by Mary Campisi
“Answer me, Kate.” He closed in on her, forcing her against the bed. “Were there others after I left? Once you had it, did you crave it, no matter who it was?”
She slapped his face. “How dare you!”
He grabbed her wrists and backed her up until her calves cut into the edge of the bed. “How dare you lie to me.”
“I didn’t lie. Julia isn’t your child.”
“I think we’ll let a blood test decide that.”
“She’s not your daughter.” Not in any way that counts.
“We’ll see.”
“Please. Don’t subject her to that.”
He leaned in close, his gaze slipping to her lips. “I just want the truth, Kate.” His voice dipped. “All of it.”
“There’s nothing else.”
He let out a low rumble of laughter that gripped her insides. “Oh yes, there’s a lot of truth that hasn’t come out.” He released one of her wrists and traced her lips with his fingers. “So many truths that need unearthed.”
She blinked, trying to deny the rush of pleasure surging through her. Dear God, she did not want to remember how good it had been with him.
“Did you ever think of me in all those years? Ever wonder where I was, what I was doing?” He eased a finger between her lips. “Wonder if you’d hurt me, maybe broken my heart?”
She closed her eyes and flicked her tongue over his finger. Does the right hand ever forget the left? The mouth forget the tongue?
“Did you ever wish he were me beside you?” He slid his finger from her mouth. “Wish it were me inside you?” he whispered seconds before his lips found hers.
Kate whimpered. She wanted to get away from him, away from this truth, but her body betrayed her as Rourke coaxed her mouth open, stroked her tongue until she cried out and grabbed fistfuls of his T-shirt.
He buried his hands in her hair and muttered, “Sweet Jesus, there’s never been anyone like you.” The kiss deepened, tongue to tongue, teeth to teeth, deeper and deeper until she could think of nothing but the years of longing and emptiness away from him. His hands stroked her back, molded her butt, and pulled her against his arousal.
“I’ve never stopped wanting you, Kate.”
I’ve never stopped loving you, Rourke.
“All those years, I never forgot how good we were together.” He ground against her, slow and easy, his breath ragged inside her mouth.
She slid her hands under his shirt, along the tight muscles of his back, up to his shoulders and then lower to the waistband of his shorts. There might be years and secrets between them, but the passion hadn’t died; one tiny spark and they were both on fire. And that was not something Kate could lie about.
“I want you,” Rourke murmured, his large hand pushing her shirt aside to cup her breast. “I’ve imagined this too many times.” He eased her onto the bed and lay beside her.
Don’t think. Just feel. Kate lifted his shirt and helped him out of it. His body gleamed with sweat and muscle and she could think of nothing but the feel of him against her. Inside her. He reached around and unclasped her bra with an expertise she chose not to think about.
“Tell me you want me, Kate. Tell me you haven’t forgotten.”
She couldn’t. If she uttered one word he would hear the need pulsing there and know life without him had been lonely. She couldn’t betray Clay, who had been a faithful, loving husband and deserved so much more than a woman who could not give her whole heart.
Rourke clasped her chin between his fingers and stared at her. “Tell me. I can see it on your face. You want me. Say it.”
Kate bit her lower lip to keep from blurting out the words. I can’t. Don’t you understand?
“Damn you,” he muttered before he kissed her again with a fierceness that left her both shaken and exhilarated. His hands found their way to the zipper on her jeans and he inched it open until his fingers skimmed the silk of her panties. “Tell me to stop now, Kate, or I swear to God, I’m not going to.”
In answer, she pulled his tongue into her mouth and sucked. He let out a muffled curse and went wild. She was naked in ten seconds and five swift jerks of his practiced hand. He was naked in three, buried deep inside in four, with her legs hiked high over his back as he pumped into her with the strength of ten Olympians. They both shattered in less than sixty seconds.
Late afternoon summer noises drifted through the window—a lawnmower, the ice cream truck, a dog barking. Kate had heard none of these moments ago, yet now they swirled around the bed, tormenting her with their ordinariness. They had a right to be here, in her neighborhood, in her bed. In her life. Rourke Flannigan did not.
He moved first, easing from her with an awkwardness that was at odds with the superman agility he’d exhibited seconds before. He didn’t look at her as he pulled on his shorts and snagged his shirt from the bedpost. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
His voice sounded raspy and uncertain. “No.”
He blew out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair which still bore the marks of her fingers. “I’m not usually so…” He paused and cleared his throat. “I’m usually much more…” He faltered again.
Kate pulled her shirt closed and thrust the edge of the comforter over her waist. This was what it felt like to have sex with a stranger.
“Look,” finally he met her gaze, “I’ve never hurt a woman, forced a woman, or been rough with a woman.” He cursed under his breath, “And I’ve certainly never embarrassed myself with a millisecond performance like what just happened. I’m sorry.”
“For what? Losing control?”
He flashed a dark, angry look at her and yanked his shirt over his head. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Then consider us even.” She looked away and concentrated on the hydrangea pattern of the comforter. “I’ve never been one to lose control either.”
“You’re okay?”
She nodded, her eyes burrowed into a lavender bloom. “I’m fine.”
“This shouldn’t have happened. Not now. Not when there’s too much unfinished business between us.”
“I know.” I will remember ever second of it.
“It’s going to confuse everything.”
“Probably.” I would do it all over again.
“Is that all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” I love you, Rourke Flannigan, I never stopped loving you.
Kate watched him out of the corner of her eye as he bent to retrieve his tennis shoes. He hesitated, waiting for her to say more, and when she didn’t, his lips flattened into a hard line and he said, “I still want a blood test. If Julia’s mine, we’re going to have a lot to talk about.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter 12
“One year or three, when a person feels as though they’ve known someone a lifetime, what does it matter?—Janice Prentiss
Journal entry—May 4, 2002
I’m pregnant. The baby is due at Thanksgiving and Clay is delirious with excitement. I am happy—and hopeful this baby will make me forget you, once and for all. Some days I really do hate you for leaving me with a hole in my heart that keeps me from loving another man completely.
What would happen if we had never known one another and then met on the street one day? Would there be this instant attraction? This obsessive need to be together? Would you even notice me?
My stomach isn’t flat like it used to be. Even when I’m not pregnant, there’s a tiny pooch that won’t go away no matter how many sit-ups I do. I have stretch marks on my belly—faint and silvery, but I know they’re there. Would you? Would you care?
I am sad today and tired. Clay’s family is coming for dinner and then we’re celebrating Julia’s 6th birthday.
***
It was close to four thirty by the time Rourke jogged back to the Manor, showered, and made it to the office. He was in no mood to talk to anyone, and hoped Maxine had left for the day.
Damn, how could he have made such a mes
s of things? He’d had no business touching Kate, not yet, and good God, certainly not like a starved lecher. She said he hadn’t hurt her but how could that be true when he’d half attacked her?
And then what had he gone and done? He did not even want to consider it, but the truth tortured him with remembering. Premature ejaculation. Just thinking the words made him queasy. He’d never had that problem before, why now? Had she even climaxed?
He certainly hadn’t given her much pleasure; no wonder she couldn’t look him in the eye. Had she done so, he’d have seen disappointment, or worse, pity. Christ. She probably thought he always behaved that way. Next time would be different. Next time she’d moan with pleasure and an earth-shattering climax that would not make him wonder if she enjoyed it. Next time. He grew hard at the thought of Kate stripped and spread on his bed like a sumptuous dessert.
“Mr. Flannigan?”
Wide open and inviting…a tantalizing feast.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Rourke turned to find a semi-frantic Maxine wringing her hands against her tweed-clad middle. “Maxine?” Her pale skin looked transparent and brittle. “What’s wrong?”
“I tried to call you, sir.” The hand wringing grew more urgent. “But I was unable to reach you.”
“Yes, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck and tried to push images of Kate’s naked skin from his brain. “I was detained.”
She merely nodded. The woman had seen him through more than one sticky situation, usually involving women who did not know when the relationship was over, and whether or not she thought his current detainment had anything to do with Kate, well, Maxine was too discreet to mention it. Besides, it appeared she was too caught up in her current dilemma to wonder at his whereabouts.
“What is it, Maxine?” Now her face had switched from pale to paste.
She inched toward him in her respectable black pumps and said in a low voice, “You have a visitor, sir.”
“Oh?” Perhaps Kate had called Angie Sorrento and now the Wicked Witch of the West was waiting for him with a hatchet, ready to neuter him.
“It’s Ms. Prentiss, sir.” She motioned toward the restroom. “She arrived ten minutes ago.”
“How did she find out I was here?”
“It was the temporary assistant filling in for me. Apparently, Ms. Prentiss persuaded her to give up the information as to your whereabouts.”
“What possible method of persuasion could convince someone to disclose information they were expressly warned not to disclose?”
Maxine’s hand wringing started up again. Her gaze darted toward the bathroom door and she whispered, “She said she was your fiancé, sir.”
“What?”
“She said she was—”
“I heard you the first time. Where did she get that idea?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps it was the recent trip to Tiffany’s you took with her?”
Rourke shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered, “A mere ploy to avoid an engagement.”
“Sir?”
“I bought her a bracelet, not a ring. I never said a damn thing about a ring. Why would she think I wanted to marry her?” A trip to Switzerland was one thing, but marriage? Hardly. He hadn’t thought of marriage for years. Fourteen to be exact.
His ruminations were disturbed by the clack-clacking of stilettos and a loud, presumptuous, “Darling, where have you been?”
“Hello, Janice,” Rourke said, removing his hands from his pockets to greet her. She fell against him in a half-swoon, draped her arms around his neck, and sighed.
“I have missed you so, my darling.”
“It’s only been three days.”
Her eyes glittered with tears as she gazed up at him and murmured, “It’s felt like three years.”
Janice was an actress. Small time stuff, a few hand commercials, a fill in on a bath soap, and a room deodorizer. She descended from a long line of blue bloods and had attended Vanderbilt for economics. A brilliant woman who preferred to play the ‘helpless female with two brain cells’ routine, even though her father had promised to pass along fifty-one percent controlling interest in his investment firm if she would give up acting and join the firm. Janice refused.
Rourke disengaged himself from her willowy frame and forced a smile. “We haven’t even known each other three years.”
She stuck out her Botox-injected lip and wrinkled her nose at him. “One year or three, when a person feels as though they’ve known someone a lifetime, what does it matter?”
Rourke worked a hand over his face and vowed to fire the whole damn temporary agency. But first he had to deal with Janice. “Maxine and I have been very busy. We really aren’t going to have time to socialize.”
“That’s perfectly fine.” She smiled up at him and click-clacked over to the side of Maxine’s desk, where she lifted a Louis Vuitton tote and said, “I’ve got loads of magazines to get through.”
Loads. Great.
“I’ll just sit right here,” she perched on the edge of one of his chairs, “and mind my own business.” She reached a slender hand inside the bag and retrieved a copy of Mademoiselle. “Hair, the perfect accessory. Hmmm.” She toyed with a straight lock of black hair.
Rourke rolled his eyes at Maxine and shook his head. Janice was beautiful and entertaining, and when she wasn’t putting on a show, a keen intelligence flowed from her that captivated him. And then there was the bedroom. And the living room. And the car. Front and back seat. She was a creative, enticing lover. But she was not Kate. The reality of this truth struck him. She was nothing like Kate. None of his women were. Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen them.
“Did you know they’re coming out with a lime and salsa conditioner?” Janice pointed a perfect red nail at the page. “Maybe they’ll make a cilantro shampoo to go with it.”
Rourke glanced at Maxine whose small lips puckered just enough to make him think she was imagining the lime between her lips. “How long are you staying?”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until she looked up and cooed, “As long as you need me, Rourke.”
Just one time, he wished she’d lose the stage voice and say something real. But she wouldn’t, or maybe she couldn’t verbalize, unlike some people he knew who had no problem saying exactly what was on their mind. “I’ve got a lot going on, Janice, and I wouldn’t be able to spend any time with you.”
She stroked her red nails from knee to thigh and threw him a sultry smile. “We’d have the nights.”
Rourke cleared his throat. “My niece is staying with me.”
“Which is why I’ve booked the room across the hall from you.”
Damn that temporary agency for sending him a blabbermouth. Maybe he’d sue the agency for breach of confidentiality. What the hell was wrong with him? What man wouldn’t want Janice in his bed? The answer stung his brain—he didn’t want her in his bed. All because of Kate and this afternoon.
“…so we can grab dinner and once you put Annie to bed, you can come visit me.” She sat up straighter so her boobs pushed against her tight black knit sweater—for his express benefit since he was the only male in the room.
“Abbie,” he corrected. “Her name’s Abbie. Short for Abigail.”
“Oh, well, Abbie then. Put Abbie to bed,” she lowered her voice, fingered the opening of her sweater, “and then I’ll put you to bed.”
Chapter 13
“The owner of the parent company is a celebrity of sorts; handsome, charismatic, well-connected, with a pristine record in the industry that has prospective partners begging him to do a deal.”—Edmund Dupree III
Sophie’s Diner boasted the best burgers and fries in Montpelier. It was the only reason Kate agreed to forgo the waffle and egg dinner she’d planned. At least that’s what Julia thought. The real reason had nothing to do with Sophie’s french fries. The real reason had to do with Rourke Flannigan.
What they’d done in her bedroom earlier had stolen Kate’s d
esire to cook, or eat, or do anything other than berate herself for such weakness. When she wasn’t remembering the feel of his arms around her, the thrust of his hips, the power of his—
“Mom? Can I get a milkshake, too?”
Kate tried to refocus. “What?”
“Wake up, Mom. Can I get a milkshake, too?”
“Sure.” Julia had the same high cheekbones as her father.
“You want one?”
“No, I’ll stick with my Diet Coke.” The same small earlobes, too. And of course, the same slate eyes. She was not going to lose Julia, no matter what she had to do.
“Hey, there’s Abbie and Maxine!” Julia waved to them as they waited for a booth. “Can they eat with us?”
Kate was surrounded by Rourke; his secretary, his niece…his daughter…his scent still clinging to her pores. “Sure,” she let out on a long sigh.
“Over here!” Julia waved her hand at Abbie. “Wanna join us?”
The secretary looked uncomfortable with the offer which made Kate wonder what she knew. Abbie ignored the woman and plopped down in the booth next to Julia, leaving Maxine no choice but to follow.
They’d barely had time to glance at their menus when Abbie burst out giggling. “You should see who’s come to visit Rourke. Her name is Janice. She’s a trip, isn’t she, Maxine?”
Janice?
“Abigail, Mr. Flannigan’s private business is not our concern.”
Abbie scrunched her nose. “Come on, Maxine, Janice is a piece of plastic wrapped in Versace. What’s he see in her anyway, other than the big boobs?”
