“Not this one.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. You must be nearly as rational as my sister Brenda.” When he eyed her as though she were the strange one, she explained. “Your plan. It was brilliant. Those weeks you left me alone were awful. I missed you so terribly and kept trying to convince myself that I was better without such a lying devil, but it didn’t work. When you sent that little kitten, I was overjoyed.” Her voice dropped. “I love the kitten, Oliver.”
“I’m glad,” he whispered against her brow. His fingers idly traced the line of her spine. Her skin was warm and smooth; he’d never get his fill of touching her. “I had it all worked out. I figured I’d give you time to cool off and even miss me, then I’d let you get to know the real me. Then I’d bring you up here and start the seduction all over again.” He paused. “But it was going to be slow and considerate, not fast and furious. I think I miscalculated somewhere along the way.”
“There’ll be other times for slow and considerate. Tonight I needed fast and furious. How did you know?”
“I couldn’t control myself! I mean, it’s tough for a man to be so turned on by a woman and not be able to go through with it.”
“But you never even kissed me!” she protested, eyeing him in surprise. “You never gave the slightest indication that you wanted anything more than a squeeze or a hug.”
“That was all part of the plan,” he scoffed. “Let me tell you, you were gonna get it one way or the other over the weekend. Maybe it was good that Diane pulled her little act. She certainly brought things to a head.”
His words gave them both food for thought. Leslie rubbed her cheek against his chest. He pulled her more tightly against him. Their voices were soft and intimate.
“Oliver, will she be all right?”
“I think so. I gave Tony a name of a colleague of mine who’s very good. He’ll be better able to treat Diane than I ever could.”
“Why did she do that?”
“Ironically, it was probably her seeing us together at Brenda’s reception that did it. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon for a woman patient of a male doctor—in any kind of therapy—to think she’s in love with him. She sees him as the source of her health, her confidence, her general well-being. I’d already begun to feel that Diane was growing too dependent on me; I told you that.”
“I remember.”
“I had just cut her sessions back from three a week to two. That may have bothered her. Brad was obviously still bothering her. He’s a bastard.” The aside was muttered under his breath. “A good deal of the time she feels she is unwanted and unloved. When she saw us together and, from what Brenda says, looking very much in love, she was jealous. Furiously jealous. Jealous of you. Furious at me. And Brad—well, with her cock-and-bull story she thought she’d be giving him the message that someone did want her, even if he did not.”
“I feel so badly for her.”
He drew soothing circles on her back. “So do I. She’s very unhappy. I told Tony that I thought she and Brad should separate. Even her original outburst didn’t faze Brad; Diane says that he’s still seeing some little sweetie, and I think I believe her.”
“Poor Diane. And we’ve got so much.”
He hugged her, his arms trembling. “We do.”
They lay together in silence for several minutes, each simply enjoying the presence of the other.
“Oliver?”
“Mmm?”
“How did you get to Diane’s tonight? I mean, I’m surprised that she’d have wanted to give you a chance to defend yourself.”
“She didn’t. But she needed some sense of power, so she called Tony to tell him what she’d planned. He called me, then Brenda. He knew their lawyer was going to be there and hoped to nip the whole scheme in the bud.”
“Why wasn’t I called?” Leslie asked in a small voice.
Oliver planted a gentle kiss on her nose. “We didn’t want you to be hurt. Diane’s claim was pretty ugly.”
“But it was false!”
“I knew that, but the words would have been hurtful enough. Besides, if we were successful, you’d never have been any the wiser to her threat.” He paused then, hesitant. “Leslie?”
“Mmm?”
“Did you ever believe her?”
She brought her head up in surprise. “Believe Diane? Of course not. Were you worried?”
“That you’d believe her, a little. After what I’d done to you on St. Barts, I wasn’t sure how far your trust would go.”
“Were you worried that she would bring the case to trial?”
“I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say yes. She was right in a way. Headlines and innuendo could have easily damaged my career. Not destroyed it, but damaged it badly. Even if a person is found not guilty by a jury, the stigma of having been accused in the first place remains. It’s a sad fact, one that our system of justice can do little to change.” He grew quiet, pensive, his breathing even, close to her ear. Hooking his foot around her shin, he drew her leg between his and pressed her hips more snugly to him. Then he held her still, appreciating the beauty of the moment. “Thank you, Leslie,” he said at last, his voice intensely gentle.
“For what?”
“For trusting me.”
She laughed shyly. “It’s nothing. You’re an easy one to trust,” she pinched his ribs, “even when you are lying through your teeth.”
“I don’t lie!” he stated with such vehemence that she realized he would always be sensitive about what had happened on St. Barts. She couldn’t deny her delight; somehow she had managed to find the most straightforward man in the world.
“I know,” she apologized gently. “I was only teasing.” Then she grew more thoughtful herself. “A little while ago you asked what had brought me back to you. It was several things, I think. Time, for one. I was able to sort things out, to put things into perspective. I realized that what you’d said made sense. And I missed you so much I was very willing to give you any benefit of the doubt.
“When we started to see each other and I got to know you, I saw that what you’d said was right. Model or psychiatrist, you were the same man underneath. You were so open then, making up for all you hadn’t said on the island. And right about that time I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite.”
“You? A hypocrite?”
“Mmm.” She breathed in his natural scent and was buoyed up by it. “For all my talk, I really wasn’t any more honest with you—or myself—than I’d accused you of being. I did love you. I loved you back on St. Barts. When we made love, well, I played games with myself. I told myself that the only thing that mattered was the moment, that I didn’t care about the past or the future. But I did. I should have been more open about my feelings then. I should have let you speak when I knew you wanted to.” She raised soulful eyes to his. “It was my fault that you didn’t tell me about yourself. But I was afraid—afraid of what you might say, afraid that it might burst the bubble of illusion we’d created. It was such a lovely bubble. I didn’t want anything to happen.” She looked down. “So you see, I was pretty bad myself. I created an illusion and clung to it as it suited me. But I was fooling myself to think that I could return to New York and forget you. I realized that during the cab ride home from the airport.”
Oliver skimmed her cheek with the side of his thumb and brought her chin up. “I love you, lady. Do you know that?”
Seeing it written on every plane of his face, she smiled and nodded. “You know,” she whispered through a veil of happy tears, “I feel sorry for all your female patients. If you’d been my therapist, I’d have certainly fallen in love with you.”
“If you’d been my patient,” he growled, rolling slowly over to pin her to the bed, “I’d sure as hell have been guilty of some mighty unethical thoughts.”
“Only thoughts? No acts?”
“Nope.”
“I’m not pretty enough? Or rich enough? Or thin enough? Why not?”
“If you want to know the truth, that sofa happens to be the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever been on!”
“Oh? So you have … tried it out?”
He nipped her shoulder in punishment. “I’ve sat on it. I’ve fallen asleep on it once or twice.”
“Have you ever made love on it?”
“No. Maybe we’ll try it sometime.”
“Aw, I don’t know, Oliver. That might feel … unethical.”
“But you’re not my patient.”
“I know, but.…”
“Tell me you’re tired of me already.”
“Are you kidding? It’s just … well … even though Diane won’t be suing you, I think I’ll always remember her threat. I’d feel guilty making love in your office. Your patients have problems so much more serious than ours.…”
Adoring her sensitivity, Oliver felt choked up. When he could finally speak, his voice was a husky murmur. “You’re amazing, you know that?” Before she could answer, he sealed her lips with his own in a kiss so gentle and loving that she could have wept for all she did have. “It doesn’t bother you then,” he mused against her mouth, “that I’m a psychiatrist?” He was thinking of her mother and what Tony had told him.
She sent her tongue in search of the corner of his lip, then smiled. “I’m proud of you.”
“You will have to meet my parents,” he quipped, recalling an earlier discussion about pride.
She remembered too and blushed. “I did wonder for a while there what kind of parents would be proud to have a gigolo for a son. Now that I know better, I’d love to meet them.”
“And you’ll marry me?”
“I’d love that, too.”
He sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly as he raked the length of slender flesh beneath him. “You are beautiful. Not too thin. Not too rich. Just right. When we get back to the city I’m going to buy you a silky white negligee. I’d love to be able to take it off.…”
“Oliver!” she exclaimed, delighted by the very definite effect the simple thought of it had on him. “You must have this thing for nudity. What would Freud say about that?”
He moved more fully on top of her. “I don’t give a damn. Freud was nothing but a constipated old—”
“Shhhhh.…” She put a finger to his lips, then let it wander to his hairline, into the thick waves, around his ear to trace that silver arc. “I like nudity, too. Knowing that you were naked beneath that sheet in your ad nearly drove me crazy. Oliver?”
He managed a muffled, “Uh huh?”
“Will you stop … doing that for a minute so … I can speak?”
“Doing what?”
“Moving like that.” He’d begun to shift against her on the pretense of kissing her eyes, then withdrawing, kissing her nose, then withdrawing, kissing one earlobe, then the other. In essence his entire body was rubbing her in all the right places, and she’d begun to sizzle.
He stopped instantly, propping himself above her. “There. Better?”
Was frustration better? “Not really … except for speaking.”
“So … what were you going to say?”
“I wanted to, uh, to ask you a favor.”
“Shoot.”
She raised her hands to his shoulders and followed their progress as they slowly descended over his chest. When her palms felt the unmistakable tautness of his nipples, she stopped. “It’s about your modeling. When we’re married.…”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
She shot him a glance, then retreated. “I know it’s silly of me to even think of this—”
“Out with it, woman, so we can get on with it!”
“I don’t want you posing nude! I don’t think I can stand it! I don’t want other women seeing your body! I want you all to myself!” Running out of breath, she lowered her voice. “I told you it was silly.”
“It’s not one bit silly, Leslie,” Oliver returned gently. “It’s sweet and loving and possessive, and it pleases me tremendously.”
“Really?” she asked timidly.
“Really.”
“Because I love your body.” She slid her hands from his chest and ran them down his sides to his thighs. “I do love your body.” Lifting her head, she pressed her lips to the turgid spot that her palm had just deserted.
“It’s yours!”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. There’s just one little catch.”
“Uh oh. Here it comes.” She shut her eyes tightly. “Okay. Tell me.”
“I want your body. That’s a fair exchange, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“What do you mean, ‘you suppose’? You’re supposed to be ecstatic.”
“But … what about my mind? Don’t you want that, too?”
“Your mind? Oh. That. Uh, well, let’s see. We could always put it in a little box on the nightstand—hey, that tickles!”
“The ad was right, you know. You are a rogue.”
“Any objections?”
She smiled and spoke with confidence, serenity and love. “None at all, Oliver. None at all.”
Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s upcoming book
sweet salt air
In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin’s Press
Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.
But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.
When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.
She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.
There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.
The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.
The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.
Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.
But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.
Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.
Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plai
n, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.
Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.
Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.
Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.
Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.
But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.
“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.
His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”
“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”
Warm Hearts Page 39
