’s your room. It’s the one closest to the bathroom,” she added significantly. The better for Monica to throw up her meals in, Eric thought. He couldn’t look at Monica.

  “You two get settled, and then come down to the kitchen, and we’ll have some coffee and cherry pie,” Eric mother’s instructed, beaming at him. “I made it just for you, sweetie.” She winked confidentially at Monica. “It’s been his favorite ever since he was a little boy.” Monica nodded, a queasy smile on her face.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Eric said hollowly. He held his breath as his parents departed. Then he turned to face the music.

  “Tell me you didn’t know about this,” Monica said, glaring at him.

  “I didn’t! Last time I was here, there were twin beds.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Monica moved to the window at the front of the room, pulling back the white eyelet curtains to look down at the yard below. Eric could hear Jason and Delilah’s dogs barking happily as they played.

  “I’m sorry about my mother frothing all over you.”

  “It’s okay. It was kind of cute, actually.” Monica turned back to him. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

  “The hell I am! I’m a professional athlete, Monica! I can’t afford to mess with my back!”

  Monica put a hand on her hip, indignant. “Oh, so you expect me to sleep on the floor?! How gentlemanly!”

  Eric sat down on the edge of the bed, wearily running his hands over his face. They’d been here five minutes, and already it was a disaster. No way was he going to be able to keep up this charade for a whole weekend. No way.

  He uncovered his face. “Neither of us has to sleep on the floor,” he reasoned. “We can erect a barrier. Put a line of pillows between us.”

  Monica stared at the bed. “I suppose,” she muttered. She narrowed her eyes. “If you breach the barrier and touch me, you’re dead.”

  Eric snorted. “Same to you!”

  “Oh, right,” Monica said scornfully. “As if that would ever happen.”

  Eric chuckled, joining her at the window. “Judging by your reaction to that kiss I gave you at the studio, I think it could.”

  He watched Monica’s cheeks turn pink before her whole face flared into a deep red.

  “I was acting,” she barked at him.

  Eric smirked. “Is that how you ‘act’ when your costar Royce kisses you?”

  “What do you care?” Monica shot back.

  “I don’t.” Eric glanced down into the yard. Delilah and Jason were ushering the dog pack into the house. He and Monica would have to wrap up this little debate quickly, unless his mother lured Jace and Delilah into the kitchen right away. Eric looked at Monica smugly. “I was merely pointing out that if that was acting, then I’d love to see your reaction when you’re really feeling something for a guy.”

  “Well, you’ll never know, will you?”

  Eric’s hand shot out, impulsively grabbing Monica’s wrist. The molecules in the room were changing shape, moving faster and faster, threatening to break down into a million tiny sparks as heat rushed to the place where their skin touched. Eric stared into Monica’s eyes, waiting for her to jerk her hand away. But she didn’t. Instead, her gaze was locked on his, watching and waiting. “You felt something. Admit it.”

  Monica put her face right up to his. “No.”

  Eric tightened his grip around her wrist as his pulse began scrambling. “Admit it.”

  “You admit it first,” she jeered. “Admit you’re the one who deepened the kiss, and it wasn’t because you wanted it to look real. You wanted to kiss me.”

  Eric laughed. “Of course I did,” he replied, as if it were obvious. “I came on to you the first time I met you, remember? Why would you think I still wouldn’t find you hot, annoying as you are?”

  Monica jerked her hand from his grasp. “So the kiss was purely physical. It meant nothing to you beyond that.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Then why are you so hot for me to admit that I felt something?” Monica challenged.

  Eric yawned with boredom. “I want to make sure I hadn’t lost my touch.”

  He had to extricate himself here, and fast. This debate was headed into emotional territory.

  Monica’s blue eyes turned steely gray, flecked with challenge. “You’re lying.”

  “So are you.”

  The thump of dog paws clambering up the stairs put a quick end to the discussion, at least for now, since Eric knew Jason and Delilah would be following their hounds up within seconds.

  Monica moved past him, deliberately slamming her shoulder into his in a not-too-friendly gesture. “Touch me in that bed tonight, and you’re dead,” she repeated, going out into the hall.

  “Back at ya,” he called to her departing back. Two could play the ego game.

  “How’s it going, Dad?”

  Eric’s question was met with a grim smile as he, Jason, and their father strolled around the barn. Sights and smells from childhood came rushing back to Eric the way they always
did when he was home. The scent of feed and of animals. The cows in their stalls, lying down in their straw. The hum of the ventilators ensuring a never-ending stream of clean air. Eric wondered if Jason was feeling the same tug in the gut he was. He glanced sideways at his brother. The answer was yes. Jason’s expression was wistful.

  “The ladies,” as his mother insisted on calling herself, Monica, and Delilah, were still assembled around the dining room table, lingering over coffee and a selection of coffee cake, cherry pie, and peanut butter cookies. Dinner had gone well. Eric had left most of the talking to Monica, since she was the better actor. She fielded all the questions about their burgeoning relationship with aplomb, especially those being lobbed at them like grenades by Jason. He and Monica looked at each other with appropriate affection, though behind her loving glances, he knew she was still smarting over his calling her out on their kiss. Well, let her smart if she wanted to. He knew when a woman liked being kissed by him, and whether she admitted it or not, Monica Geary liked it.

  His father paused before one of the new Holsteins. “This is Tallulah,” he said.

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “Tallulah?”

  Their father chuckled. “That was the name your mother always wanted to name a girl if we had one.”

  “Good thing you just had us, then,” said Eric.

  “You didn’t answer Eric’s question, Dad,” Jason said gently.

  Their father’s eyes were glued on Tallulah, unable to look at them. He’d never been good with expressing emotion. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay you boys back,” he said quietly. He paused. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay you back.”

  “It wasn’t a loan, Dad,” said Eric. “We told you that.”

  Their father finally looked at them. “That was a helluva lot of money you boys gave us.”

  Eric and Jason glanced at each other. “We make a helluva lot of money, Dad,” said Jason.

  “Did you use it to hire some more help?” Eric asked.

  Their father nodded his head. “Two more workers. Maybe you boys could come home and replace them,” he said in a joking voice.

  Eric and Jason both laughed. “You’d underpay us,” said Eric.

  “We’d give you free room and board,” said their father. “And unlimited pie.”

  Jason chuckled. “Then it’s definitely worth considering.”

  “Is the extra help—well, helping?” Eric asked.

  “Yes. Obviously, it’s lifting some of the burden off your mother and me. We still have Tommy from Carson coming down three days a week.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Eric. Tommy had been helping his parents for as long as Eric could remember; plump, bald, and wizened, he was even more taciturn than their father.

  “I still don’t know how long we’re going to be able to keep things going here, boys,” their father continued in a choked voice. Eric filled with panic that he saw reflected in Jason’s face. Neither of them had ever seen their father close to tears. Ever. He was the rock of the family, the practical, stoic one. The father.

  Eric put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Dad . . .”

  “You know what the situation is,” his father said angrily. “Goddamn agribusiness, always trying to streamline to increase profits. It’s driving down prices, forcing family-run operations like ours out of business. You have any idea how many family farms around here have gone into foreclosure?” He shook his head in despair.

  “What if we gave you enough to compete?” Eric suggested. “Increase the herd, get a milking parlor?” He couldn’t believe the sense of quiet desperation beginning to take hold of him. The thought of his parents losing or having to sell the farm distressed him more than he ever thought possible.

  “We’ve got the money to do what Eric suggests, Dad,” Jason reiterated quietly.

  Their father returned to his usual stoicism. “I’ll think about it.” He was a man of incredible pride. Eric suspected it was entirely possible that the idea of being rescued by his sons made him feel like a failure.

  “We’re here for you Dad,” Eric murmured. “In whatever way you need us to be.”

  His father patted his shoulder. “You’re good boys. Now, let’s get back to the house before all that pie is gone.”

  “Not enough pillows.”

  Monica looked at the two flimsy, feather-filled pillows dividing the double bed in Eric’s old bedroom into equal halves. She’d barely been able to concentrate when she, Eric’s sister-in-law, Delilah, and Eric’s mom had been chatting over after-dinner pie and coffee. All she kept thinking about was how she was going to be in the same bed as Eric later in the evening. Also, she couldn’t stop eyeing the cherry pie. It was so good she wanted to eat the whole thing, career be damned.

  Eric sighed, adding his only pillow to the lineup. “Better?”

  “Are you sure it won’t affect your precious athlete’s back?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Oh, darling,” Eric murmured with the affected expression he’d perfected. “I knew you cared.”

  Monica gritted her teeth. “Jerk.”

  She glanced around the room, rubbing her arms briskly, growing tenser by the moment. Beneath her thin, blue silk bathrobe she was wearing a matching blue silk baby doll with a sexy side opening and a matching G-string. She’d never been one of those women who could sleep in one of their boyfriend’s rumpled old T-shirts. She’d always liked silky things, pretty things, even when sleeping alone, which is what she’d assumed she’d be doing tonight.

  “Turn around,” she commanded Eric.

  “What?”

  “I want to slip into bed without you seeing what I’m wearing.”

  Eric rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen women’s bodies before, you know.”

  “Well, you’re not seeing this one.”

  “Whatever.”

  Eric turned around as Monica shed her robe and quickly slipped into bed. The sheets were deliciously cold as she pulled them up to her neck.

  “You can turn around now.”

  Eric turned, a hint of amazement on his face. “You look like some kind of terrified virgin bride on her wedding night. By the way,” he said, stretching casually, “I sleep in the nude.”

  Monica bolted upright in bed, the sheets falling to her waist. “Not tonight you’re not.”

  She saw Eric’s eyes roam over her bare shoulders, then dip lower to her cleavage. She pulled the sheets back up again. “I mean it,” she warned.

  Eric grinned at her. “What are you so afraid of, Miss Geary?”

  “It’s just weird,” she insisted.

  What if the pillows shift and you roll over and we make contact and you have a hard-on and it’s burning against my leg and I’m hot and bothered and—? she thought feverishly. Could he tell that’s what she was thinking? Why was she thinking that, goddammit? She would not fall for this man. She’d fallen for too many jerks before, always thinking, I’ll be the one to change him. But men didn’t change. They might try to change their outward behavior, but their fundamental nature remained intact, and Eric’s fundamental nature was that of a jerk. She would have to be vigilant against her own emotions. Against her own starved libido.

  “I’m going to close my eyes while you get into bed in your underwear,” Monica told him.

  “Suit yourself,” said Eric.

  Monica screwed her eyes closed tight, at least to the point where she heard his jeans fall to the floor. Then she cracked one eye open, just a teensy-weensy bit, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Tightly hugging his muscled thighs. A magnificently sculpted body. God knows everything you’re thinking, and he’s going to punish you, Monica Elise Geary, she scolded herself, closing her eyes.

  Eric slipped into bed, flashing her a seductive smile. Then he turned out the light.

  ELEVEN

  Monica was familiar with torment. In her early twenties she’d experienced the torment of auditioning and then waiting to hear if she got the
part. She’d felt the torment of Monty telling her she was wasting her gifts. Then there was the ongoing torment of knowing you could act but having to perform with others who couldn’t, worrying if it would drag your performance down.

  Now she knew a new torment: lying less than two feet away from a gorgeous man.

  Should she be insulted that Eric fell off to sleep so fast? Shouldn’t he be at least a little tortured, especially after claiming that he still found her hot? A cool breeze was kicking through the half-open windows. It should have calmed her fiery desire. But it didn’t help at all.

  Monica lifted her head, peering at Eric over the pillow barrier. He was on his back, legs splayed beneath the sheet and a thin layer of blanket loosely covering his hips, his arms behind his head. Even in the darkness, there was enough light coming from outside the window for Monica to see his chest very clearly. There was some hair curling around his nipples, but not much. The physique . . . so perfect. Delicious. Another surge of heat crackled up her skin. What if she were to reach out and lightly, just lightly, press a palm to his chest? Would her burning skin wake him? Was it a bad thing to do?

  She swallowed, reaching slowly across the divide separating them, but halfway there, she stopped herself. What if she were the one sleeping, and he did that to her? She imagined it. She was a light sleeper. She’d wake up and feel violated. Or would she?

  Frustrated, Monica sank back down on her side of the bed. Perhaps because she wanted it to be so, she swore his body was radiating heat, too. Subconsciously, maybe, but heat nonetheless. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the deep, regular rhythm of his breath. She wished he were a snorer. Or one of those guys who farted their heads off in bed. Anything that would disgust her and cool this embarrassing desire.

  She closed her eyes, trying to drive thoughts of him from her mind, her pulse pounding like a hammer. What would it be like to feel his weight on top of her while his mouth devoured hers? What pleasure would her body experience feeling his fullness against her, knowing he wanted to put himself inside her? She felt her nipples go hard and reached her hands to her breasts, softly rubbing them with the pads of her fingers. Electricity flew through her body.