The Passions of Chelsea Kane

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Damn right. But you did.” He swore. In the next instant his mouth covered hers. She tried to turn her head away. When he wouldn’t allow that, she tried to keep her lips shut, but he ate at her resolve with hungry bites until, with a cry of surrender, she gave in.

  What happened then was like the lightning that should have come with the storm. She felt a blinding stroke, an intense need, then heat surging through her body. Before she knew what had happened, Judd had her shorts down and his jeans opened. Lifting her off the ground, he impaled her.

  She cried out his name, holding on now for dear life. She didn’t understand how she could want him this way, but the wanting filled her being.

  His voice was like gravel. “Wrap your legs around my waist, baby . . . There . . . There.” Using the tree for leverage, he thrust into her again and again until, with a high keening sound, she came. Within seconds he was pulsing powerfully inside her. Long after the pulsing ended, his body continued to tremble.

  “Jesus,” he finally breathed, then said it again in a shaky sigh.

  She clung to his neck, determined to stay that way forever. Her existence was in layers, richness on satisfaction on drowsiness. Rain fell all around them, but it couldn’t dampen the sated glow she felt.

  “Chelsea?”

  Her face was pressed to the side of his neck. “Hmm?”

  “I didn’t use anything. Is that a problem?”

  It was a minute before she understood what he meant. “No problem,” she whispered meekly.

  After several more minutes he helped her with her shorts. When his jeans were fixed, he guided her back to the Blazer. She didn’t argue this time. She was feeling mellow and tired. She curled against him during the short drive to the farmhouse and took shelter under his arm for the walk inside. He led her upstairs and into the bathroom, where he undressed her, then himself. Once in the shower, he soaped her, turned her to rinse, separating her hair under the shower’s spray. He toweled her dry at the end.

  She was exhausted. It wasn’t six in the evening, but when he settled her against him in bed, she fell quickly asleep.

  JUDD DIDN’T SLEEP, BUT WATCHED HER WHILE SHE DID. SMALL things intrigued him—the paper delicacy of her eyelids, the gentle bow of her mouth in repose, the flush on her cheeks. When he touched her hair, it curled around his finger with a life of its own. When he skimmed a hand over her shoulder, she extended her arm over his chest, as though to hold him more tightly.

  He should have felt smothered by her need for nearness—he was sure he would in time—but for now he didn’t mind. It was novel. He never lingered with a woman this way, usually rolled out of bed the minute the loving was done. He had always been anxious to be on his way so that he could send home whoever was staying with Leo.

  He didn’t feel in a rush now. Chelsea felt good against him. Her body was warm and soft, supple in the way of an athlete, but feminine. He supposed part of that had to do with her breasts. They were larger than he had thought they’d be, which wasn’t to say she was top heavy, just that there was plenty to touch.

  He liked her bed, too. And her room. Funny, but he would have pegged her for a white lady—white bed, sheets, walls—after seeing what she’d done with the attic in town. The feeling there was one of openness. Here, in the rust-colored sphere she’d created, the opposite was true. Rather than being claustrophobic, though, the room was cozy. He wondered if it was deliberate, if she found security in it, if the part of her that no one saw needed hugging.

  Chelsea stirred. She stretched against him, moved her cheek on his chest, brought a knuckle to her eye in the kind of gesture Judd had seen in children dozens of times. Then that eye opened. With the realization of where she was, she went still for a minute before tipping her head back and meeting his gaze.

  “What time is it?” she whispered.

  “Eight or so.”

  “I didn’t mean to sleep.”

  “You were worn out.” She still looked tired, he thought. Without makeup there were faint shadows under her eyes. He wondered if she was working too hard or if she was simply more vulnerable to pressure than she let on.

  She shifted, took a deep, still-sleepy breath, and came to rest with her eyes headed across his chest. “I’m sorry about before. I kinda lost it. That doesn’t happen often.”

  So he figured. “What caused it?”

  She didn’t answer at first. He could see a tiny crease between her eyes, above the smooth, straight line of her nose. “I don’t know.” She thought for another minute, then said, “Hunter came by and we were talking, and I touched a raw nerve and he left, and it hit me that people around here do that a lot, and it made me angry.”

  Judd liked her voice. There was a rhythm to it, a melody, which really was funny, given that she claimed to be tone deaf.

  “I like having people around,” she explained in a way that didn’t demand a response. “From the time I was little, I liked it. I was an only child, so maybe there was security in belonging to a group of friends. It wasn’t that I was unhappy being home alone—I mean, I was never really home alone, there was always a housekeeper or a nurse or someone like that—but I liked having friends around more.”

  Judd had been an only child, too, only he hadn’t been so lucky. Most days, after school when he was little, he had been home alone—really home alone—until his father got back from work. Basketball had given him a place to go. It had also given him a sense of belonging. So he understood what Chelsea meant.

  “I’m a talker,” she mused, then whispered a laugh that stirred the hair on his chest and tacked on a self-mocking, “obviously. My mother was that way. Not my dad, so much. He was busy at the hospital and all talked out by the time he got home. He was always there for my mother, but I think he mostly listened.” She whispered another laugh, an affectionate one this time. “Poor guy. Couldn’t get a word in edgewise when Mom and I got going.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In Baltimore?”

  “Sometimes. Not so much lately. He’s newly retired. He travels a lot.”

  Judd felt an almost imperceptible tension creep into her. She shifted again, as though to ease a subtle pang.

  “I miss him,” she said.

  So her father was one of the three she had mentioned. “Did he tell you not to come here?” That was what she’d implied when she’d been ranting in the rain.

  “He thought I should stay in Baltimore.”

  “Who here doesn’t want you?” She’d said that, too.

  “Everyone. No one. I don’t know.” She grew quiet. He waited for her to elaborate, but the quiet sounded suspiciously final. Then she seemed to reconsider.

  “There’s a lot I don’t know. I don’t know what this is supposed to be, this whatever it is that’s going on between you and me.”

  He didn’t know, either, so they were even.

  “I don’t do things like last night, or tonight often”—the whispered laugh came again, dryly this time, along with the correction—“ever. I didn’t expect this. It’s not why I’m here.”

  He found some solace in the fact that she was as helpless against—and ambivalent about—the attraction as he was.

  She hurried the next words out. “I was annoyed when you didn’t come by the office today. I thought you’d want to say something or make sure I was all right or talk about whether it meant anything or whether it was going to happen again. I was feeling very confused. So I guess I was touchy. Hunter annoyed me, so I left the office in a snit, and then I went out running and went too far, and then you came along.”

  Adorably, she seemed to run out of breath, but only for a minute. “I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be attracted to anyone this way. I really don’t. There’s too much else going on in my life.”

  “I thought you said you liked having friends.”

  “I do. But we’re not friends. We’re—“

  “Lovers.”

  “Lover
s. But I want friends. I want people to talk to and play with and have dinner with. I thought for sure I’d come here and meet people, and I have, but other than Donna, they keep me at arm’s length. What do they have against me, other than that I’m from the big city and have money and that I bought part of the granite company?”

  He nearly laughed. She’d covered most everything. “You’re beautiful, too. That makes them nervous.”

  She tipped her head back and argued, “I’m not beautiful, not really. I just make the most of what I have.”

  “Same difference.”

  “So why does that make them nervous?”

  “Because what you have is more than what they have. The men don’t make the money to give the women the means, and even if they did, the women wouldn’t have the style to pull it off. It’s a no-win situation. So they keep you at arm’s length.”

  She straightened her head. Her voice was quiet again when she spoke, vulnerable. “Will they always?”

  Judd didn’t have the answer to that. The Notch had been a closed community for as long as he could remember. Chelsea was unique in that she had bought into power. That could be good or bad.

  “It matters so much to you?” he asked.

  “I’ll die if I have to spend the next year of my life in solitude.”

  He wanted to remind her that she didn’t have to be there, that she could go back to Baltimore any time. But he didn’t. Because he wasn’t sure he wanted her running back there so quick. Because he liked holding her. For now.

  “You don’t have to spend the year in solitude,” he said.

  “But no one will talk with me.”

  “I’ll talk with you.”

  She looked up. “You will?”

  She looked so sweet that for the second time in as many minutes, he nearly laughed. Instead he said, “Within reason. Three sentences at a time is my limit.”

  “Ah.” She put her head down again and said more quietly, “What about the other?”

  “What other?”

  “Sex.”

  He did laugh then. The sound surprised him, he hadn’t made it in so long a time. It had just slipped out.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The way you said the word. Like it’s something foreign.”

  “It is to me. This situation is, to me. I told you, Judd. I haven’t ever done anything like this before.”

  “Slept with the hired help?”

  “Slept with someone I don’t know.” She pushed herself up on his chest. “We haven’t exchanged two words before today.”

  “We have.”

  “Not about things of substance.”

  “Work isn’t substance?”

  “I’m not talking about work. I’m talking about personal things. Like your dad.”

  The laughter dried up inside him. “Nothin’ to talk about there. He’s sick. That’s all.”

  “Who’s with him now?”

  “Millie Malone.”

  “Does she stay with him all night?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Does he like her?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because I don’t want to be taking you away from him, if it means he’s unhappy.”

  Judd dragged in a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he looked back over years of wondering what Leo knew and felt and thought.

  “He’s not unhappy,” he finally said, and knew it was true. Leo was past knowing who fed him or washed him or put him to bed. In that, Judd was the unhappy one.

  Tossing back the sheet, he sat up on the edge of the bed. “Maybe we better not talk after all. Talking’s too painful sometimes.”

  “The pain doesn’t go away by ignoring it.”

  “For a little while it does.” He looked back over his shoulder to see her sitting, uncovered from the hips up, her hair a tangle of waves. “You want to know what this”—his dark eyes touched the bed—“means to me? It means a couple of hours away from the pain. If you can live with that, fine. If you can’t, let me know now and we’ll call it a day.”

  He saw her swallow, a graceful flex of her throat. He watched the movement of her eyes, falling from his to his neck, to his shoulders. He saw the beat of a tiny pulse above her breast, at the same time that she moistened her lips and raised her eyes again. “I can live with it,” she whispered.

  He brushed her nipple with the back of his hand, bringing a tiny cry from her throat. Her eyes closed; her breathing quickened. He retrieved his hand and waited while she recovered. After a minute she opened her eyes. Without guile she rose to her knees and moved to his side. She touched his chest, drawing large exploratory circles there in a pattern of gradual descent. Her hand passed his waist, still exploring, but paused at his abdomen.

  Taking her hand, he moved it lower. “I’m too old to play games. Or maybe too honest.” He curled her fingers around him and stoked the fire that raged in his gut. “I can give you this. I can give you satisfaction this way. Anything else and I don’t know.” Before she could say anything, he caught her mouth in a sucking way that locked her on and opened her lips. Then he filled her with his tongue because he liked the rawness of kissing that way. If she had trouble with it, he’d better know now.

  She kissed him back. That same way. Then straddled him, and took in every inch of the largest erection he’d ever had, and brought them both to climax in the space of minutes. Which went to show that his macho, I-can-give-you-this talk was pretty dumb. Which gave him something to think about other than Leo during the rainy drive home.

  Fourteen

  The Norwich Notch Historical Society was in a Federal-style house done up like a private home.

  When Chelsea arrived, Margaret and two others were seated at a dark mahogany dining room table, littered with debris that looked vaguely familiar.

  “From the Quilters Guild,” Margaret told her politely. “ ‘Twas clever of you to have the remnants from the attic boxed and stored. We’re finding treasures.” Before Chelsea could see quite what those treasures were, Margaret was introducing her to the others, ushering her into the parlor, then disappearing into the kitchen for a fresh pot of tea. She returned with a porcelain pot, poured Chelsea a cup, and disappeared again. This time she came back carrying an accordion-pleated folder bulging with yellowed newsprint.

  “The Norwich Notch Town Crier was our weekly then, too,” she explained. “These papers are from the time of Katie Love’s death. I take it you’ve come about that.”

  Chelsea had, but she also wanted to browse through the papers issued around the time of her birth. The library had them, but the library didn’t have Margaret, who struck Chelsea as a good source of information. She figured that since Hunter was just her age, under the guise of learning about his birth, she might pick up something about her own.

  Margaret settled onto a nearby rocker with the folder on her lap. “Well, then,” she said, and, as though that were enough, grew quiet.

  Chelsea knew enough about the woman now not to be fooled by her delicate look. Margaret Plum had a will of iron. She stoically did aerobics, efficiently directed pot-luck suppers and rummage sales, and zealously disliked Hunter Love. The last bothered Chelsea, who did like Hunter, but then Abby hadn’t always liked the doctors Kevin had taken under his wing. If one of those doctors had been Kevin’s illegitimate son, Abby would have been crushed. Not that Hunter was definitely Oliver’s son. But it was possible.

  Chelsea raised the tea to her lips and paused there to savor its smell. “Mango?” she asked, drawing the scent in again.

  “Apricot.”

  “It’s wonderful.” She had always liked tea, even more so when she’d been plagued by morning sickness. It settled her stomach, had a smoothness, a serenity, to it. Now that the first trimester of her pregnancy was done, the nausea had eased. Still, she welcomed the smoothness and serenity.

  “We like tea here,” Margaret said, crossing her ankles. She was wearing a plum-colored cotton dress that, with its high neck, long
sleeves, and fitted waist, looked aptly historical, particularly in comparison with Chelsea’s swingy cotton tunic and tights. “In winter especially. Donna told you of our teas, didn’t she?”

  “Uh-huh.” They took place in the library every Wednesday afternoon from October to May, the Notch’s version of high tea, with cucumber sandwiches, cream-cheese crackers, and carrot curls. Although in theory anyone was welcome, in practice the working women couldn’t come, which left Wednesday afternoon tea to the Notch’s upper crust.

  “Katie Love used to come to our teas,” Margaret said smugly. She watched Chelsea closely, clearly pleased by her surprise.

  “But Katie was the wife of a stonecutter.”

  “She was also an artist. Actually, a quilter. She did many of our finest designs, and since she worked with us, she joined us for tea.” Margaret’s tone changed. “That was before, of course. After, well, ‘twasn’t much we could say to her.”

  Chelsea sipped her tea in search of soothing. She was still slightly appalled by the way Katie Love had been treated and wondered whether her own birth mother had experienced the same. It seemed cruel to Chelsea that a woman would be punished for something that a man had done his share to create—but that was the feminist in her talking, the woman who planned to have a child out of wedlock and had no intention of being punished for it.

  “Who fathered her child?” Chelsea asked Margaret.

  “The devil.”

  Chelsea ignored that. “Was he a quarryman?”

  “He was the devil.”

  “Someone of stature in the town, someone who already had a wife and family of his own?”

  Margaret stared at her with her mouth closed and her eyes saying, “I’ve already told you who it was.”

  Chelsea didn’t believe in the devil, but she wasn’t about to argue with Margaret when there was plenty else to ask. “During the time Hunter was with Katie, those first five years when she kept him hidden away, didn’t anyone wonder about him?”

  “No. He was to have been given away.”

  Chelsea felt a tiny chill. “Given away?”

  “Adopted,” Margaret stated. “She said she’d made arrangements. ‘Pears she lied.”