Slightly Imperfect

by Tomlinson, Dar

  Fear settled on her as she left Chandler House. Fear the gulf between she and her father would never be bridged.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Zac stood in Victoria's bathroom doorway. He had let himself in and found her exactly ss he had the night before. Abruptly, he understood why she had dropped off a key to the suite at the Bay Shore gate earlier that day. "Now I know the real meaning of déjá vu."

  "I've felt badly all day for sending you away last night."

  Crossing to where she sat on that same stool, he knelt in front of her again. "Last night's insanity made an interesting day for me, too." He smiled, his hand going to the opening of that same creamy blue robe, easing it from her shoulders.

  She had a scrubbed look, face bare and shiny, skin cool, still dewy from the shower. Fine, wet tendrils of hair framed her face. Her soapy smell, the same smell Ari sometimes had, was nothing as mundane as Ivory. He paced himself, kissing her shoulders, the hollow of her throat, before he worked his way to her mouth. "Where are the children? Will we have a gallery?"

  Her humoring smile wrenched his heart. That smile allowed him to believe it would be just this way between them all the way to infinity. Perfect.

  "They're gone." Her hands went to his hair, fingers trailing on the back of his neck. "We're alone, and we have champagne."

  The significant disclosure fired his anticipation. He eased the robe away and caressed her breasts, his eyes holding hers. "Champagne. Is that the way rich people are supposed to do this?" When she put her hands over his and pressed, a wave of longing moved through him so powerfully his body swayed. "I don't need champagne."

  "This is a celebration."

  "Doesn't champagne need to breathe or something?" He pressed his face into a shallow valley of cleavage created by their joined hands.

  "Red wine breathes," she whispered against his temple. "Champagne goes flat. It ruins."

  "Let it ruin." He stood, pulling her up gently, against his rigid body. "I want you so much I can't breathe. I'll buy more champagne."

  Carron would like him spending her money that way.

  He made a move to pick her up, thinking of the room he'd just passed through, the beautifully dressed bed. He wondered if Tomas Cordera had bothered to throw back that elaborate spread before enjoying her there. Zac could understand how Tommy had loved her, worshipped her enough to get himself killed. Zac believed he loved her more, enough to exorcise Tommy from her life.

  Apparently she was having related thoughts. She caught his forearms, giving a gentle, downward tug. "This rug is wonderful." She looked down for an instant then back at him, meaningfully.

  The rug was thick, deep, soft, the color of her robe with a lot of creamed coffee mixed in. Of course she knew its wonder, but for the moment he could allay that pleasure.

  "I want you in that bed." That minute crease he had come to love appeared between her jade eyes, just above the bridge of her nose. He kissed it, kissed her deeply, pledging his conviction, seeking her compliance, which was not immediate in coming.

  "It has to be this way, Victoria. Trust me." He met her eyes, hoped his were kind, hoped they expressed the desire and conviction behind his edict.

  Restraint slackening, she drew him toward the door.

  He hadn't known what to expect. She had never actually said she wanted him. He feared maybe he wanted that enough to imagine it, unable to completely dismiss the possibility she was doing it for Marcus. She was always so reserved, so proper. Yet, there had been veiled sensual hints he often pondered.

  No amount of speculation could have prepared him. She opened like a flower kissed by a gentle sun, gradually, at a consistent velocity until she burgeoned, grew ripe within his hands, beneath his mouth. She drew him in, rising to him, gorging him with intense pleasure, nearly indistinguishable from pain.

  He eased back, staying her, her face pressed to his chest.

  She forced her head back, her eyes to his. "What is it?"

  He smiled. "I'm pacing myself."

  "Don't," she said against his mouth. "Take what you want."

  She was the taker. His female repertoire was limited, but he had never been with anyone who savored sex as much as Victoria. She raised her arms above her head, clasping her hands loosely in a passive position akin to bondage. Her body arched into his touch; she held his eyes until hers glazed and closed, heavy with what could only be desire.

  "Yes," she whispered when he moved to cover her, enter her.

  He thought of a movie he had once watched, books he had felt he shouldn't enjoy. He fought his urge to thrust, to seek completion.

  "It's so good. So good." She moved beneath him, her rhythm fitting his perfectly, her face averted to the side, elegant hands contorted as they gripped the sheet. Then she turned back, seeking his mouth, and he blasted onto that selfish plane of fierce obscurity, leaving her behind.

  Gradually returning to coherency, the reality of his actions descending, he opened his eyes, looking directly into hers. "I'm sorry," he offered, rising somewhat, supporting his weight on his elbows. His abashed laughter was ragged. "Forgive me."

  She adjusted, shifting his weight to the side a little. He eased off her. Her vague smile seemed real. "It's all right," she murmured. "We're still friends if you can laugh about it."

  He caught her petulance then and laughed again, in tender appeasement. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I gave beauty and the beast a whole new meaning, didn't I?"

  She traced the contour of his jaw, drew her nails through early-evening stubble, across his mouth. "It's all right. It doesn't matter."

  His brow creased with an onslaught of desire. Desire to have it matter.

  "No—I mean—I'm happy. It makes me happy to bring you that kind of pleasure."

  "Oh, God," he moaned. "Now I really am sorry. I'll make it up to you. Just give me a minute to recover."

  She moved against him, aligned her body with his, kissed him. "Take as long as you want," she whispered, her mouth warm and moist against his ear. "We'll consider it after play."

  He guessed he wouldn't need a lot of time, after all, which he attributed to the mystery, and the muscle, of love.

  * * *

  "I haven't been with a woman in over fifteen months."

  Her breasts protruded from the planes of her tanned body like mounds of fresh cream. He drew a fingertip along a pale wisp of blue vein leading inward to the crest of a nipple, then ran his open palm across her ribcage, down the length of her body. Her skin was oiled satin, supple and soothing to his touch.

  "It will take me a while to catch up." He smiled.

  "What about your... ex-wife?"

  "Maggie. I put in a reconciliation bid when I got home, but she didn't buy."

  She smiled comfortingly. "I haven't been with anyone in a long while, either."

  He knew about some guy named David who took her to dinner and into Houston sometimes. Marcus had told him, and Lizbett had told Josh about Jason Harris, who flew in from New York now and then and stayed in the hotel. Zac had tried not to think about it. Now he could.

  "What about Christian?"

  "Christian had a way of—I've told you this."

  "Tell me again. Then forget about it."

  "He had this wonderfully subtle way of... starving me."

  "He wasn't supposed to. Do you have a bible? I'll show you where it says so."

  Resignation colored her smile. "I showed him the passage to which you?re referring, but it wasn't a conscious thing for him. He had this way of getting very occupied. I have an intense—" She frowned. "Sex drive."

  "Thank you, God." He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling.

  She smiled. "You might want to reserve your gratitude. I also have a tendency to confuse sexual gratification with affection."

  "You mean they aren't the same thing?" He exaggerated his brows. "They are to me."

  She eased away, pulled herself up to brace against the padded headboard, drawing the blue sheet up. She tucked her knee
s to her chest. "I need a lot of affection," she said quietly. "And I get it confused with the most mundane things. Fear, insecurity, loneliness, lack of attention. Even simple hunger." She smiled, half shrugged, lifting her breasts. "Anything that goes wrong in a relationship, I start to think can be salvaged with sex."

  "It usually can be, if there's love involved."

  "I'm telling you this because I don't want you to get hurt."

  The way she had hurt Christian, he guessed, when she had gone back to Tommy. Apparently she had spent a lot of time working it out in her mind and knew what to watch for. Her conclusion was a good start, one they could build on. He considered her honesty a definite advantage.

  * * *

  In the shower, above the sound of the water pelting his shoulders, he finally asked, "Where are they? Los niños?"

  Distress, evidently brought on by the term, caused his curiosity to rage.

  She answered softly, "Marcus and Lizbett are with the Valasquez family in Houston. The twins are at Chandler house."

  "Marcus got slighted again."

  She flinched, but smiled. "They'll all be home tomorrow afternoon." She had the special skill of diverting concern. Circling his waist, she pressed her cheek against his soapy chest, seemingly content for the moment before raising her face to be heard. "I thought we—can you stay till then? Would you like to?"

  "I have to feed Delilah." He loved the quick furrowing between her brows. He laughed. "You mean stay as in wake up together?"

  She smiled, eyes tolerant.

  "Maybe have a bath in that tub?" Lavish. Marble and gold.

  "If you'd like."

  He shut off the water, pulled a towel into the stall and dried her, slowly, thoroughly. "Maybe try that rug together?"

  She nodded.

  "God truly is benevolent."

  When she entered the closet he realized she had been busy since last night. One whole side of the space was vacant. She came out belting a robe around her. He tried to temper his surprise when she offered him a man's black terry robe.

  "I saved this for you," she said softly.

  He pulled the garment onto his nude body, tied the belt, his eyes holding hers. "Do you think I can fill it?"

  "Easily." She moved into the circumference of his arms, raising her mouth for his kiss. "You should know though—" She reached up, ran her fingertips across his mouth, touched them to her own lips. "I have to tell you this."

  "Go for it." He lacked his projected assurance.

  "A part of me will love Tomas Cordera forever." Her eyes, deep pools of wet moss, grew somber. "Can you understand that at all?"

  "I understand completely."

  She appeared comforted. "Partly because of Marcus. Partly because Tommy was my first. I suppose partly because of what Coby—the way Tommy was ripped away from me."

  Zac held her tighter.

  "He awakened depths in me... in my very soul... "

  He wasn't sure how much more he could have taken.

  "If I could, Victoria, I'd shake his hand and thank him. I'm sure he was the perfect lover, because he left the most beautiful and sensitive woman I've ever known."

  "You're kind," she whispered. "I've been called passive. Too passive." Wounds behind the statement lay open, seeping.

  He slipped his fingers into the waist of her loosely tied robe. Kneeling to the deep pile of the coveted rug, he drew her down with him, whispering gently, "Your passivity works for me."

  That worked for her, seemingly passionately.

  * * *

  "And this is what you've been doing, since you came back from New York two weeks ago? Since I alienated you that Sunday at Fischer's Landing?"

  They had eaten and now he perched on the corner of her desk in the study off the kitchen, sketches of dress designs in his hand. He shuffled them, revealing his admiration.

  "Yes. It feels good to be productive again. I'm so fortunate to have this place to work— not to have to leave the children." She took back the sketches and placed them on a drafting table. "The light in here is wonderful in the day."

  He looked around the room. Those same shades of blue and cream prevailed, accented strongly with an almost-chocolate hue, understated. Tasteful. Tomas Cordera's office, he recalled, from the media accounts.

  "I'm having a painter in—this week—to tone down the color to something more in keeping with my design image."

  And more in keeping with her endeavor to elude the ghost.

  He reached to the corner of the desk for a blown-up version of the snapshot she had shown him in Portofino, blond toddlers sleeping in each other's arms. The original, which had been faded and wrinkled, edges frayed, was now elaborately framed, painstakingly reproduced into portrait quality.

  "You showed me this in Portofino." Curious, a little disturbed, he paced himself.

  "I'm captivated by... the innocence." Her words were barely audible.

  He crossed to a small wall space filled with candid photographs of Christian and the twins at various age intervals. Some photos featured Victoria with the twins and Marcus, but there were none of the five of them as a family unit. The display underlined volumes he hoped she would disclose in time. He envisioned her drawing a line through Christian's name—in relation to her. She evidently intended to preserve his image for his children.

  A large photograph framed incongruously in dark leather and weathered wood stirred his curiosity. Tomas Cordera, surrounded by adolescent Mexican children, all boys, held a baby Zac assumed to be Marcus. He seized the picture from the wall, studied it, then looked to her for an answer.

  "I brought that from the ranch... Rosharron."

  "Who are they?"

  She shook her head. He imagined he could feel her throat constrict. Her eyes misted, pleading and denying.

  "Is the baby Marcus?"

  She forced a smile, attempted a bluff. "Do you enjoy making women cry?" "Yeah. I find red eyes and drippy noses erotic. It triggers my macho urge to fix everything." He smiled encouragement.

  She blinked, dotted her cheeks with delicate fingertips.

  "Was Tommy a Big Brother? Times five?" He saw the issue was more complicated than that. "Was he into philanthropic works? Was he a pedophile?"

  "Zac—"

  "I want to know." The truth obviously agonized her. "Give it to me and it won't hurt so much."

  Tears brimmed again, spilled over, ran freely.

  He rehung the picture, took her in his arms and waited.

  "We met them—the five boys—in Mexico. Manzanillo. We called them Los Niños."

  He recalled her distress in the shower.

  "When we—before I married Christian, Tommy and I were apart. Broken up for a time. He brought them here and eventually adopted them. He built the childrens' wing upstairs."

  Zac nodded. Sketchy, but one more question answered.

  "We loved them. They were our children... together." She pulled away, went to stand at the window, staring down.

  He resumed his perch on the desk, resisting the urge to hold her. "Are you all right? If it's too hard—"

  "Los Niños were at Rosharron with Tommy those last three days, when Christian went on that mission, and I came to Texas to be with Tommy. That's when Tommy's wife was killed. When he was in jail, charged with her murder, he arranged to send Los Niños back to Manzanillo with the Rosharron caretakers." She seemed to regroup and try to make it simpler for him. "You see, the caretakers were there, too, with Tommy and Los Niños and me when Anita was killed. He was afraid the children or the caretakers would tell the police I was at Rosharron with him, and he never intended anyone to know."

  Zac had imagined Victoria and Tommy Cordera fornicating non-stop for that infamous three days, sealed in an erotic frenzy. His vision altered abruptly, sweetening.

  "We were all supposed to reunite in Mexico. We didn't know if there would be a trial or if they'd find the real killer, but I couldn't take that chance. I told his attorney I was with him at the time of the
murder." Her attempted shrug emerged as a kind of tremor. "The rest you know. When Tommy died, Andrea spirited me back to Europe. I never saw Los Niños again." She hugged herself, rocked a little, crying. "Marcus helps to fill that void as well as the one left by Tommy's death."

  "Did you try to find them? Los Niños?"

  "Yes. I couldn't. It's as if I never really had them."

  His macho urge was daunted. He couldn't fix this.

  * * *

  An early riser, Zac lay awake the next morning watching her sleep until she stirred, then opened her eyes.

  "Hi," he said. "Are you fearful? Insecure? Lonely? Craving attention? Hungry?"

  She stretched, secured the sheet to her. "In my whole life, I've never felt the way I feel now."

  "How?" He tugged the sheet away, ran the backs of his fingers over her breasts, holding her eyes captive with his.

  "Calm. Peaceful. Filled up."

  That covered it perfectly. "I told you. This is the way it's going to be. Trust my prophesies. I'm going to take care of you. All four of you."

  She smiled tolerantly.

  "Do you love me?" She'd had two weeks to think about it, since Fischer's Landing, two weeks and the last twelve hours.

  She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, her breasts rising appealingly beneath his hand.

  "Do you, Victoria?"

  Her pent-up reluctance vaporized as she released breath into the sun-filled room. She moved against him. His very skin imploded.

  "I do, Zac. How could I not?"

  "You're sure?"

  She kissed him, moved back, pursing her lips, brow furrowed thoughtfully. She kissed him again, nibbled the corner of his mouth, ran her tongue over her lips.

  His groin jumped predictably.

  "Yes. I love you, Daniel Zaccheus Abriendo."

  "Enough to share your children with me?"

  She nodded.

  "Your life? With no reservations?"

  She nodded, smiling.

  "Enough to marry me and change your name one more time?"