Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2)

by Barbara Bretton

  He noticed. Palms flat high on her chest, he moved his hands down over the first swelling of her breasts, sliding off the garment, cupping her, until her nipples grazed his palms. A violent burst of pleasure blazed from her breasts to the tops of her thighs as the nightgown dropped lower and lower, then joined the robe.

  “You’re beautiful, Janie.” His voice was filled with reverence as his intense gaze swept across her naked form. “A goddess.”

  He had expected splendor but not splendor on such an extraordinary scale. Her breasts were fuller than he had imagined, her porcelain skin softer, the dark triangle of curls more lush and inviting.

  And she had never been with another man. No one had ever touched her like this or whispered these words in her ear or heard the low moan of pleasure building deep in her throat as he bent low and took one perfect nipple into his mouth.

  He clasped her about the waist, pulling her closer to him, and she moved shamelessly against him. Wantonly. In a way born of hunger so deep it transcended thought and speech and logic. She memorized the muscles of his back with her fingertips, stroking, kneading, drifting down the ripple of his spine to the waistband of his trousers, where she hesitated. She wanted to touch him—dear God, how much she wanted to know the feel of him beneath her hands. She hesitated, paralyzed with fear that what she wanted to do was somehow wrong, that he would think ill of her, when he moved slightly away from her and she heard the rasp of his zipper in the darkened room followed by the sound of shirt and trousers as they joined her peignoir on the floor.

  He took her hands in his, kissed her palms. “Touch me,” he said.

  She found the idea as thrilling as it was terrifying.

  “Go ahead,” he said, holding her by the hips, thumbs pressing gently against her belly. “I won’t break.”

  She cradled him between her palms and that simple movement released a lifetime of longing inside him. He swept her into his arms and carried her to the double bed where she became his wife in every sense of the word.

  Chapter Five

  “I didn’t know.” Jane’s words ‘broke the silence in the cabin later that night. “I had no idea.” She was curled next to him in the bed, her head resting against his broad chest.

  Her husband stroked her hair. His low chuckle rumbled pleasurably in her ear. “I’m glad you had no idea.”

  She pressed feathery kisses along his shoulder and bicep. “Oh, I’d heard things before, but never anything like this.”

  Mac raised his head a few inches off the pillow and met her eyes. That devilish glint was in them, the same devilish glint that had first caught her attention in the crowd by Westminster Abbey. “What exactly had you heard?”

  She laughed softly. “That it only took seconds, for one.”

  He grinned. “What else?”

  “That it wasn’t enjoyable.”

  His grin widened. “And?”

  Her hand drifted down over his flat abdomen. “That it takes days before a man is ready again.”

  He arched a brow. “Days?”

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps I misunderstood.” Her glance was provocative. He wondered if she knew exactly how provocative. “Hours, then?”

  “Depends on the circumstances.”

  She found him with her hand and he came to powerful fiery life on command. “I’m impressed.”

  He rolled her onto her back and positioned himself over her. “With the right stimuli, anything’s possible.”

  She moved slightly, and his knee eased between her parted thighs. She was warm... so warm. With her hair streaming across her naked breasts and her face flushed with passion, she was his deepest fantasies, his darkest dreams, come to life right there in his arms.

  “Make love to me, Mac.”

  Less than an hour ago she had been a virgin. That first stab of pain had been as necessary as breathing, but he’d cut out his heart rather than hurt her again—no matter how deeply he wanted her. “Are you sure, Janie?”

  She slid her hands across his shoulders, his back, then grazed the muscles of his buttocks lightly with her nails. “Oh, yes,” she breathed, her voice husky with desire. “Very sure.”

  His wife was all softness and warmth. She held him and caressed him and urged him deeper until he forgot everything but the miracle happening between them.

  “You belong to me,” he said once the storm had passed and his heartbeat had slowed to something approximating normal.

  She was silent for a moment. “That’s quite a proprietary statement, Mr. Weaver.” Her tone was teasing but he sensed a thread of steel in her words.

  “Does it bother you?”

  His words held a challenge Jane quickly recognized. This wasn’t a man she could twist around her finger like an errant curl. The knowledge pleased her. She understood herself well enough to know she was both strong willed and independent. She would never have survived the war years were she not. But there was a part of her, more insistent now that she was older, that was tired of being strong.

  “No,” she said. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “Good,” he said, gathering her close to his side, “because I’m never going to let you go.”

  * * *

  Mac awoke the next morning to the realization that the bed was moving. Not just a little shudder, mind you, but a genuine rolling motion that tipped the entire room at a thirty-degree angle then returned it level every few seconds. Winds buffeted the now-closed porthole across the cabin and the sound of rain beating against the glass confirmed his suspicions. The North Atlantic, never a gentle sea, was displaying her considerable powers. The good Queen Mary was in for quite a time and so were her passengers.

  The storm didn’t seem to be disturbing his bride. Next to him Jane slept peacefully, her lovely face pressed up against his shoulder, her dark hair drifting across his chest like a banner of silk.

  Her negligee still rested on the floor, a puddle of cream-colored satin and lace, a reminder of the fact that now they were man and wife in all the ways that mattered. Until the day he died, he would remember the way she’d looked as the gown drifted slowly to the ground and she was revealed to his eyes. The thought that no other man had ever seen the splendor of her body filled him with fierce pride. She was his. His wife. His woman.

  He’d never been possessive about anything in his life before. He’d never wanted more than he could carry in his battered leather suitcase. What he was feeling for Jane was raw, almost primitive. She’d crawled inside his chest, burrowed deep inside his heart, this woman who was now his wife. Morning after morning, stretching far out into the shadowy landscape of the future, he would awaken and find Janie by his side. Hear the hush of her breathing. Smell the scent of her perfume. Feel the soft crush of her breasts against him as she nestled closer.

  And it would always be like this. New and special and filled with promise.

  The ship angled sharply to port and Jane slid away from him on the linen sheets. She murmured something low in her throat and he laughed softly and gathered her to him again, pressing kisses along her temple and the high proud curve of her cheekbone.

  She sighed and the corners of her lush mouth tilted in the hint of a smile. He felt that smile in every fiber of his body. She had a profound effect on him, Janie had. Profound and urgent.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Weaver,” he said as her soft Wedgwood-blue eyes fluttered open. Funny how dialogue he’d hooted at in old movies fell naturally from the lips of a man on his honeymoon. “Remember me?”

  “I think so.” She propped herself up on one elbow and scrutinized him. “Mac, is it?”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Weaver,” she said with a satisfied cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “I have a wonderful memory.”

  “Everything about you is wonderful, Janie.”

  Forty-eight hours ago Jane Townsend would have ducked her head at a compliment like that. It wasn’t that she had any false modesty; rather s
he had a low tolerance for idle flattery. But, she had only to look into her husband’s green eyes to know he meant what he said. He was too straightforward, too American in his approach to waste time on empty compliments. Not that empty compliments didn’t have their place in the framework of courtship, but the ring on her left hand was proof that they had bypassed courtship and leapt straight into marriage without a backward glance.

  Now there was Mac and she wondered how it was she had lived before he came into her life. It seemed as if there had been nothing before the moment when he’d first said hello. Yesterday, as they explored London together, laughing and talking and falling in love, she had been reminded of Aurora, the sleeping beauty brought to life by the prince’s kiss.

  Mac’s kiss had awakened her, but those hours in his arms last night had breathed life into her soul. There had been pain, she wouldn’t deny that, but the pain had been born of love and followed by a sweet current of pleasure so intense that even now, the next morning, her body still tingled at the memory.

  The ship lifted on the crest of a wave then dropped forward at an amazing angle.

  “A storm?”

  Mac nodded. “A bad one. I’ll bet there won’t be many passengers at breakfast this morning.”

  Jane raised her arms overhead and stretched luxuriously. “I, for one, feel splendid.” The sheet slipped, exposing the curve of her breasts. She hesitated, modesty battling for a moment with her newfound sensuality. Mac’s gaze seared her flesh. She felt a wellspring of pleasure and enjoyed the feeling of being admired for a fortuitous accident of fate. The fact that he found her beautiful thrilled Jane. She’d never realized what power there was in being a woman. What pleasure there was to be found in the simplest gesture when there was a man close at hand to appreciate it.

  And, dear God, how Mac appreciated! He caught the end of the sheet between thumb and forefinger, and before she drew her next breath it was pooled on the floor near her forgotten negligee. His hand lingered over her breasts, her rib cage, her belly—never touching, but close enough for her to feel his heat. She longed to cover herself and she longed to revel in his obvious arousal. A deep breath... an arch of the back... the simple motion of bending a knee... each movement brought forth a response from Mac that made her heart sing with joy.

  This was what she’d been meant for, this wholehearted expression of love. All those stories she’d heard about the agonies of the marriage bed, of the dreadful indignities wives suffered in martyred silence, the endless nights of boredom as they lay under their husbands. She could fill a library with the tales of lovemaking gone wrong that she’d heard over the years.

  But then those poor unfulfilled women hadn’t known her brash Yankee, had they? Jane felt sorry for them, laboring beneath clumsy men with fingers like buzz saws. Boldly she took her husband’s hand and brought it to rest on the lower curve of her abdomen. The pads of his fingertips grazed the luxuriant dark curls where her thighs met. Her husband had beautiful hands, with fingers long and tapering, sensitive to her every desire.

  She moaned softly as he gently ruffled the curls, then cupped her warmth. To her amazement she was as eager again for him as he was for her. Turning, she took his face between her hands and placed quick kisses on his nose and chin and mouth.

  “You’re insatiable,” he said.

  “Do you mind?”

  He moved against her. “What do you think?”

  Her eyes fluttered closed for a second as he found her with his fingers. Waves of sensation, hot and liquid, bathed her from head to toe. She felt as if she had stumbled upon the most amazing secret, one that she was certain everybody had known about except her. “Is it this wonderful for everyone?”

  His laugh rumbled through his chest. “If it was this wonderful for everyone, Janie, the world would grind to a halt. Nobody would ever get out of bed.”

  “I think that sounds delightful,” she said on a long delicious sigh.

  He gripped her by the waist then positioned her astride his body. She gasped at the feel of him, hard and ready, against her thighs.

  “Now that sounds delightful,” he said when her gasp began a rolling cry of pleasure as he lowered her slowly, slowly, until he was sheathed inside her trembling body.

  Beyond the porthole, the skies were dark with rain as the sea threatened to reclaim its own. But in their cabin, the storm played itself out on that double bed. Their passion matched the wild beauty of the elements, and the pitch and roll of the mighty ship only added to the pleasure they found in each other’s arms.

  Later on people would say it was one of the most difficult crossings the Queen Mary would ever make. Mac and Jane would only remember the gentle motion of the waves and the sweet taste of passion.

  * * *

  Of course, even the most ardent of lovers sooner or later need sustenance. Mac and Jane missed breakfast that first morning but were dressed and ready for lunch in the main dining hall at twelve bells.

  The vast room was almost empty, save for waiters and busboys, who struggled with water glasses and heavy trays while the floor beneath their feet shifted with each movement of the ship. A few hardy souls, obviously old salts, were dining in the far corner and they saluted the Weavers as they were shown to their table.

  An enormous mural of Merrie Olde England adorned one wall while an equally enormous mural of the North Atlantic, in all her dreadful majesty, adorned the opposite wall near the massive bronze double doors. A blue crystal light representing the Queen Mary was repositioned on the mural at frequent intervals throughout the day so passengers could keep abreast of the progress of the journey.

  But more than the decor, it was the food that Jane found difficult to believe. Slices of roast beef, white chicken, crisp salads and fresh bread and what seemed an endless array of vegetables and sauces and pastries exquisite enough to make a Viennese baker cry. Years of deprivation had narrowed her appetite and dulled her hunger, but both sprang to life, full-blown, that afternoon.

  Mac drank coffee and smoked as Jane grappled with the choice between Linzer torte or Black Forest cake.

  “Have both,” said Mac, with a smile for the waiter dancing attendance.

  “I couldn’t,” said Jane, eyes sparkling.

  “Why not?”

  She hesitated, about to cite any number of equally silly reasons she shouldn’t partake of the bounty available aboard ship. It was patently clear they weren’t going to give the leftovers to the poor for there were no poor aboard the luxury liner. Her years of deprivation were over and done with, left behind on the dock at Southampton along with her memories.

  “She’ll have both,” Mac told the waiter, taking the decision out of her hands. “And a small serving of chocolate mousse.”

  Laughing, she leaned back in her seat and sipped her tea. “I shall be the size of a house by the time we dock in New York harbor, Mac, if you encourage me like this.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he said, eyes twinkling. “You’ll get plenty of exercise.”

  “Mac!” She didn’t know whether to be scandalized or delighted. “Someone might hear you.”

  The waiter popped up at their side once again, laden with desserts for Jane, who set to work polishing them off, oblivious to the rolling of the ship or the way the silverware skittered across the table with the motion.

  Her enjoyment was catching. Mac snitched a piece of Black Forest cake and laughed at her mock outrage.

  Freddy, the waiter, approached them with more tea, undaunted by the incessant motion of the ship. “Bit of a storm out there,” he said, grinning beneath his handlebar mustache. “Old salts, are you?”

  Jane looked up from her cake and smiled. “First time on a ship,” she said proudly.

  “Enjoying yourselves?”

  Jane cast a glance at her husband. “Oh, yes. We certainly are.”

  “I’d put the Queen up against the best five-star hotel in the world,” said the waiter, beaming with pride. “She’s the best there is—queen of them al
l.”

  There was no denying the splendor of the floating hotel. High seas or no, luxury such as Mac and Jane were enjoying was rare in the modern world.

  Mac lit a cigarette and watched as she savored the sweets before her. She managed to eat heartily but with great style, as if she’d grown up dining with five waiters hovering at her elbow, eager to serve her every whim. But he knew that wasn’t the case. The solid middle-class comforts he took for granted would have been great luxuries to Jane as a girl. Hot water. Central heating. A full pantry. Business as usual on the other side of the Atlantic.

  Mac wasn’t a fashion critic, but even his untrained eye recognized that her pale gray dress was out of date. Women were wearing those long skirts these days, not the kind that just brushed the knee. “Your things,” Mac had said the night they planned their wedding, “can someone ship them to New York?”

  Jane had exhibited little concern. “Leo’s wife will, I’m sure.” Her blue eyes had clouded. “There isn’t much worth shipping.”

  A true statement, he knew now. He doubted if she had possessions enough to fill a steamer trunk. Serviceable underwear. A cotton nightgown. Some carefully mended dresses and suits that had once been stylish but were now a few years behind the times. Not that it mattered. When a woman was as beautiful as Jane, it didn’t matter if she went out in a burlap sack.

  But there’d been a hint of apology about his wife as the steward had hung her belongings in the closet. An air of almost embarrassment that got under Mac’s skin and made him vow she’d never have to feel that way again. The arcade shops were filled with frilly feminine things and he wanted to buy everything in sight for his wife. And he’d do it, too. He wasn’t rich but he’d managed to hang on to some money along the way, and he could think of nothing he’d rather do than shower his woman with everything she’d ever wanted.

  He took a drag on his cigarette. His class ring looked enormous on her delicate hand. One of the first things he wanted to do when they reached New York was buy her a proper wedding ring. Hell—an engagement ring, too, while he was at it. She’d never have to apologize for anything. Not while he was breathing.