Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

  "It’s Thanksgiving," she managed. "Can we at least keep peace for a couple more hours?"

  Brett tipped back another sip and watched Serena over the rim of the glass. Outwardly his stance appeared relaxed, one shoe hiked on the brass foot rail, one elbow atop the counter. Serena could tell that his muscles were tense, and by the faint twinge in his glaring eye, she sensed the pain pulsing behind it.

  He managed an irreverent snort. "I’m at peace, right Rebecca?"

  "Anything you say, sugar."

  "Serena, we have to get going, uh, it was a lovely dinner. You outdid yourself as usual."

  Serena flinched and turned to find Lois Goodall fidgeting with the collar of her coat before her husband rescued her and secured the garment over his wife’s shoulders, blatantly ushering her towards the door.

  "Oh, I understand," Serena stammered. "Yes, it’s late. Please take home some of the leftovers."

  Lois made a theatrical rub over her abdomen and rolled her eyes, yanking against her spouse’s insistent pull. "We won’t eat for days, we’re so full. Thanks again."

  And just like that, Serena watched as families begged their excuses and friends glanced worriedly at their watches. Next thing she knew, she stood within a silence so substantial compared to the clamor only moments ago, that she had to clutch the back of a chair for bearing.

  "Wow, you know how to clear a room." Rebecca leaned across the bar. The pose pushed her breasts up, a gesture she had practiced in front of the mirror. "I wish I could have done that hours ago."

  Brett merely cocked an eyebrow and raised the mug to his lips.

  Simon thrust open the swivel door from the kitchen with his one free hand, the other hoisted over his head, supporting a tray of sliced cake. He halted so abruptly that gravity nearly toppled the plates off one end. Mouth agape, he gazed into the empty dining room, where dirty dishes lay scattered across stained tablecloths. Balloons dislodged by playful children now bobbed lifelessly through the aisles.

  "What the hell—?"

  Aiming his question at the few remaining inhabitants, Simon’s cool blue gaze alighted on Brett and tapered suspiciously. "What did you do?"

  Brett shrugged his shoulder and took a step closer to Serena. "Hey, somebody said cake and they all high-tailed it out of here."

  Simon glared and dropped the tray into the nearest booth. "Who the hell invited you?"

  "Didn’t know it was on an invitation basis."

  "Well, he’s leaving now," Serena stepped forward, reaching for a dishcloth to wrap around her fingers. "The party’s over."

  Rebecca’s hand shot across the bar to grab Brett’s wrist. She cocked her head and simpered. "You can come home with me. I’ve got some Thanksgiving food of my own in the kitchen."

  Serena’s grip on the towel was so tight it cut off her circulation. Cheeks aglow, her eyes flashed a challenge as she approached the bar. "Get out."

  The initial order was directed at a woman she had blindly considered a friend−a woman, who if she didn’t take her hand off Brett in one second, she was going to reach for the nearest meat tenderizer and forcibly remove it. The mad rush of jealousy was a shock to her system, a system that was already reeling from so many jolts. "All of you—please get out."

  "Easy now sis," Brett placated. "Don’t go getting all riled. I think we should have a nightcap, a toast to my deceased brother."

  Serena could tell that Brett detected her trembling hand, so she yanked it behind her back.

  Well, all right, she fumed. If he wanted a performance, he damn well was going to get one, and she was sure to be loud enough for any straining ears within a half-mile radius to hear.

  "I don’t think a toast is in order to mourn your brother. I think what would be more appropriate is for you to get your ‘holier than thou’ ass out of this town before Rebecca here stakes claim on yet another Murphy man. And as for you, Ms. Sorrenson, this establishment no longer employs you. Out of some perverse reminiscence of good times we once shared, as deceitful as they must have been, I will offer you an excellent severance pay−but I don’t care to see you again."

  "On what grounds are you firing her?" Brett challenged.

  "She slept with Serena’s husband." Simon injected, fueled by the lynch mob frenzy.

  Rebecca stood upright, spoiling the effect of her deceptively voluptuous chest. "So," she shrugged, "who hasn’t?"

  Brett’s eyes shot to meet Serena’s, but it was Simon who roared a comeback. "You’re fired remember? Get your white trash, used body out of here."

  "What the—" Rebecca charged out from behind the bar to thrust her pointer finger against Simon’s chest. Her face was as red as her hair as she spoke and jabbed simultaneously.

  "Who the hell do you think you are, you goddamn two-faced—"

  "Don’t you say it." Simon’s fingers wrapped around Rebecca’s wrist. "Don’t you dare say it."

  Rebecca wrenched from his grip and rubbed her hand. "How many nights did you stand here by the bar with me and say that you thought Serena was frigid, and that it was no wonder Alan was looking for someone else?"

  "Well you sure as hell jumped in with your legs wide open, didn’t you?"

  "Stop it!" Serena screamed, certain that she would lose her mind if she heard any more. "All of you. Get out now."

  Rebecca tossed her coiled hair and reached in the closet for her coat, ignoring Simon as he simultaneously grabbed for his. She held out the fake leather towards Brett, but to her dismay it took him a second to acknowledge her expectation. He lugged the jacket up both her arms and watched as she turned around.

  Rebecca’s hands came to rest against Brett’s chest, her head tilted back as she murmured, “Forget about all of this. Come home with me. I’ve got a nice bottle of Chardonnay with your name on it."

  "What I need to do right now," he said, "is to go pack, so I can get my ‘holier than thou’ ass out of town."

  Anyone else watching would have seen Brett’s sneer and heard the disdain in his voice, but only Serena caught the quick flash of mirth in his eyes. "Maybe after that, I’ll take you up on your offer."

  "Don’t wait too long," Rebecca tried to conceal her disappointment that she couldn’t make a dramatic exit with Brett Murphy in tow.

  Skewing her boss a caustic look, Rebecca reached up onto the pointed toes of her knee-high boots and aimed her glossy lips at Brett. She landed a slight graze to his jaw, Brett tipping his head at the last second to avoid her intent.

  Serena reached the back door to the tavern and wrenched it open, heedless of the wind that whipped the Thanksgiving décor into a cyclone at the center of the room. Tilting her head into that frigid stream, she relished the bitter bite against her hot skin. With strained patience she waited for everyone to shuffle out.

  Simon charged by without a word, loose blond hairs corkscrewing over his head as he vanished into the night. Serena waited for Rebecca to follow and turned to find the woman with her hands on Brett again. She wanted to hurl Rebecca outside by her long auburn mane.

  "Rebecca."

  There was a stony calmness to her voice that Rebecca merely wrinkled her nose at. Blowing Brett a kiss, the redhead stalked clumsily over the grouted deck.

  After the diminutive figure disappeared into the shadows, Serena kept the door open, turning in Brett’s direction. When he did not move, she cocked her head to prompt him outside. Brett crossed his arms and leaned back against the bar, watching her with steady gray eyes.

  "Aren’t you going after her?"

  "No," he replied quietly.

  Serena slammed the door shut. She ignored Brett and stooped to gather up the spoiled streamers. Behind her, she heard him rustling with dishes. With her hands full of autumn colored ribbons, she blew the bangs out of her face, exasperated.

  "What are you doing?" she challenged.

  "Cleaning up."

  "If you’re going to play the role of the angry brother in-law, that doesn’t involve janitorial duty."

  Bret
t shook his head and resumed his task, hoisting the first set of plates into the sink and twisting the faucet. Serena decided to ignore him. She crammed torn decorations into plastic trash bags, and made a lot of noise doing it.

  Brett peered up from the sink and secreted his grin, but she caught it. It aggravated her all the more. Hauling the bags behind the bar, she backed into the swivel door and used a free elbow to jar it open. When she returned, she paused in the doorway, inadvertently taking in the width of Brett’s shoulders as he washed the plates in silence.

  "I’ll do that." Her voice was harsher than intended.

  With a shake of the head, he kept washing.

  "Brett, did you hear me, I said I would take care of it. Why don’t you go upstairs? You’re not supposed to be here anyway."

  Brett set a saucer back into the milky suds and turned around, rubbing his hands with a dishtowel. His eyes roved over her.

  "Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?" he asked softly.

  The calming pitch to his voice aggravated her. His smug expression provoked her. And the fact that he looked so damn good in black dress slacks and a crisp white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up only goaded her even more.

  "There is nothing wrong." Did she really sound that loud? "I’m just very busy."

  "Exactly why I’m helping."

  Why was he so notably calm while she felt like a raving maniac? And why was the heat turned up so high?

  Serena moved towards the thermostat and spun the dial down to sixty.

  "Well, go help someone else."

  Brett dropped the towel on the rim of the sink and advanced towards her. The move was slow. Deliberate.

  She instinctively backed up, and made a sound of frustration when she was immobilized by the counter behind her. Her heart hammered as he closed in. In his eyes, a storm brewed, and she had nothing to protect her from the raw elements.

  She searched for a route of escape, but it was too late. Brett stood before her, his hands on either side of her hips, locking her in place. Her chest pounded in agitation, but she lifted her chin defiantly, recalling just how angry she was.

  "You know what, Serena?" he murmured lazily. "You’re jealous."

  "What?" she barked, now trying to push him away, but finding that his arms were like steel, fencing her in. "That’s ridiculous, and do you mind please?"

  "I liked it," he continued quietly. "I liked seeing you jealous. I liked seeing fire in those beautiful eyes and knowing it was because of me."

  "Why, of all the arrogant—I am not jealous, Brett. Maybe I was angry," she stammered. "Sure I was angry, my God that woman—" Serena swept back her bangs because now even her forehead felt hot. Maybe she was coming down with something.

  Brett lifted one arm, and when she thought she could make good on her escape, he caressed her cheek and rendered her paralyzed.

  "Do you have any idea how much I want you right now?"

  Her throat went dry at the huskiness of his voice. She opened her mouth, wondering where the bravado of her anger suddenly fled.

  "You—you don’t want me. You heard what they said about me. It’s true."

  "Let me be the judge of that."

  "But, you’re not supposed to be here," she whispered. "Somebody could be watching. Remember the act?"

  "Screw the act." Brett’s mouth was on hers, and she whimpered with a combination of need and pleasure.

  It was no longer possible to delve for reasons against this. The fact was that she wanted Brett just as bad. In discovering this liberation, she responded to his kiss with a jolt of lust.

  Drawing her hands up behind his neck, Serena sank her fingers into his hair and parted her lips to feel his soft warmth possess her. It was like sinking into a pool and being caressed over every inch of her body with liquid heat. But she never wanted to come up for air. She never wanted this kiss to end.

  Brett cautioned himself to go slow. His hands still clutched the counter, though now with a feral grip as his mouth swept across Serena’s, evading her demand for a deeper union. He heard her silent plea, a choked sob which he cut off with another kiss. Every hidden nuance of Serena’s body begged for more−and God help him, he was going to deliver.

  Forehead to forehead, the tip of his nose touched hers.

  "Serena," His voice was rough. In one word, he warned her of what was to come.

  Ever so slightly, he angled his head and touched Serena’s lips. In tracing them, he knew he had lost all control. His hands released the counter to grab her hips. With a motion that stemmed from sheer need, he rocked into her. The cabinet held her in place, making his friction even more apparent. Serena clutched his shoulders and held on as if her very life depended on it, her quick gasp dusting across his throat.

  "Brett?" It was another plea.

  "I’m here, honey." he whispered, roving her neck with his mouth. If he dared return to her lips he wasn’t sure he could stop there.

  Serena didn’t help matters as her inquisitive fingers grazed his chest and toyed with the buttons on his shirt. Her feathery lashes lowered and he nearly growled when he saw the possessive way she looked at him, like he belonged to her, and she was going to taste every inch of him to prove it. Those languid eyes and the broadening span of her fingers nearly undid him. He reached up and captured her face, forcing her to focus on him.

  "Now do you know how much I want you?"

  To his surprise, a wicked grin crept over soft, swollen lips as Serena instinctively rocked against the part of him that ached with need. He had never seen anything sexier in his life than that sinful smirk.

  She cocked an eyebrow. "I’ve pretty much got an idea."

  A growl tore from his throat. He kissed her.

  "Pretty much?" He kissed her again. "Let me convince you then."

  This time his mouth opened and Serena groaned into it.

  His determined hand climbed up her shirt until it was splayed across her breast, the tip of his thumb drawing constant circles that made her arch into his touch. In response, his hips ground into her, feeling every hidden tremor in her body and stoking the inferno he detected building inside her.

  White hands fisted into the crisp fabric of his shirt as Serena’s head lolled back. Brett seized the opportunity and lavished the pulse at the base of her throat. In a hedonistic pattern, his tongue scored the slim cord of her neck as he climbed up to re-claim her mouth.

  Irrationally, Serena wanted to plead with Brett to stop the maddening friction, sensing that if he didn’t, she would lose control−and she needed control. Her body betrayed her, though, and she met the motion—thrust for thrust. She was lost in undulating waves, looking for something, looking—

  Suddenly, she grew taut. Her head dropped back and she let loose a moan that hitched in her throat. It turned into a startled gasp as her body trembled and fell immediately slack, her head nudging forward onto Brett’s chest. She held on desperately and breathed, aware of the private throbs of pleasure that pulsed inside her—little heartbeat reminders that she was alive.

  Not daring to look up, she whispered, "I—I—that−"

  "You are beautiful." He murmured into her hair.

  "Brett, I—"

  "You what? You’re certainly not going to try and tell me you’re frigid are you?"

  Serena didn’t think her cheeks could possibly feel any more flushed. And resting against Brett’s chest, listening to the racing beat of his heart, only intensified the heat in her face.

  "I’ve never reacted like that," she whispered. "I’ve got to tell you, I’m a little embarrassed."

  Clutching her beneath the chin, Brett tipped her head back so he could search her eyes. "Don’t say that. Do you have any idea how crazy you make me? How perfect you fit in my arms?" His gaze dipped. "And how hot it is to feel you lose control?"

  She nearly caught herself purring.

  "Sshh." She touched his lips with the tip of her finger, but lost her train of thought at the sight of them and the images they evoked.<
br />
  "Oh, Brett." Mortification closed in again. "You, you didn’t—" she faltered, "I feel so selfish."

  The soft masculine chuckle was alluring. "Selfish? Why, because you feel good?" His head shook slowly. "No baby, don’t feel selfish about that. Selfish, is me wanting to be inside you, right now."

  That husky declaration made Serena shiver. It made her throb. Her stroke slid down Brett’s arm until her fingers laced with his. She stared at his chest, the rise and fall of his erratic breath, and the temptation of the warm flesh at his unbuttoned collar.

  "Brett, I want that too."

  Want that. Hell, she thought, she wanted Brett to take her right here on the bar.

  He must have read the blatant desire in her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her, hauling her an inch off the floor so that she was splayed intimately against him. When she connected with the effects of his desire, her breath hitched. He let her slide back to the ground, and when her feet finally touched, he caught her mouth in a rough kiss.

  "Come on," he growled. "We’re going upstairs."

  Serena relied heavily on his support as she scanned the chaos of her restaurant.

  "I guess the mess can wait till tomorrow." She reached for the panel of light switches and hastily flicked them off, flashing him a look out of the corner of her eye. "Everything can wait till tomorrow."

  It took a few moments to get through the door.

  While she fumbled with the lock, Brett nuzzled her neck. Somewhere in there, a determined hand dipped beneath her jacket, against her skin.

  "How am I ever going to concentrate with you groping me like that?" She pleaded with mock exasperation.

  "I intend to make you concentrate on me, not the lock."

  "Well, you’ve succeeded, but we’re never going to get upstairs at this rate."

  Brett reached down to twist the lever that had grown obstinate with age.

  "This damn lock is too old," he remarked. "I’ll replace it."

  In the same breath as his observation about the lock, he swooped and touched his lips to the skin exposed above her collar. He groaned and drew her out into the night.