Her Secret, His Child

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  He would kiss her then, his mouth hot for hers. Her lips would be soft and welcoming, her breathing as strained as his. Perhaps he would tease her with his tongue. Perhaps she would tease him with hers. When they were both trembling, their breathing frantic, he would lift her into his arms and carry her to her room.

  He would undress her slowly, taking his time, building the fires hotter. Her skin would be creamy in the moonlight, her breasts full and quivering, her thighs parting eagerly.

  Tension skittered through him, twisting and turning his flesh into hard painful ropes. Just thinking about the first few times he'd had sex after he'd gotten his braces had his hands balling on his thighs and his gut tightening. For the first time since he'd lost his virginity at the age of sixteen, he'd failed to satisfy his partner. Worse, he'd actually reduced her to tears of pity.

  It had gotten better, but not much. Reduced mobility had a way of making a guy plan every move. Most women he knew wanted spontaneity in their lovemaking. And a man to take charge. Sometimes, he actually wished he'd ended up impotent. Maybe then he would be content with making love to Caroline Alderson in his mind without wanting more. Much, much more.

  * * *

  Carly woke suddenly to find herself sobbing silently into her pillow. Her cheeks were wet, the linen pillow slip wetter. Her heart was racing, her breathing erratic. She'd been dreaming of that night. Party time in the desert. Meet the guy of your dreams and fall in love.

  Because he was so big, she hadn't expected gentleness, but he'd drawn off her clothes piece by piece with such sweet patience, each kiss more draining than the one before.

  His mouth had toyed with hers while his long, supple fingers stroked her breasts. His skin was bronze perfection, slick with the sweat of anticipation. His long legs stretched between hers, the lean muscles hard, their strength prodigious.

  Carly remembered how her heart had raced, how her lungs had gasped for air. At the same time she'd dug her hands into the taut line of his shoulders, her fingertips barely making a dent in the layered muscle and sinew.

  "Relax, Sarah, honey," he'd murmured, his mouth skimming her cheekbone, her temple, her ear. "We have all night."

  She could still feel the sheets slick and clinging beneath her back as she writhed uncontrollably. His hands had been skillful, skimming her newly tanned skin, leaving her flesh tingling and alive.

  He'd known just where to kiss her, just how to stroke her to make her forget eighteen years of dutiful compliance with her mother's teachings. Wildly she'd arched upward, tangling her legs with his, legs she had admired from a distance, legs sheathed in skintight football pants, shifting with power and dexterity as he uncorked another touchdown bullet.

  "Ah, baby, you're beautiful, so beautiful." He ran his palm over her skin. "You make me crazy … can't wait much longer."

  His fingers slipped between her thighs to caress her, and she cried out in surprise and pleasure. His finger explored gently, and then more aggressively, until it was fully extended inside her.

  She stopped breathing, a thousand sensations assailing her. His breathing was loud in her ear, and his skin was damp and hot, causing the white-blond hair on his chest to coil tightly.

  "Tell me you're ready," he demanded hoarsely, his eyes nearly bronze in the dim light. Unable to speak, she stared up at him, her heart racing and her body screaming for his.

  He shifted slightly until his engorged body was nestled between her thighs. She felt slick heat, an insistent pressure.

  Panic burst someplace in her head, and then she was struggling, pushing hard at the arms that held him over her. "Wait," she tried to shout, but her cry was muffled by his mouth coming down hard on hers. What had been pleasure was now terror. Worse, she was helpless, trapped by the weight of heavy sinew and bone. Jerking her head sideways, she gulped air, her heart trying to pound through her skin.

  She tried to cry out, but his mouth was hot on hers again. Helpless, she raked his biceps with her nails, drawing thin bloody lines against the deep tan. His eyes glittered, his expression intense, and then, with a low guttural cry, he thrust throbbing and hard into her.

  The pain was beyond bearing, a knife slicing her in two. It seemed to go on and on, and then he collapsed on top of her, his face buried in the hollow of her shoulder. She tasted blood and realized she'd bitten through her lip. Through force of will, she swallowed her tears and waited for him to get up.

  The only sound in the room came from the mingling of their breathing, his slowing now, hers still frantic. Beyond the motel walls, she could hear the splashes and shouts of her fellow college students playing in the pool.

  "Please," she whispered. "Please let me up."

  There was no answer. Mitchell Scanlon, the man she'd thought she'd loved from the moment she'd seen his picture on TV, was sound asleep, oblivious to her silent sobs of remorse and pain, and the blood on the sheets.

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Carly had slept poorly, when she'd slept at all. She was already awake when the alarm rang at five-thirty. Her head was still fuzzy as she slipped into her favorite swim suit and padded through the silent house to the pool.

  Tilly was just putting out the coffee on the poolside table when Carly slipped into the glassed-in enclosure. Warm, chlorine-flavored air enveloped her instantly, chasing some, but not all, of the chill from her bones. Outside, the morning mist formed exotic patterns on the panes.

  Stomach growling at the enticing aroma rising into the steamy air, Carly returned the housekeeper's cheery greeting with a smile. "Did I smell cinnamon when I passed the kitchen, I hope, I hope?" she asked, just as she'd asked countless times as a child.

  "You hope right. I thought our guest might like some of my crumb cake for breakfast." Tilly cast a critical eye at the table she'd just arranged, then, frowning, wiped a smudge from the silver coffee service with the hem of her apron. When it was just the family in the house, they drank their coffee from sturdy mugs poured directly from the pot. But guests rated the heirloom silver and linen napkins, one of Felicity's ironclad rules.

  "How come you never make crumb cake when it's just us?" Carly asked as she stepped out of her robe and tossed it over the back of the nearest chair.

  After giving the silver one more swipe, Tilly shifted her attention to Carly's face. "Because your mama and your daughter are forever on a diet, that's why." Frowning, she allowed herself a thorough inspection of Carly's figure before clucking a maternal tongue. "You, on the other hand, could use another five or ten pounds. You're way too thin."

  Carly drew a deep breath and stretched her arms overhead, trying to work out some of the kinks from her restless night. "I always lose weight when I travel, you know that," she murmured, bending from side to side. "Just give me a few days of your cooking, and I'll be as plump as a little butterball again."

  Tilly sniffed. "Not if you don't stop working day and night seven days a week, you won't."

  "Don't fuss, Tilly. I love my job." Bending from the waist, she let her hands drop toward her pink-tipped toes.

  "So did your pa, but he also had a family."

  "I have a family."

  "Half a family. You need a man next to you when the nights turn cold."

  "I have an excellent electric blanket." Carly grasped her ankles and visualized the tight muscles of her back and legs relaxing and wanning. "And I'm perfectly content with my life just the way it is."

  "Perfectly stubborn is what you are. A regular little mule. Always were, always will be, by my way of thinking."

  Laughing, Carly straightened slowly. "Then why do you keep trying to change me, darling Tilly?"

  "Because I have some of that mule in me, too," Tilly shot back. "And because I miss the loving young girl you were before you left a piece of your heart in Palm Springs."

  Carly felt a chill. "I left my childish illusions in Palm Springs. There's a difference." Finished stretching, she walked to the shallow end and executed a racing dive. The water was warm
er than the air, and almost as soothing as a bubble bath.

  At the end of the pool, she flipped quickly and slipped into her rhythm without losing her concentration. Warm now and fluid, her muscles flexed and contracted easily.

  Her mind drifted, lulled by the hypnotic stretch and pull of her movements. The water stroked her skin, lap by lap releasing the tension she'd brought with her to the pool.

  Winded now, she forced herself to concentrate on the last turn. Her arms and legs felt heavy, and her lungs burned. One lap to go, and then she would have earned her first cup of coffee.

  Sensing the narrow pool's midpoint, she gave her all for the last few strokes, pushing herself to the limit. Her hand hit the slick tile at the shallow end, and she relaxed, exhilarated and exhausted. Straightening, she let her feet hit bottom as she tossed back her head and wiped the water from her face with both hands.

  "Looked like a sure first place to me."

  She recognized the voice before her startled gaze found the man himself. He was standing a few feet from the lip of the pool, the robe she'd left on a nearby chair now tossed carelessly over one broad shoulder. Viewed from below, he seemed taller than ever, with half his height in his legs and a heavily muscled chest that gave him the look of an extremely powerful man.

  True to his image, he was casually dressed in pleated twill slacks and a pale yellow polo shirt sporting the logo of his fitness center. The loafers attached to his braces were meticulously shined and obviously expensive.

  "Good morning," she managed to get out when she realized his grin had turned quizzical. "You're up early. I hope the splashing didn't wake you."

  "It didn't, but it did intrigue me enough to get me out of bed for a look-see."

  "Sorry. I guess I forgot how close the guest suite is to the pool," she said as she climbed the steps toward him.

  "Don't apologize. I was enjoying the view." Releasing one crutch, he handed her the robe.

  Belted safely inside the warm terry cloth, she retrieved her towel and wound it securely around her dripping hair. Barefoot, she padded to the table and poured herself a brimming mug of steaming French roast. Sipping greedily, she gestured to the extra cups on the tray, along with sugar and cream.

  "Do join me," she said as she slipped into her usual chair.

  "Thought you'd never ask."

  "Black?" she asked, leaning forward to pour.

  He nodded. "And two sugars." At her surprised look, he shrugged. "A guy's got to have some vices."

  "As long as they don't hurt anyone else." Settling back, she reached for her own mug. Cradling her cup under her chin, she let her eyes drift half closed as she breathed in the steam. She wouldn't permit herself to think about the past, only the future. The present was simply a means to an end.

  Scanlon went about the chore of sitting down and stowing his crutches, conscious that she was surreptitiously watching his every move. He wanted to be flattered. He knew better. She was simply curious. Everyone was. He figured he would get used to it someday.

  "What about you? What are your vices?" he asked, drawing the mug toward him.

  "Sorry, that's privileged information." She hooked a spare chair with her foot and drew it close enough to use as a footstool. He had a quick glimpse of shapely calves and tanned skin before she flipped the robe closed again.

  He felt his interest spike and then, like the persistent ache in muscles he could only half control, refuse to be leveled. "Nice place," he said, glancing around. "Yours or the college's?"

  "The college's now."

  "Now?" He lifted the mug to his mouth and drank. The coffee was stronger than he'd expected in a household of women.

  "The house and seven acres of land around it had always belonged to my family until three years ago."

  "What happened then?"

  "My father died. When his will was read, we discovered he'd left the house to Bradenton, with residency rights for my mother until her death."

  Not much for nuance, he nevertheless heard a sudden strain in her voice and wondered about her relationship with her father. "What about your rights?"

  She shrugged. "Father knew I could take care of myself. Besides, I intend to be Bradenton's president for a long time, so, in a way, the house is still mine."

  She tugged at the lapels of her robe until they were snug against her neck. Protecting herself? he wondered, shifting in the small wrought-iron chair.

  "Good weather for spring practice," he said, glancing upward. There was a light haze hovering over the arching glass, the kind that would burn off as soon as the sun moved higher.

  "Sunshine is always a pleasant surprise this time of year." Eyes narrowed against the glare, she lifted the cup to her lips for another sip, allowing herself a small sigh of pure enjoyment that had Mitch's lips twitching. So the cool and collected lady president was human after all.

  "Sounds like the stories I've heard about Oregon's gray skies might be true."

  "I'm afraid so." She glanced at the large, callused hand loosely curled around his cup. "If you're into a year-round tan, this isn't the place for you."

  "Funny, that's exactly what I told Coach when he bullied me into coming up here for a look-see."

  "Bullied?" She lifted one sleek eyebrow. "Surely not."

  "True story. Pete has a way of staring a guy into doing what Pete wants him to. J.C. Cobb used to hide in the locker room after a game if he'd bobbled a ball, just so Pete wouldn't have a chance to stare him into agreeing to extra practice."

  That won him the first smile of the day. It drew his attention to her lips, a serious mistake. No man working on nearly a year of celibacy should have to deal with such a lush mouth first thing in the morning. Averting his gaze, he brought the mug to his mouth and drank. The coffee slid down hard.

  "I'm curious, Mr. Scanlon. What makes you think you can succeed with the team when so many other, shall we say more experienced coaches have failed?" she asked as she leaned forward to refill her cup and his, leaving him to add the sugar himself.

  "Like I told Coach, I'm not sure I can succeed," Mitch admitted, giving his coffee a quick stir to settle the sweet. "I'm not even sure I want the job."

  "Then why make the trip up here at all?"

  He shrugged. "I owe Coach a few favors. I thought I might come up with a few suggestions that could help whoever does take the job."

  She started to reply, then turned her head at the sound of raised voices. Mitch recognized Felicity's sugared tone, genteel even at an increased volume.

  "Sounds like a difference of opinion," he commented wryly.

  Carly gave a good imitation of calm as she nodded, but her hands were suddenly ice cold. Relax, she told herself urgently. Nothing's going to happen.

  Tracy's musical laughter floated over the water as she and her grandmother entered the enclosure. "Oh, Grandmother, c'mon. You know these aren't rags. In fact, they're the latest style."

  Felicity's sniff of disapproval was easily audible. "I know they're not one bit flattering, whatever you want to call them."

  "Okay, we'll leave it up to Mom. She's got great taste."

  As they both looked to the woman seated opposite him, Mitch noted a striking resemblance between Felicity and her granddaughter. Even more striking was the resemblance between the teenager with the dynamite grin and the woman across from him. Her name was … Tracy. Yeah, that was it. One of those unisex names, although the girl herself was already well on her way to becoming a knockout.

  In spite of the oversize shirt flapping almost to her knees, she carried herself with the same poise as her mother, but the fair hair that seemed so carelessly tousled was more honeyed than Dr. Alderson's, framing a face that hadn't yet come into its full promise. Taller than her mother, she had enough curves on that long stretch of body to make some hapless adolescent forget his name, and yet her golden eyes radiated the guileless innocence of a child.

  Mitch sipped coffee and thought about the man who had fathered her. Had he ever given a thou
ght to the kind of rearing she would get? The environment that would form her? Or had he simply deposited his sperm and moved on?

  God knows, he'd done his share of tomcatting. For an unsophisticated kid with a hunger for life and a lot of years of loneliness behind him, UCLA had offered ripe pickings. He'd dated—and bedded—his fair share of cheerleaders, sorority women and even several graduate assistants in his four whirlwind years. And then he'd taken the kiss-her-senseless-and-hustle-her-into-the-nearest-bed routine one step too far.

  The details were hazy and distorted by a lousy drunk's selective memory. The girl had been older than Tracy by a good three or four years, and he could only remember her first name, Sarah, but he would never forget the shame that had scalded through him when he'd emerged from an alcoholic stupor to find her virginal blood on his sheets. For the rest of his stay at the Springs he'd searched for her night and day, but she'd simply vanished. He had prayed then, the way he'd never prayed as a child, that he hadn't made Sarah pregnant. To his dying day, he would always regret that one drunken, irresponsible night in the desert and fervently hope that Sarah had forgiven him for making her first sexual encounter a drunken disaster.

  "Mom, you've got to settle this!" Flouncing over to the table, the girl gave her mother an intense look.

  "Seems like I've heard that before." Laughing, Carly shook her head and pulled her daughter down for a hug. Mitch wasn't much for analyzing emotions, his own or anyone else's, but he recognized the real thing when he saw it, and Dr. Alderson was obviously crazy about her daughter. The kid seemed to feel the same about her mom. It was the kind of relationship he respected, even though he knew it wasn't for him. Caring meant sharing chunks of yourself with someone else, and that was something he no longer wanted to risk.

  Catching sight of Scanlon, Felicity replaced her disapproving look with a warm smile. "Good morning, Mitchell. I hope you'll forgive the confusion, but it does appear that my granddaughter has suddenly lost her mind." Turning on her daughter, she bored in, her social mask still firmly in place. "She won't listen to me, darling. Perhaps you'll have better luck."