by Lisa Jackson
The room, illuminated only by the shifting firelight, seemed to shrink.
“Sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked, dropping ice cubes into his short glass.
She hedged, didn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe a brandy. A small one.”
He grinned, found a snifter and poured a thin stream of amber liquor into a squatty crystal glass. “That’s my girl,” he said before he saw her reaction, the way she bit her lip anxiously. He handed her the drink and touched the rim of his glass to hers. “To better days.”
“And nights,” she said, then took a sip, her eyes regarding him over the rim of the snifter. Wide and green, they stared at him. Her face had healed, the scar in her hairline was barely visible and her hair surrounded her face in short mahogany waves.
“So, what’s up, Marla?”
“I . . . I want to know what happened. I was out of my head for five days and all I remember are images, people coming in and out . . . nothing clear. I thought maybe you could catch me up. Has anyone contacted Pam’s family?”
“Not that I know of. But then I’ve spent a lot of time up to my eyeballs in accounting records for the company.”
“And what have you found?”
“Unless Alex does something drastic, Cahill Limited will go bust.”
“But it’s a huge corporation,” she protested, and he watched as her lips parted and she took another sip.
“Privately held corporation and not really all that large, not in today’s world.”
“Can it be saved?”
“I think so. With the right number of cuts. If Alex is willing.”
“He seems to work all the time,” she said, walking to the window and staring out at the lights winking down the hillside. “He’s always gone to one meeting or the other. Either at the office or on the board at the hospital or Cahill House.”
“Do you miss him?” Nick asked. She hesitated, then shook her head.
“Sadly, no. I don’t feel any real connection with him.” He watched the back of her neck turn rosy at the admission. “I can’t explain it.”
“Alex isn’t an easy man.”
“Nor are you,” she observed, sending him a glance over her shoulder. It wasn’t meant to be provocative but it was. Her robe slid to one side and his eyes were drawn to the column of her neck and the smooth skin at the curve where her neck met her shoulder. What he would do to kiss her there.
“How would you know? You don’t remember.”
“Woman’s intuition,” she said. “There’s something about you that a woman can sense. A restlessness. You’re not satisfied with much in life, I’d guess. And you don’t settle. If you want something, you go for it.”
“Not always.”
“Oh, yes, you do.”
“I want you.”
Beneath the layers of satin her backbone hardened and she glanced at the floor, her neck bowing. “But you still don’t trust me.”
“Why would I?” he asked and took a step closer, condemning himself as he did. He’d sworn to be immune to her charms, that he’d never allow her close to him again, but as each day had passed he’d felt more drawn to her, more intrigued. He’d warned himself time and time again and yet when he got down to the bones of the truth, he’d like nothing more than to touch her, kiss her, caress her and thrust into the deepest, most feminine part of her.
“Did I hurt you so badly all those years ago?” she asked, studying the drizzle of raindrops on the windowpane.
“It was my fault.” Another step closer.
“But you’re punishing me.”
“How?”
“By . . . by trying to keep your distance.” She was still turned away from him, her drink now on the windowsill, her hands on the ledge as she stared through the ancient, watery glass.
“Self-preservation, Marla. It’s just a basic animal instinct.” Like the other ones you arouse in me. He was so close now he could smell the scent of her skin, see the tiny hairs on her nape, wonder about the secrets that lay beneath the folds of satin that encased her.
“You saved my life,” she said and her voice was breathless as if she, too, could feel how near he was, the barest of inches separated his toes from her heels. Her perfume wafted to his nostrils, smelled faintly of lavender and reminded him how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.
“Saved your life? Maybe, maybe not. I did what I had to do. Don’t make it more than it was, okay? Don’t try to cast me as some kind of hero. Believe me, I’m not.”
“You spend a lot of time trying to convince everyone that you aren’t.”
“It’s not hard,” he said, and knowing he was making a deadly mistake he reached forward and curled his fingers over her shoulders, grabbing smooth satin and supple flesh. Beneath his hands he felt her tremble, watched as she took in a swift breath but made no move to pull away.
Firelight played in her hair and gilded her skin, the innocent pink of her robe turned to a soft, warm peach color as his hands opened and closed over her upper arms. With a low moan, she leaned against him and he lowered his head, his lips pressing against the back of her neck. Desire ran hot through him, centered between his legs, caused him to think of nothing but the pure sensual pleasure of this woman. So hot. So wet. So wickedly wanton. So forbidden.
“Nick,” she whispered so softly he wasn’t certain she’d said it.
Knowing he was going too far, he let his senses take over, nuzzling her neck, tasting her hot skin, pushing the silky fabric away from her body. He ran his tongue along her shoulder and she quivered. He reached around her waist, found the knot holding her robe together and loosened it.
Marla felt his heat. She arched against him, one hand reaching over her head to run her fingers in his hair. He kissed the length of that arm, sending tingles along her nerves, making her forget that she’d promised herself to never fall victim to his raw sexuality, that loving him would only cause her heartache, that making love to him would ruin her life.
The knot gave way.
Satin parted to reveal another layer.
Nick groaned in frustration, then unbuttoned her pajama top. His fingers delved inside and Marla gasped at the warmth of his touch, the sear of his hands on the underside of her breasts. Her skin tingled and she let her head loll to the side offering more of her neck to his greedy lips.
Deep inside she felt an ache, a yearning. The pajama top parted, fell off her shoulders along with her robe, bunched at the small of her back. Nick licked the shell of her ear, coarse hairs on his chest brushed the back of her shoulders as he pulled her hard against him. She pressed her buttocks even closer, felt his erection hard against the cleft between her cheeks.
“Ooh,” she moaned, rubbing against him as his hands kneaded her breasts, his thumbs scraping her nipples, his breathing rapid and hot. Sweat sheened her skin. Her blood pulsed faster, ran hot as tallow.
“Marla, oh, God, Marla . . . I don’t . . . want to . . .” He was moving against her, the fly of his jeans hard as it slid along the satin of her pajama bottoms. She couldn’t help responding, pushing closer to him as he ground against her. Part of her knew she was making the biggest mistake of her life, the other part didn’t care.
You’re married, for God’s sake!
But the marriage was a sham.
You’re a mother!
But I want this man, I feel a connection to him, a need that only he can satisfy.
Don’t confuse lust with love, Marla. Think!
One of his hands lowered, slid over the smooth satin, brushed past her belly button slowly until his strong hand cupped her mound, and his fingers curled between her legs, holding her firmly against him, making her feel his need, his heat, causing her to quiver with want. Through the fabric he touched, rubbed, probed, stoking a fire that was already white hot. Her skin was on fire, the ache inside her pounding.
Her knees weakened as his lips caressed the curve of her jaw. She closed her eyes, threw her head back, let him kiss her shoulders and thr
oat as he kept up his rhythm. Her heart beat was an unsteady tattoo, her breath was short, desperate gasps. She wanted him, wanted to turn in his arms, feel his hard flat nipples, touch the muscles straining across his chest. Desperately she needed to experience the bittersweet union of his body joining with hers.
Images of him, naked, sweating, straining above her filled her head. Hard sinewy legs pushed, his muscular back flexed, her fingers dug into his buttocks, he thrust hard . . . long . . . over and over again . . . oh, God . . . she was spinning . . .
“Marla,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “This is so wrong . . . I . . . we . . . I . . . should . . .”
She couldn’t think . . . couldn’t breathe. She was hot, beads of sweat dotting her brow, running down her spine, moistening her skin. His lips, oh, God, if she could just turn around and kiss him, lower his fly and . . .
Somewhere on the floor above a door creaked open, then clicked shut.
Nick froze.
Marla’s head cleared instantly.
What in the name of God was she doing?
Nick released her as if she were molten. Her robe and pajama top slid to the floor and she snatched them up. “Damn,” he whispered as on silent footsteps he crossed the room putting much needed space between his body and hers. The elevator motor whirred.
Marla slid her arms through pajama top and robe, fumbled with the buttons, then in frustration, yanked the belt tight around her waist. How could she explain herself, her mussed hair, red face, rumpled clothes and the desire she was certain was evident in her eyes? What had she been thinking? Why would she give into such, treacherous, forbidden temptation?
Nick stepped forward grabbed her arm and pulled her into an alcove near the bay window. His eyes, still glassy, found hers and he held a finger to his lips.
Her heart was hammering, her mind whirling. They would be caught and then . . . oh, how could she account for how she felt about Nick to her daughter, to her mother-in-law or . . . or . . . to . . . her husband?
Harlot. Jezebel. Whore. All the archaic condemning terms burned through her brain.
The elevator finally ground to a stop, at the basement garage below. Over the wild beating of her heart, she heard the electronic garage door clunk and open, then the firing of a smooth engine.
“Alex,” Nick whispered against her ear and pulled her to one side of the window where they watched the brake lights of her husband’s car flash bright and reflect in the raindrops. The gate opened and the Jaguar drove through.
“Where is he going?” she asked.
“To meet someone, I’d guess.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not on the up and up. Nothing good happens after midnight.”
“I think we just proved that,” she said, furious with herself. How had she been so stupid, such a foolish woman to give into her basest of needs? “I’ve got to go to bed.” She hesitated, then added, “Alone.” She started toward the door, but he caught her wrist in his fingers.
“I’m not going to apologize, Marla,” he said, his blue eyes dark with challenge.
She angled up her chin. “Good. Neither am I.” Then, before she said anything she’d regret, she turned and took the stairs two at a time to the sanctuary of her perfectly decorated and oh, so cold, bedroom.
Slut! She was nothing more than a damned, dirty slut.
He stared up at the house, raindrops peppering his bare head, fogging his glasses as he watched the window where he’d seen the lovers. The man had been behind, caressing her, kissing her, his face hidden in the shadowy room. Through the drizzled glass he’d observed from a distance, his binoculars not allowing him to get the view he wanted, but he recognized Marla letting the man strip her and touch her and though it had been too dark to see just how far they’d gone, he’d gotten hard, had to touch himself, couldn’t wait until he was the one fondling and touching her, he was the one rubbing his rough hands over those luscious breasts.
“Just you wait, baby,” he whispered, then seeing the garage door open, he ducked quickly down the street, feeling the cold rain run down his neck and knowing that it was just a matter of time before it was his turn.
He licked his lips.
He couldn’t wait.
Chapter Thirteen
You nearly made love to Nick.
“Damn it.” Lying in bed, Marla smashed her fist into the mattress. “What’s wrong with you?” She thought of his hot breath against her nape and the back of her throat went dry. “Fool, fool, fool!” she chastised, throwing herself out from under the covers and padding to the bathroom.
She stripped off her clothes, determined to force the erotic images from her mind, but under the shower’s pulsing spray with the glass steaming, she thought of him and the way his hands felt on her breasts, how he’d rubbed the silken fabric of her pajamas against her fevered skin.
“Stop it!” she shouted, shampooing quickly and turning the water cold enough to chase all her wanton thoughts from her mind. Dear Lord, she was going to make herself crazier than she already was. “If that’s possible,” she muttered, turning off the faucet, grabbing a towel and drying as she stepped into the bathroom. She was determined not to think of Nick this morning, but images of his naked torso, tight abdomen and the way his jeans had been slung low over his hips, his crotch bulging, continued to chase after her as she threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, slapped lipstick over her mouth, brushed mascara over her lashes and dabbed mousse in her short curls. A volatile mixture of emotions—shame, disbelief, as well as a tiny bit of satisfaction and a grain of hope—roiled within her. She knew a relationship with her brother-in-law was doomed.
Yet, she couldn’t forget the feel of his lips, the heat of his touch and how violently and passionately she had responded to him.
Oh, God, what had she been thinking? She scowled into the mirror in her bathroom as she ruffled her wet hair with her fingers.
“You weren’t,” she told her reflection firmly and hated the gleam of mischief she saw in her eyes. “You’ve got tons of things to do today. Tons! You don’t have time for any romantic nonsense.” Yet she couldn’t help but wonder as she slid into tennis shoes and hurried downstairs, if she was just naturally lusty and passionate, or was it only with Nick?
The truth of the matter is that you . . . well, you’ve been interested in other men. Alex’s condemnation echoed through her mind.
“Don’t think about it,” she warned herself. She didn’t have time for recriminations. “Just go forward from here.”
For the first time since waking from her coma Marla felt alive. Energized. Ready to take on the world and figure out who the hell she was, what had happened on the night of the accident, and why she felt like a prisoner and stranger in her own home. Last night she’d suffered through Phil Robertson’s apologies and her husband’s angry silence before she’d encountered Nick coming up the stairs, but she couldn’t forgive Alex for taking away five days of her life.
Fine. He messed up. But that’s no reason to go sneaking behind his back with Nick.
What she felt about Nick had nothing to do with Alex. She tried to tamp down the rage that tore through her. She’d lost five days of her life. Nearly a week! Because her husband thought it best.
Bullshit. That’s all it was.
The pain in her jaw reminded her that she wasn’t completely healed, so she tossed back a couple of aspirin with a swig of water and wasn’t going to let a dull ache stop her. She managed to reach the kitchen and coffeepot in time to say good-bye to Cissy as the girl, backpack in tow, breezed out the door.
Alex, she was told by Carmen, had already left for the office and she wondered if he’d even bothered to come home last night. Where had he gone? Who had he met? Why the hell was he sneaking around in the middle of night?
She’d find out. She just had to decide whether to confront him or do a little research first. She had a gut feeling that she was good at this sort of thing, though she couldn’
t for the life of her figure out why. But it didn’t matter. She was sick and tired of being the damned victim here, of playing the role of the poor, sickly, amnesic wife and mother.
Again . . . it was all just bullshit.
“What about Nick?” Marla asked Carmen as she lingered in the kitchen where the cook, Elsa, was already marinating a cut of meat. A big woman with heavy breasts, a thick waist, and merry eyes, she rubbed spices into a thick slab of beef.
“He’s gone, too. Left early this morning and Mrs. Eugenia had Lars drive her to Cahill House for an early meeting.” Carmen’s dark eyes flashed. “Mrs. Eugenia wasn’t too happy that she had to be downtown before eight.”
“I don’t blame her.” Marla finished her coffee and made her way upstairs where Fiona was just picking up James from his crib.
“Let me handle this little guy,” she said, and over Fiona’s worried glances, fed and changed the baby. “You can take some time off this morning.”
“But it’s my job—”
“Mine, too. I might go out this afternoon, so I’d like to spend a little time with him first,” Marla said with a smile. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. You’re his mum.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll be back in a bit then,” the girl said, brightening at the opportunity for a little freedom.
“Thanks.”
Marla bathed her son and it felt so right to watch his eyes sparkle as she swished his legs and arms with the warm water. He kicked and gurgled and she thought him the most precious child in the universe. “Yes, you are,” she said, poking his little belly with her finger, “even if your daddy’s a first class jerk.” The baby smiled and waved a fist, as if he understood and Marla’s heart cracked. Why couldn’t she just be happy with her children and her husband, why couldn’t she accept that this was her life and it was a wonderful, enchanted, privileged existence that most women would envy?
