To Have and to Hold

by Diana Palmer

"Oh, I'm not sure," she said, horrified at just the thought of being that far away from Cal even for a week. "Someday."

  "That's what you always say. Oh, well, Brenda got my hopes up, and I just thought I'd check. No offense," he said, and she could picture the boyish grin on his thin face.

  She smiled, shaking her head. "No offense, cousin. Bye."

  ❧

  Cal's four days turned into a week, and never had Madeline felt more alone. She kept watching the house over the hedge with her eyes that grew sadder by the day. She couldn't eat. She couldn't sleep. Even on the job, she was more and more depressed and irritable. The waiting, the wanting, were incredibly hard. It was ridiculous, she kept telling herself, to get so emotionally involved with a man that she almost stopped breathing when he wasn't around. But that didn't ease the persistent ache to see his dark face, to hear the deep, slow voice. Where was he all this time, what was he doing, what kind of business was keeping him away so long? Until the night before he left, he'd told her nothing about his work. For all their wanderings together, he was still very much a stranger in some respects.

  There was a story about a light plane crash on the news, and she had visions of Cal lying torn up in some rented airport in a forest, and nobody knowing. It haunted her, that picture. If there'd been any way she could have called, anonymously, to find out if he was all right, she'd have done it. After that, she barely slept at all.

  It was Thursday, and raining, and she was curled up in front of the television late that evening in her silky blue caftan, reading while she listened to a game show, when the door bell rang.

  Half expecting cousin Horace, she opened the door without thinking and froze, her heart brimming over, her lips slightly parting in mute astonishment.

  Cal looked unusually tired. His face was heavily lined and drawn, his eyes bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept at all. He needed a light shave, and his tie was off, his shirt open wide at the throat—and he was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen. The light came back into her world, full of warm colors and soft delight.

  She bit back tears. "You look terrible," she whispered unsteadily.

  "So do you," he replied, noting the wan little face, the shadows under her eyes.

  "You were gone a long time."

  "What I went for took a long time."

  They stared at each other, the door wide open, the sound of the rain filling the darkness outside, a pleasant, pelting thudding sound that made the house seem cozy and safe.

  "Oh, God, come here," he whispered huskily, and held out his arms.

  She went into them as if she'd been lost in the woods for days and was finally home, her arms stretching up around his neck, her face buried in the soft silk shirt, her body trembling as he pressed it hungrily against his own.

  He sighed her, deeply, slowly. "Next time, you're coming with me," he murmured. "I'm not going through this again."

  "You didn't miss me," she teased tearfully. "I'll bet you had women following you everywhere."

  His big arms contracted slowly, with an aching need, pressing her relentlessly closer to that powerful, husky body. A tremor ran through her at the almost intimate contact, closer then she'd ever been to a man.

  "The only women I want to follow me wouldn't," he replied in an odd, husky voice.

  The brunette, of course, she thought miserably and with a tired sigh.

  He felt her withdrawal, as if he could see into her mind, and silently loosened his hold so that she could step back.

  "I could sure use a cup of coffee," he said tightly.

  She forced a smile. "I just happen to have one."

  He sat down at the kitchen breakfast bar and smoked a cigarette while he waited for her to pour the coffee, his dark eyes never leaving her for an instant.

  She darted an occasional glance his way, puzzled by the intensity of the gaze, the dark, inscrutable look in his eyes.

  "Have I done something to make you angry?" she asked finally when she'd placed the coffee in front of him and was sitting beside him.

  "No." he said, as she watched him take a long draw from the cigarette.

  There was a long silence, filled with the sound of rain crashing down on the bushes outside the window.

  "Isn't the rain lovely?" she asked finally, just for something to say. "It's been so dry lately. My tomato plants were gasping."

  "Ummmm," he murmured, his eyes blank as they stared into the thick black liquid in his mug.

  "You're dead on your feet, aren't you?" she asked softly.

  "Worse than that." He finished off the coffee and set the mug down. "I haven't slept in forty-eight hours."

  "Cal! What are you trying to do, kill yourself?" she burst out.

  He lifted an eyebrow at the concern in her voice. "Why, Miss Blainn, you'll make me conceited. I might think you care."

  She blushed furiously and averted her eyes. "You're my friend," she whispered. "Of course I care!"

  He stood, and she felt his eyes on her bent head. "How about dinner tomorrow night?"

  She glanced up at him with a smile. "I'd like that."

  "I'll pick you up at six."

  "All right."

  He leaned over and ruffled her hair. "I missed you, Burgundy," he said gently.

  She looked up with warmth overflowing in her eyes. "I missed you, too," she whispered.

  His eyes narrowed, glittering. They dropped to her mouth an d lingered there like a slow, lazy caress, bringing her heart into her throat, making her pulse run wild. "You make me feel my age sometimes, little girl," he murmured deeply.

  "You're not old, Cal," she said softly.

  There was a brief pause, and she heard him move. Suddenly he was kneeling beside her chair, his height making his head level with hers.

  His big hand went to her throat, her fingers caressing and slow and warm. "Why did you freeze on me earlier, when I was holding you?" he asked, his eyes looking deep into hers.

  She could barely get her breath, the nearness of his big body worked on her nerves so. "I...I didn't realize I had," she lied unsteadily.

  "Liar," he whispered, and his face moved toward hers, dark, solemn and relentless.

  She stiffened involuntarily in anticipation, feeling his breath, warm and smoky, whipping across her lips as his mouth touched hers for the first time. She felt a surge of warmth explode inside her at the contact, a starburst of sensation that was new and a little frightening. His mouth was warm and exquisitely gentle at first, giving her time to adjust to the change in their relationship. But then, just as she began to relax, to let that powerful hand at her neck coax her face closer, his mouth began to open on hers, forcing her lips apart in an intimacy she'd never experienced before. She struggled quickly free and sat there staring at him blankly, her eyes dark and wide and her mouth softly trembling.

  He watched her, his face impassive, but there was an expression in his eyes that shook her. "Little innocent," he said quietly, and it sounded strangely like an endearment.

  She dropped her eyes in embarrassment. "I can't help being stupid about things," she muttered.

  "Not stupid, Burgundy. Untutored." He stood up and ran a restless hand through her hair. "Don't lose any sleep over it."

  She glanced up at him. "What shall I wear tomorrow night?"

  "A dress, honey, I think I feel like celebrating," he chuckled. "Good night, little one."

  "Good night."

  She wanted to call him back, to tell him there was so much she didn't know, to ask him to teach her...He turned at the doorway and saw the look on her face, and a slow, deep smile touched the hard features. With a wink, he was gone.

  After work the next day, she went to one of the malls and found a dress suitable for a special occasion, a slinky black creation with a tiny red rose at the neckline. It was really more than she could afford, but the thought of Cal's eyes when he saw her in it compensated.

  His reaction was everything she'd hoped for. He stood in the doorway, and his dark, bold eyes sketched
every soft curve of her body in a silence alive with tension.

  "Honey, that's not the dress to wear if you want to keep this relationship platonic," he said meaningfully.

  She blushed. "This old thing?" she teased. "Why, Mist' Rhett, it was one of the curtains in my drawing room until just lately!"

  "You impudent little cat," he returned. "Well, are you coming or not?"

  She threw a lacy black shawl around her shoulders, idly gazing at the picture he made in his dark evening clothes as she joined him.

  ❧

  He took her to one of the best downtown restaurants, a quietly plush place where red candles were used instead of overhead lighting and the wine list was the best in town.

  She studied the menu silently and made her choices, still warily considering his pocket, and he gave the order for them both.

  He eyed her over his coffee cup just before the first course was served, his lips set, his eyes vaguely annoyed. "Why," he asked, "do you always order the cheapest damned thing on the menu?"

  She reddened. "I...I like chicken," she said in a weak defense.

  He set his cup carefully back in its saucer. "I can afford a steak," he told her patiently. "If I couldn't, I wouldn't have brought you here in the first place. I'd have taken you out for a hamburger and trie's instead."

  Embarrassed, she stared down at her plate. "I don't want you to go without just to give me a fancy meal," she said in a small voice. "I'm not fussy, and I don't expect champagne and caviar on an evening out. I'm really more of a burger-and-fries person."

  His big hand came across the table to cover hers warmly, gently. "I know that," he said in a strange, deep tone. "Let me spoil you a little, Burgundy. I think you need it."

  She flushed even redder. "Don't...."

  His fingers closed around hers tightly. "Say, 'yes, Cal.' "

  She swallowed nervously, and peeked up at him. A smile made her dark eyes sparkle against her peaches-and-cream complexion. "Yes, Cal," she repeated softly.

  His eyes dropped to her smiling lips. "I'd rather have your mouth then anything on the menu," he said deeply.

  "Cal!" she gasped.

  "You gave it to me last night—at first, anyway," he teased wickedly.

  She dropped her eyes to the white linen tablecloth. "No fair," she protested weakly.

  "I love the way you blush, little girl," he told her, leaning back in his chair like a dark conqueror, his eyes missing nothing. "After tonight, you're going to do less of it, though."

  Her eyes looked up, a question in them.

  "I did mention that you were untutored," he said softly. "Don't you think it's time someone taught you the basics, Burgundy?"

  She shifted restlessly. "And you think it ought to be you?"

  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his face dark and quiet and solemn. "Don't you, Burgundy?"

  "I thought we agreed to keep it platonic...?"

  His fingers toyed with the handle of his cup as he sought her eyes and held them across the table. "Don't panic. I'm not offering you an affair."

  "Then what...?"

  He raised an eyebrow as the writer brought the first course. "We'll talk about it later. Now, that's what I call a steak," he praised the slab of perfectly cooked meat. His eyes went distastefully to her chicken and mushrooms. "I hope you have nightmares," he said unkindly.

  She ignored him, daintily placed her napkin in her lap. "You don't know what you're missing," she replied saucily, and began to eat.

  "God help me, I do."

  ❧

  They stopped by the airport on the way home to sit and watch the planes take off and land, their lights bright against the night sky.

  Cal had a pocket receiver so they could listen to the transmissions. It didn't take a mind reader to know that airplanes occupied a large chunk of his life.

  "You're crazy about them, aren't you?" she asked, gazing across the front seat at him.

  "Planes?" He laughed. 'I soloed when I was sixteen in a 1946 Aeronca Champion. I've been flying on and off ever since. There's something about piloting an aircraft that gets into your blood. It's been in mine as long as I can remember."

  "I used to like them, too."

  "Honey, just as many people die in automobile accidents," he reminded her, "but we still drive cars. You can't crawl into a tomb with the dead, little girl."

  She studied her lap. "I know. It's just...I think I felt guilty, you see. I'd planned to go on that flight with him, but at the last minute I decided to join him a day later. If I'd gone...."

  "But you didn't. You lived." He turned toward her, one big arm thrown over the seat, leaning back against his door to study her. "I believe everything happens for a reason. We may not know what that reason is, but there's one thing sure as hell, and that's that we can't change fate. So why feel guilty about being alive? Would he have wanted that?"

  She shook her head. "He was a very gentle man, a kind man. He wouldn't ever have wanted me to feel...but it hurt so," she whispered.

  "Tell me about him."

  She smiled, remembering. "Tall, slender, green-eyed, full of fun and life. Phillip was always laughing. He was in the public relations department of a company near ours, and I met him on my lunch hour in a restaurant. We only went together three months before we decided to get married. We'd barely had time to announce our engagement when it happened. I watched him buried on what would have been our wedding day."

  He reached out a big hand and smoothed the hair at her temples. "Did you burn when he touched you?" he said in a tight, odd voice.

  She blushed. "We...it wasn't like that...."

  "It's going to be like that with us," he said quietly. "Here, hold this. It's time I took you home."

  She took the receiver as he cranked the car and headed it out toward the highway, stunned by the cryptic remarks.

  ❧

  Instead of taking her home, he pulled into his own driveway.

  "Come on in," he said, opening the door for her. "I'll give you a non-alcoholic nightcap, and you can talk over old times with Suleiman."

  She laughed. "I don't really feel like a swim tonight."

  "If he pushes you into anything wet, I'll skin him and you can watch. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  The dog met them at the door with a ferocious bark that turned almost immediately to a low murmur of pleasure.

  "Hello, Puppy," Madeline cooed, stroking his sleek black fur, "hello, boy."

  He lapped up the affection like a sponge sitting with his eyes closed and his tongue out while she petted him.

  Cal poured himself a glass of what looked like whiskey and soda and fixed Madeline a tall glass of ginger ale. He handed it to her and paused to shed his jacket, tie and shoes. He stretched out on the sofa with a long, heartfelt sigh, eyeing her where she knelt on the thick beige carpet with the big dog.

  "Your drink's getting warm," he remarked, sipping at his.

  "Only you could call ginger ale a drink," she teased. She rose and retrieved the glass from the coffee table by his side, just as he caught her wrist an d eased her gently down to sit beside him on the sofa. She could feel the heat from his big, warm body against her hip and thigh where they touched. Looking down into that wide, swarthy face with his dark eyes boring into hers seemed to take her breath. He was vibrantly masculine in that white, loosened shirt, the dark curling hairs visible on his bronzed chest in the wide opening. His eyes went to the hand curled around his glass, the dark, beautifully masculine hand with its square-tipped fingers and immaculate nails. Absently, she wondered what its touch would be like....

  He reached out and caught her free hand in his, bringing it to his bare chest in what seemed like an idle, lazy move. He spread her fingers, laying her hand flat against him so that the curling hairs tickled her palm. The warmth of his chest scorched her fingers.

  "Your hands are cold," he said gently.

  "F—from the glass," she replied, sipping nervously at the ginger ale.

  He took anoth
er swallow of his drink and put it back on the table. He took hers out of her nerveless hand and put it away, too. His big hands caught her upper arms, drawing her down against his chest, gently, until her cheeks was resting on his broad shoulder, her chest resting fully on his.

  "Now, relax," he said over her head, his hands caressing her back. "Kick your shoes off and put your feet up."

  She obeyed him without thinking, drugged by the closeness of his body, the tangy fragrance of his cologne.

  Suleiman came up between the sofa and coffee table and nuzzled at Cal's arm until he was banished with a sharp command.

  "Jealous beast," Cal chuckled, tightening his arms. "If he weren't such a bargain of a guard dog...."

  "Cal, why do you keep a guard dog?" she asked.

  His chest rose and fell heavily against her. "I've needed one a time or two in my life, little girl. He's handier than a gun, and there's no way he can be used against me. Stop talking. You ask to many questions."

  She snuggled closer as he reached up and flicked on the radio, flooding the room with soft music.

  "Is this how you treated that brunette?" she murmured against his shirt.

  "Jealous, baby?"

  "We're friends," she reminded him. "Friends aren't supposed to be jealous of each other."

  "So they say." He moved, shifting so that she was lying full length on the wide sofa and he was leaning over her, propped on one elbow. His finger traced the soft curve of her mouth slowly, sensuously.

  "Have you ever been on a fishing trip?" he asked suddenly.

  "Not in years. My uncle and I used to go, though." She smiled impishly. "I'm very good at drowning worms."

  "I've got some friends who live on a dairy farm near Columbus. I'm going down for the weekend. Want to come?"

  She gazed up at him solemnly. "To fish?"

  "If I wanted you," he said bluntly, "I could have had you twenty times by now. There's been plenty of opportunity. We both know that. I'm offering you a vacation, chaperoned, with a room of your own, good company, and good food. Take it or leave it."

  She flushed painfully and dropped her eyes to the massive dark chest above her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound...I'd like very much to go if you still want to take me with you."