by Laura Moore
Oh, Lord, the things Alex had done with her and to her. While Gen might not have a vast experience with sex, she knew with every fiber of her being that what she and Alex had shared last night went light-years beyond physical satisfaction. With every touch and lingering caress, with every kiss and glide of tongue and teeth, with every whisper and breathless gasp and moan, they’d worshiped each other body and soul. She’d never imagined that she could scale such heights while she lay wrapped in the arms of a man.
But that was it, wasn’t it—the crux of the matter?
Alex wasn’t any man.
He was the man she’d fallen hopelessly in love with.
It was a love that had been growing inside her. She wasn’t even sure when it had started. Perhaps she lost her heart at the Children’s Hospital, when she walked into the wing he’d built in memory of his brother and sister-in-law. But last night, as again and again she’d come apart in his arms, it was the feeling of Alex deep inside her, pouring his essence into her as he called out her name, which made her heart soar. And she had known that she belonged to him irrevocably, heart, body, and soul.
This love she had for Alex was so new and so infinitely precious, it frightened her. Staring at her reflection in the mirror she forced herself to admit the less than flattering truth: she was scared to say “I love you.” Afraid that if she voiced her feelings, Alex might think that she was asking for a commitment he wasn’t yet ready to make. Speaking the words might jeopardize the happiness she’d found.
She was being cowardly, she knew. But she also knew this impulse to protect her feelings was born from a real fear: her love might not be enough to surmount the vast differences in their lives; it might not be enough to keep Alex by her side.
She needed time to gain the confidence necessary to vanquish her fears. Until then, she’d keep her love for Alex safe in her heart. Until the day came when she could say all that was locked inside her, she would spend her time showing him.
The presence of Cassie, Caleb, and the twins, whom Gen had come to regard as two blond-headed firecrackers, full of mischief and spunk, made it impossible for her to worry over her tangled emotions about Alex or even her trepidation about the party later in the evening. She didn’t even have a chance to fret whether anything in her wardrobe might be fancy enough let alone glamorous enough for the occasion. No sooner had she returned from a long morning beach walk with Murphy and was climbing the wooden steps up to the stretch of lawn when Sophie’s distinctive, high-pitched voice cried, “There she is, Uncle Alex, there she is!”
Murphy instantly went into high gear, scrambling up the remaining steps. Gen heard a “Murphy, Murphy, hiya, boy!” followed by a loud “Oof!” and peals of laughter.
Gen raced to the top of the steps.
There were the twins rolling on the grass, laughing as if at some giant tickle-fest while Murphy licked their faces. “Uncle Alex, Mommy, Daddy, he’s kissing us!”
“More likely he’s washing your face, Jamie,” Cassie replied calmly, her arms crossed, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. “I noticed you did a pretty poor job of getting the maple syrup wiped off your cheeks. This is a mighty yummy breakfast for Murphy.”
“Here, I can get him off,” Gen offered hastily.
“Don’t bother,” Caleb said. “Murphy won’t hurt them—these two are indestructible.” He grinned as Murphy began licking Jamie’s fingers, while Sophie, watching, succumbed to another bout of giggles. “Besides, this is probably the best bath they’ve had in a while.”
Alex walked over to her. “Good morning,” he said before kissing her, his lips moving over hers with just enough pressure to remind her of everything they’d done last night. He’d showered and shaved, and she inhaled the fresh scent of soap mingled with the citrus overtones of his cologne, which her senses now exclusively associated with Alex. Pleasure zinged through her, her toes curling in the damp grass.
He released her to stare deeply into her eyes. “I missed you this morning.”
Did he know how much that simple sentence affected her? Striving for a light tone, she said, “I took Murphy out to run. With Sophie and Jamie here, a mellow, fatigued Murphy is definitely a good thing. I didn’t want to wake you. I figured you could use the sleep. As you got so little last night.”
His soft laughter fanned her cheeks. “You won’t hear me complaining. Although maybe later this afternoon you and I could sneak off for a little restorative nap.”
“That sounds tempting—and highly improbable,” she added with a pointed glance at Jamie and Sophie, who’d finally gotten to their feet and were practicing the “shake” command with Murphy. “Besides, some of us around here actually work for a living,” she added loftily.
“On a beautiful day like this?” he said in mock outrage. “That would be criminal. We were just talking about heading down to the beach after the grown-ups have ingested enough caffeine to survive until lunch. We’re going to bring some balls and Frisbees and buckets with us.”
“And don’t forget shovels, too,” Jamie chimed in, startling them both. “We’re gonna make a humongous sand castle. Right, Uncle Alex?”
With an “I told you so” arch of her brows, Gen murmured pointedly about “little pitchers having really big ears.”
Alex’s lips twitched. “Right.” He nodded at Jamie. “A humongous sand castle. So, are you as good at sand castles as you are everything else, Monaghan?”
After checking on her canvas Gen decided that maybe the second coat of gesso should dry a little longer. No sense ruining the painting by rushing things. Nevertheless, she packed her drawing pad, pencils, and pastels into her backpack, telling herself that at the very least she could make some sketches of the children at play.
Mrs. Miller declined their invitation to join them. She was going to take her morning walk on the beach and then drive into Bridgehampton for a hair appointment.
“Important to look your loveliest for Sam tonight,” Alex teased.
Mrs. Miller blushed and called Alex an impertinent rascal—but Gen noted that she didn’t exactly deny the charge. In spite of her trepidation, Gen realized that she was definitely intrigued by the prospect of meeting some of Alex’s friends, this Sam Brody topping her list.
Organizing the six of them took some time— changing into swimsuits, gathering up beach towels, finding the twins’ sunblock, getting a six-pack of water from the kitchen pantry, then locating a large tote bag that could hold all the paraphernalia—but at last, armed with buckets, shovels, and balls of various sizes, they trooped down to the ocean, Murphy dogging Alex’s every step.
They chose a spot a discreet distance from the other families and couples and spread out their stuff in a large semicircle. Everyone peeled off their shorts and T-shirts except for Gen, who instead dropped down on her towel and began rummaging through her backpack, pulling out her drawing pad, box of pastels, and pencils.
“Hey, you’re not planning to take this shirt off?” Alex said, squatting in front of her.
“Nope.” She opened up her tin box and selected an HB pencil. “If I stay out in the sun too long my freckles multiply exponentially.” Looking up, her insides melted at the sight of his leanly muscled chest. She willed her eyes not to travel south, fearing she’d start drooling if she hazarded a glance at the taut ridges of his abdomen, or the way his dark blue swim trunks were stretched tight around his splayed thighs.
Alex reached out and lightly fingered her shirt, one of her brother Benjamin’s discards, a threadbare white button-down that hung to midthigh, completely covering the tank suit she’d changed into. “Nothing wrong with a few more freckles. The more the merrier. I’m always ready to do a recount,” he offered, his mouth curving into a slow smile.
Gen’s body temperature soared as she remembered how she’d trembled and gasped while Alex counted and kissed his way into the hundreds. As casually as possible she reached for her bottled water and took a long, cooling sip. “Yeah, well, I also fry in
the sun and I’d like to avoid looking like a speckled lobster tonight.” With a nod toward Cassie and Caleb and the twins, who were down at the water’s edge, racing in and out of the frothy surf, she said, “Go on with Murphy and join the others. I want to do some sketching.”
Alex eyed Murphy and shook his head. “Looks like you’re the consolation prize, Murph. Come on, boy.”
He’d hardly turned his back before her fingers were reaching for her pad. Her eyes trained on Alex and his family, her pencil began to move swiftly over the paper.
It wasn’t until a drop of perspiration slid down her face and landed on her sketch that Gen realized she was broiling. Time for a dip in the ocean, she decided. Then she’d get back to her drawing. She stood and yanked the shirt over her head and walked across the hot sand toward where the others were playing in the waves.
Alex was just emerging from the water, laughing and shaking his head. “No, I’m getting out for a while. That water’s colder than—” Abruptly his gaze fixed on Gen and the rest of his sentence died away. His eyes burned hotter than the midday sun. Suddenly the scoop-necked black tank suit she was wearing seemed as risqué as a teeny-weeny string bikini.
Doubtless curious as to why Alex was standing transfixed, with the waves swirling about the backs of his thighs, the others turned. Raising her arm in a friendly greeting, Cassie called, “Hey, Gen, come and join us. Alex, being a city-boy wimp—”
Cassie’s sisterly ribbing got no further, for Alex pivoted and dove straight into the next incoming wave. Surfacing, he sliced through the water in a fast, fluid freestyle.
“What’s Uncle Alex doing, Daddy?” Sophie demanded, watching her uncle swimming off in the general direction of Portugal. “He said he was freezing!”
With a laugh, Caleb said, “Well, if I had to guess, pumpkin, I’d say something got him hot again awful quick.”
Inspiration struck while Gen, Alex, and the twins were at work on their humongous sand castle. It came, like a bolt of lightning, right out of the blue, hit her with a searing flash of recognition. . . . Or maybe what struck her was seeing the shaft of sunlight falling on the three golden heads. And suddenly there it was, the picture she’d been searching for, the one she wanted to create for the hospital wing.
Set against the backdrop of this perfect summer day was Alex, crouching patiently beside Jamie and Sophie, his beautiful, strong hands busy digging, scooping, and patting, helping them build their dream castle. She rocked back on her heels, staring wide-eyed. Wasn’t this—helping others to build and rebuild— exactly what Alex had done by donating the rehabilitation wing to the Children’s Hospital? Wasn’t he making it so that countless other kids could achieve their dreams?
Excitement gripped her. Her eyes fixed on the scene, feverishly memorizing details and making adjustments to the composition, she reached for her pad and pencils, lying on the towel by her knees. As unobtrusively as she could—desperate not to alert Alex or the twins—she balanced the pad on her lap and began to draw.
TWENTY-TWO
Gen chose another dress designed by her sister Delia to wear to the party. Actually there hadn’t been any real contestants once Gen stood facing the contents of the small closet that held her decidedly unambitious wardrobe. The dress, a dark bronze, spaghetti-strapped affair, was deceptively plain-looking on the hanger. But oh, the magic of Lycra.
When Gen had first tried it on in her sister’s Boylston Street store, she’d taken one look in the mirror, gasped, and said, “Uh, Dee, I don’t think this is really me.”
“That’s because you have the fashion sense of a peahen. At some point in your development you decided that clothes are to put paint on. This, however,” Delia had said with a thrust of her chin toward the figure-hugging dress, “is not a drop cloth. It’s flirty, chic, and looks terrific on you. Take it with the other things and maybe someday you’ll realize that you’re living in New York City, where women pride themselves on dressing beautifully.”
Which, of course, Gen never did. The little bronze dress had sat untouched in her closet for the past year. But there really wasn’t any alternative—even the dress she’d worn to her opening seemed too low-key for a party in the Hamptons. And there was no time to go out and buy anything. It was already six o’clock and Alex had said he wanted to leave at six-thirty. She really could not keep him waiting. With a nervous sigh Gen slipped the dress off the hanger.
Though Gen rarely went to the trouble of using it, at least makeup was something she could handle. After all, it was a lot like painting—building up hues, highlighting certain areas, working one color off another. She didn’t bother applying foundation—she’d need an inch of it to hide her freckles anyway—instead concentrating on her eyes and adding a light blush to her cheekbones. Deciding that too strong a color on her lips would clash with the dress’s metallic hue, she opted for a lipstick that had a hint of shimmer in it.
She looked okay, she decided, after smoothing the lipstick on. But the hair, it was all wrong hanging down like this. It had to go up so that the line of her neck and bare shoulders and arms would be emphasized. . . . What was that expression? Oh, yeah. In for a penny, in for a pound. If she was going to wear this thing, she might as well try and pull it off Delia Monaghan style rather than Gen Peahen Monaghan style.
She grabbed the only pair of high-heeled sandals she owned and pulled them on. Black, they weren’t a perfect match colorwise, but at least Delia would be proud of her in one respect: they didn’t have a single splattering of paint on them.
Leaving Murphy with one of his few remaining bones, she told herself she’d have to make a trip into Bridgehampton, to the pet supply store where she and Murphy had become loyal and frequent customers. Maybe Alex and the twins could come along. Sophie and Jamie would love all the dog toys they sold. She waited until she was sure Murphy was contentedly chewing away, took a deep breath, and wished herself luck.
Alex’s heart was still racing when he pulled the Aston into an empty parking spot at La Plage, the restaurant he’d rented for the evening. He’d hardly been able to speak, let alone regulate his breathing with Gen sitting beside him, a vision of shimmery bronze and long, gold-dusted limbs. He’d kept his eyes fixed on the road leading to East Hampton’s Three Mile Harbor, for fear that if he let himself look at those bare limbs for even a second, he’d drive off the road and into the middle of a cornfield. Caleb, chauffeuring Cassie and Aunt Grace in the Volvo behind them, would doubtless laugh his head off.
He turned the key, killing the ignition. “In case I’m too far gone when I finally get you alone later tonight, I just want to tell you that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and that I want you so much I hurt.”
Beside him Gen gave a startled laugh. “Thank you. That helps a lot. I was growing nervous with you glaring at the road in silence.”
“Only way to get here in one piece,” he admitted with a self-deprecating grin. “Believe me, if Aunt Grace, Cassie, and Caleb weren’t pulling in just now, I’d be seriously figuring out the logistics of sex in an Aston.”
The sound of three car doors slamming reached them.
“Unfortunately this seems to be neither the time nor the place.” “Which is too bad,” she said, her bare shoulders rising and falling in a dramatic sigh. “I’ve always harbored this secret Bond-girl fantasy.”
Taking her hand, he dragged his lips over her knuckles. “Would you consider a rain check, perhaps?”
“Definitely.”
His entire body hardened at Gen’s delightfully mischievous smile. With a shaky laugh he said, “Damn, this is going to be a long evening.”
They joined Alex’s family near the front of the restaurant, a white wooden building with large square windows trimmed in dark green. La Plage sat on the edge of the bay not far from the harbor. As they’d arrived with time to spare, the five of them decided to walk over to the railing to enjoy the view. Sailboats and powerboats bobbed gently at their moorings while a few gulls c
ircled above. The evening breeze drifted off the water, carrying the slight tang of salt, diesel, and algae.
Although Gen’s self-confidence had received the equivalent of a shot of B12 from Alex’s obvious masculine approval, she was just as happy to be entering the La Plage as a group, among friends. The thought made Gen pause and smile. She’d truly come to regard Mrs. Miller as more than a heaven-sent benefactress and mutual lover of the arts—she was a friend. And in spite of the fact that she’d known them for little more than twenty-four hours, she felt the same warmth and affection toward Cassie and Caleb. They were wonderful people: open, kind, and fun.
Mrs. Miller looked fabulously bohemian in a reddish-amber Indian silk tunic over white cigarette pants. Her pale silver hair had been curled and brushed back, so the fine bone structure of her face and the keen brilliance of her eyes were emphasized.
Checking his watch, Alex turned to his aunt and offered to escort her into the restaurant. “Champagne awaits, Aunt Grace.”
Her nephew’s thoughtfulness had Mrs. Miller smiling wistfully. “That sounds divine,” she said, slipping her arm into his. “You can have him back soon, Genevieve.”
“That’s okay, Mrs. Miller. You keep him for as long as you want,” she replied and had to stifle a giggle when Alex shot her a dark look. Turning to Cassie and Caleb, she asked, “Mind if I join the rear guard?”
Wearing a black cocktail dress, Cassie looked slim and sophisticated. With her riotous cascade of hair tumbling down her back, she also looked very sexy. Smiling she said, “Consider yourself our newest recruit.”
“Stick with us and we’ll lead you straight to the champagne.” With a roguish grin Caleb extended his other arm to Gen and gave a happy sigh as she accepted it. “This evening is starting out fine, a gorgeous woman on each arm.”
