by Joan Hohl
“How ’bout a walk?” he asked the minute they’d finished eating.
“I have work to do!” Karen protested, though not too strongly.
“Like what?”
She held up one hand, ticking off fingers as she listed the day’s chores. “Dusting. Laundry. Bed-making.”
Paul gave her a considering look, then nodded once. “Okay. I’ll help. We’ll cut the chores in half.”
“But you’re a guest!”
“Big deal.” He grinned; she melted. “I’ll help you clean these breakfast things away. Then I’ll do the beds while you start the laundry. And then...” He grinned again at her bemused expression. “I’ll call Peter while you do the dusting.” He snapped his fingers. “Nothing to it.”
“Are you always this organized?” Karen scuffed the toe of her running shoe in the sand, just to break the smooth surface, and slanted a questioning glance at the tall man pacing beside her. It was their second walk of that day. Long rays of afternoon sunlight bounced a glitter off the undulating sea that almost stung the eye. Working together, she and Paul had wiped out her chore list for the entire week, except for the trip to the supermarket in town.
“It’s atavistic.” Paul laughed down at her. “I come from a long line of fussily neat, well-organized Dutch folk.”
“Oh, brother!” Karen rolled her eyes.
“Hey, don’t complain.” His laughter deepened. “The work’s done, isn’t it?”
“All except dinner, which won’t get done unless I get back to the house pretty quick,” she retorted with her innate New England practicality.
“I give up.” Paul pivoted on his heel. “Let’s go make dinner.” He walked so fast that Karen could barely breathe, let alone protest his intent. But she dug in her heels the instant they walked into the house.
“I’ll cook dinner,” she declared, planting her hands on her hips. “You go take a shower or read the paper or, better yet, try your son once more.”
Paul appeared about to argue until she made the last suggestion. Having made two failed attempts to contact his son, he was feeling a trifle concerned. “Right.” He nodded. “I’ll try Peter again.” He swung away, but paused in the doorway. “It’s been a good day, Karen. Hasn’t it?”
Karen’s smile was soft, as was her voice. “A very good day, Paul. Thank you for it.”
“No thanks necessary. The day was free. Ours to take.” He grew still, a frown drawing his dark brows together. Then he smiled. “As all the days are, by damn!” Striding back to her, he grasped her upper arms, drew her to him and kissed her gently on the mouth. When he raised his head, a smile curved his lips. “That was even better than the walk.” Releasing her abruptly, he strode from the room.
Startled, delighted, Karen stared at the empty doorway, a bemused look on her kiss-softened face. Lifting her hand, she touched the tip of her fingers to her tingling lips.
“By damn!” she murmured in a tone of wonder.
Chapter Three
You are an excellent cook.” Lifting his wineglass, Paul tilted it in a silent salute before drinking the last pale drops. “The broiled scrod was every bit as delicious as last night’s scampi.”
“Thank you.” Pleasure warmed Karen’s cheeks and glowed from her brown eyes. Flattered out of proportion to the simple compliment, she lowered her gaze to her plate. The meal had been good, she supposed, although she wasn’t as positive as he—she’d been too aware of his presence at the table to really taste any of it. Appalled by the tremor in her fingertips, Karen raised her glass and gulped the last of her wine. Obviously remembering the night before, Paul arched his brows as he hefted the wine bottle. She smiled and nodded. He refilled her glass the instant she set it on the table again.
“We may as well finish it,” he said, pouring the last of the chardonnay into his glass. Cradling the glass, Paul leaned back in his chair. He sat bolt upright again as a gust of wind rattled the panes in the long windows in the bowed alcove. The wind made a low, moaning sound as it whipped around the house. Paul frowned. “Storm brewing?”
Karen nodded. “I heard a weather report while I was finishing dinner. There’s a storm moving up the coast. It could be messy.”
“Messy?” Paul glanced at the windows as another blast of wind slammed into them. “In what way?” “Thunder, lightning, rain, the possibility of sleet and/or snow. Gale warnings have been posted and high tides predicted,” Karen said, repeating the forecast she’d heard earlier. “Surely you felt the temperature dropping while we were on the beach?”
Paul’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. At his back, the wind turned into a low roar. “The house is secured?” he asked sharply.
Karen smiled. “Reasonably. There are a few things that need doing, but...” She lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug.
“What things?” Leaning forward, Paul set his wine on the table.
“A couple of shutters on the second floor are loose,” she said, annoyed. “And the storm doors must be hung.”
“Why haven’t these things been done?”
His imperious tone changed her annoyance to anger, and she bristled inwardly. Who did he think he was, anyway? And why was he ruining the easy camaraderie between them? Strangely hurt, but trying to control her temper, Karen replied evenly. “I called the man who does the work for me, but he has a long waiting list. I must wait my turn.” A mocking smile shadowed her soft lips. “The house has withstood over a hundred years of storms. It won’t blow away, I assure you.”
“I didn’t think it would,” he retorted. Lifting his glass, he leaned back again, his attitude one of supreme indifference to the racket outside. “But I don’t like leaving things unfinished.” Raising his glass, Paul sipped the wine appreciatively, looking for all the world like an indolent, refined aristocrat. “I’ll fix the shutters and hang the doors as soon as the storm wears itself out.”
Karen stared at him in openmouthed amazement, stunned by the contrast between his appearance and his blandly voiced statement. Not even his efforts of that day had prepared her to hear him calmly offer to do the job of a handyman. “You?” she blurted out, unaware of the implied insult.
A dry smile curved his lips. “Why not?” he inquired politely. “I believe my capabilities run to a hammer and a screwdriver as well as bed-making and kitchen duty.”
Karen suddenly, inexplicably, felt every bit as rattled as the windows behind him. Paul had given her a gentle but unmistakable verbal smack. She felt both ashamed and embarrassed by her rudeness. She had leaped to conclusions based only on appearances, an error she rarely made. Her fingers plucked nervously at the woven place mat beneath her plate. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, glancing down and issuing a silent command to her fingers to be still. Paul’s reflexes were quicker than hers. Leaning forward, he stilled her fingers by covering them with his own.
“Why are you suddenly shying away from me, Karen?” he asked, his voice so soft it felt like a caress.
Her head jerked up. “I’m not!” she said, much too forcefully, her lips burning with the memory of his brief kiss.
Paul’s dark eyes met her gaze. “Yes, you are,” he said. “And I know why.”
She was suddenly hot, and cold, and breathless. Wanting to jump and run, but unable to move, Karen moved her head slowly back and forth, silently negating the known but unstated. She bit her lip to keep from crying out when his hand tightened around hers.
“You know why, too.”
“No.” Her voice was raspy, whispery, fearful. She didn’t want to Tiear it, didn’t want her feelings, her needs, put into words.
“Karen.”
The low, aching sound of his voice shuddered through her receptive body. Her head moved again, sharply. This couldn’t be happening, not to her! Not with this man! A gasped “Oh” burst from her slightly parted lips, as retaining his grip on her hand, Paul set his glass aside and got up to circle the table to her.
“Paul, don’t.” The whisper was nothing more than a token p
rotest. Karen knew it, and Paul knew it, too.
“I must.” Grasping her arms, he drew her up and into an embrace. “I wanted more this afternoon, Karen,” he said in a tone growing harsh with passion. “I don’t understand it any more than you do. But I need to taste your mouth again. I must have your mouth.” A wildness darkened his eyes as his gaze fell on her trembling lips.
“Paul, this is crazy!” Karen’s weak tone was unconvincing. “We don’t know—” Her voice was lost inside his mouth.
Unlike his earlier, gentle touch, his kiss was at once hard and demanding, and his body was, too. His arms tightened, crushing her soft breasts against the muscled strength of his chest. Frightened by the intensity of the sensations searing through her, Karen struggled against his hold. She went still as his tongue entered her mouth. Her senses reeling, she felt his hands move on her back, one up to her head, fingers tangling in her hair, the other to the base of her spine, fingers splaying over her buttocks. She felt him change position. One leg eased between her thighs and was immediately followed by the other. The pressure stretched the denim material of her skirt, molding it to the most feminine part of her. Cupping his hand, he drew her up and into the shocking heat of his body.
“Paul!” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. “You must stop!” Karen could feel his heart thumping against her chest, could hear the erratic sound of his harsh breath, could smell the dizzying mixture of sharp after-shave and aroused male. He frightened her; he excited her. She felt as if her insides were melting.
“I know,” he said unsteadily. Drawing deep gulps of air into his lungs, he rested his forehead against hers, but his hand continued to press her body to his. “I feel you trembling,” he said on a roughly expelled breath that teased her lips. “I don’t want to frighten you, Karen. Please believe that.”
“I... I do.” Karen was telling the truth; she did believe him. The strain in his voice convinced her that he was as confused as she was by the intensity of the attraction flaring between them. Held rigidly at her sides, her hands ached with the need to touch him, caress him, hold him. She clenched her fingers in desperation. “Please, let me go.” Karen’s throat felt tight and achy. “I must clear the table.” She was half hoping he’d refuse, and she sighed softly when he complied.
Paul reluctantly slid his hands from her body, then stepped back, a wry smile slanting his lips. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Now, tonight?” Karen exclaimed, her jangled senses clamoring a protest. “There’s a storm building out there!” As if to reinforce her statement, a gust of wind slammed against the house. “Where would you go?” Glancing away from the passion still smoldering in his eyes, Karen stared into the darkness beyond the windows. She didn’t want him to leave, and it required all her control to keep from clutching him to her. She started when his hand caught her chin, turning her to face him.
“You didn’t answer my question, Karen,” he said tightly. “Do you want me to go?”
Unconscious of the implied sensuousness of her act, Karen moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, shivering at the naked hunger revealed in his eyes as he watched her. Thrown off balance by the intensity of her response to him, she jerked around and began clattering dishes and utensils as she gathered them together.
“Answer me!”
The sharpness of his tone lashed at her, and with a muffled sob, Karen whipped around to look at him. “No!” she shouted. “No, I don’t want you to go!” Gripping the dishes in her hands, she spun on her heel and dashed into the kitchen, wincing at the harsh sound of his voice as Paul cursed fluently.
Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Feeling about to explode, Paul stormed into the living room. A fire leaped merrily in the fireplace, sending forth a rosy light to enhance the welcoming comfort of the room. Paul wasn’t soothed by the warmth of the fire or the appeal of the deeply cushioned chintz-covered chairs and sofa, the brightly colored braided oval rug or the glow from the softly burnished copper lamps set on the solid wood tables. If anything, the tranquil ambience of the room merely added irritation to his already abraded sensibilities. Flinging his body into a chair, he stared broodingly into the crackling flames.
Why had it happened, here and now? Paul asked himself agitatedly. More to the point, how had it happened? A burst of dry, humorless laughter eased the tension in his throat. Had he genuinely believed that his sex life was a thing of the past? Yes, he had convinced himself that the drive was gone forever.
“Fool!”
The ridicule wrapped up in the sound of his own voice brought a self-mocking smile to Paul’s lips. Impotence. Merely allowing the word to form instilled a sense of sick dread in him. But he had believed it to be true. For six years, Paul had lived with the feeling of dread. Six long years. Sighing softly, tiredly, he rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.
More than six years earlier, in the classic last-to-know fashion, he had learned of his wife’s infidelities and her proclivity for younger men—compliments of a well-meaning friend. At the time, something had seemed to die inside Paul. His body had not responded to either his wife or any other member of the opposite sex since then. At first, his lack of response had terrified him, yet pride had kept him from seeking medical advice. Then, as time passed and his interest waned, Paul had resigned himself to never again experiencing the sensual thrill of his blood running hot and wild and his body tautening in anticipation. And now, after six years, to have his body awaken to urgent, pulsating life, not once but repeatedly within a matter of some twenty-four hours, was stupefying, to say the least.
Not repeatedly, incessantly, Paul thought wryly, feeling his muscles tense and the sweet flame of desire sear his loins as a vision of Karen came into his mind.
What was it about her? Shaking his head, Paul dismissed the question as unimportant. The why of it didn’t matter—not now. What did matter was the life and passion quickening his body and teasing his mind. He wanted her. His desire was strong and hot, and he wanted her so much it actually caused him pain. God, it was wonderful!
“Where is your wife?”
His sensual reverie shattered by Karen’s quiet voice, Paul shot up in the chair. His mind still clouded by a haze of passion, he stared at her uncomprehendingly.
“My wife?” he repeated blankly.
Karen’s lips tightened. “Yes,” she said distinctly. “Your wife.” Her steps light, her walk graceful, she crossed the room to stand before him. Her gaze was cool and direct. “Where is she now?”
A flash of understanding removed the frown creasing Paul’s brow. He had told her he was both a father and a grandfather, but that was all he’d told her. And after the trauma of her revelations the night before, they had both carefully avoided any subject even bordering on the personal all day. They had talked of many things, all of them impersonal. But now, Paul realized that Karen needed answers—she believed him married and looking for some extramarital action. And considering her own experience with Charles, she was probably somewhat militant, and rightfully so. A slight smile teased Paul’s lips. No wonder she was looking at him in that insulted, accusatory way.
“My wife is dead, Karen,” he said, rising to stand in front of her. “She’s been dead for almost seven months.”
“I’m sorry.” Her lashes swept down to conceal her eyes, but not quite fast enough to hide the flash of relief that they revealed.
Reaching out, he caught her hand with his. “You needn’t be,” he murmured, feeling heat shoot up his arm as he stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “She had been on a course of self-destruction for years.”
Karen started, and her lashes swept up again. “You mean she committed suicide?” she breathed.
“No.” Paul shook his head sharply. “At least not consciously. It’s a long, unsavory story, and...” His voice faded. He couldn’t simply say “.. .and I’d rather make love to you than talk about her now.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Don�
��t be.” Paul was hurting again and enjoying every nuance of physical pain. Lifting her hand, he brought it to his lips. His tongue tested the tips of her fingers and found them delicious. “She was driven by demons no one understood. She’s at peace now.” As he finished speaking, he drew one finger into his mouth to suck gently on the tip. Satisfaction shimmered through him when Karen gasped, then shivered.
“Paul.” Her voice was low, quivery. “What are you doing?”
“Tasting you.” A slow smile curved his lips. “You taste like lemon-fresh dish detergent.”
“I... I had to wash the broiler. It doesn’t fit in the dishwasher.”
Paul’s smile deepened. Karen’s tone was revealing in its uncertainty. “I find I’m developing a taste for the tartness of lemons,” he said, deserting the finger and drawing her hand to his shoulder. “But I still prefer the sweetness of your mouth.” His objective stated, Paul slowly lowered his head, allowing her time to retreat if she wanted to. She didn’t.
Desire surged through Paul’s body as Karen lifted her head, silently offering her mouth to him. He groaned and covered her mouth with his parted lips.
This time his kiss was different; the difference destroyed the last of Karen’s resistance. Though his lips were as hard as before, his mouth was gentle on hers, coaxing a response from her. Murmuring words she couldn’t hear but understood nonetheless, he played
a sensual game with her lips, nipping at them and sucking on them in turn, then lightly skimming his tongue over her sensitized skin.
When Paul finally slid his tongue into her mouth, Karen had been reduced to a whimpering, shivering mass of receptive readiness. Her muffled moan of pleasure electrified him. Gentleness gave way to spi-raling hunger. The kiss became an almost violent clash of greedy mouths, each seemingly intent on devouring the other.
