by Joan Hohl
“I want to be as close to you as possible,” he said in a tone that held a hint of fear and uncertainty. His hand moved in an absent way to lightly brush his chest. “I need to know you’ll hear me if I call for you during the night.”
What could she say? Karen thought bleakly. How could she possibly deny him the assurance of having her within calling distance in the night in the event he suffered another— She cut off the unthinkable consideration with a sharp, brief shake of her head. She had no choice, she told herself, forcing a smile to her lips for him. And anyway, it was really only a room, an empty room. Paul was long gone from it.
“Of course, you may have any room you like.” Karen’s smile faltered as she glanced up, catching the gleam of speculation Charles quickly banished from his watchful eyes. “It’ll only take me a minute to put fresh sheets on the bed.” As she moved to get up, his hand shot across the table to capture hers. His action was too similar to Paul’s motion of a few weeks earlier to be comfortable. Yet the action produced a different reaction in Karen. With Paul, her urge had been to turn her hand and entwine her fingers in his, but with Charles, she had to fight an impulse to snatch her hand away.
“There’s no need to rush,” he said, smiling at her as he gently squeezed her hand. “You’ve been driving all day. Relax and enjoy the rest of your soup. Join me in a cup of coffee.”
“It’s decaffeinated.” Karen made a face.
Charles laughed. “It’s really not that bad once you get used to it.”
The way having him in her home wouldn’t be that bad once she got used to it? Karen wondered, carefully sliding her hand from beneath his. In connection with that thought, an oft-repeated saying of her grandfather’s sprang into Karen’s mind.
A body can get used to most anything, even hanging ifn it hangs long enough.
Was that to be her life-style for who knew how many weeks or months—getting used to having
Charles in her home, being constantly at his beck and call? The prospect was more than a little daunting. Deciding it just might be easier to get used to hanging, Karen got up to get the coffee.
When finally, after keeping Charles company for over an hour, then briskly changing the sheets on the guest room bed, Karen was free to seek the privacy of her own room, she did so with mounting trepidation. In truth, her room was not at all private. It was occupied by the unsubstantial, yet very real, presence of Paul Vanzant.
Long-denied memories crowding in on her, Karen quickly showered, pulled on a nightgown and slipped beneath the covers on her bed. She was cold and shivering, but her physical condition had little to do with the plunging temperature outside and everything to do with the sense of Paul permeating her mind. Paul was there, in her room with her, whether she wanted him there or not.
Karen fiercely fought against the sensation of being completely taken over by the lingering essence that was Paul, but she was swiftly immersed in thoughts of the last night they had spent together in that room, in her bed.
Seeing him clearly, feeling as if she had but to reach out to touch him, Karen saw Paul as he’d looked that last night as he’d silently stalked across the room to her, his eyes dark with intent, his firm jaw set in a determined thrust, his finely sculpted lips curved seductively.
A thrill of anticipation crept the length of her spine, and Karen felt again the breathless excitement she’d experienced at being swept into his arms before being tossed onto the bed. Karen’s breathing grew shallow, and her eyes slowly drifted shut in surrender. The gates of memory flew open, releasing a heady rush of sweet remembrance. Paul was with her, beside her on the bed, within her—masterful, demanding, forceful and gentle with her by turns. And she was his, a wanton flame burning solely to illuminate his world. Their fire had burned through the night, leaping higher and higher until, near dawn, they had burned each other into emotionally charred exhaustion. Karen’s soul still felt the sting of Paul’s searing possession.
A stab of pain shattered the illusion of her wakeful dream. Moaning a protest against encroaching reality, Karen opened her eyes and concentrated on the source of her discomfort. The pain shot along her rigid fingers, cramped from gripping the bedding. With a sigh, Karen consciously relaxed her fingers and her body and her mind.
Paul was gone.
She was alone.
In her sorrow, Karen completely forgot the man sleeping in the room directly across from her own.
Paul was gone.
Was she back in Maine?
The thought came out of nowhere to break Paul’s concentration. Exhaling a harsh sigh, he straightened his cramped back and pulled the oversize silver-rimmed glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose. Paul was tired. He was working too hard and sleeping too little. He knew it. He didn’t particularly care.
It was November. It was cold. It was past midnight. The Thanksgiving holiday was three days away.
Paul didn’t particularly care about any of those facts, either.
Upon returning to Philadelphia in October, Paul had thrown himself into his work. Not the business of banking—he had retired from that and intended to remain retired from it. The business Paul had immersed himself in was a small company he’d acquired before his wife’s sudden, unexpected death. At the time, the small company had been in financial trouble and floundering badly under inept management. Paul had taken over the company with the sole intent of dismantling it and selling it off piecemeal, thereby deriving a profit. After the shock of his wife’s death, Paul had put off the order to begin the process of tearing down the failing company, thus allowing the business to continue on its stumbling course.
During the months following his wife’s death, Paul had brushed aside his son’s advice to either drop the ax on the company or take it on himself and whip it into shape, as Peter himself had done so successfully with his own wife’s struggling company.
Paul had been back in Philadelphia less than a week, drifting through life like a soul in search of a body, when Peter had again made the suggestion that his father take an active hand in the small company. Peter’s cool, offhand suggestion had been a godsend.
Seeking purpose, any purpose other than eating his foolish, middle-aged heart out over a woman, Paul acted on Peter’s suggestion by investigating the company’s possibilities. Very little time was required for Paul to reach the conclusion that, with applied intelligence and a lot of hard work, the company could not only be salvaged but made to show a profit. Paul had been applying both intelligence and hard work since then.
His efforts were beginning to show results, Paul acknowledged, both on the company’s books and in his own thin, drawn face. The thought of his appearance brought a grimace to his lips, it would be some time before the small company was humming along and returning a creditable profit, but Paul, with little else to occupy himself with, was in no particular hurry. He had all the time in the world to steer the company into becoming viable—if he lived through the selfpunishment of forgetfulness through work.
Forgetfulness. Paul’s fingers curled into a fist. There wasn’t enough work in the world to give him forgetfulness. How he longed to be able to close his eyes, just once, without seeing Karen, hearing Karen, needing Karen. Her face teased his memory. Her laughter haunted him. The thrill of her passion tormented his body.
Having allowed the thought of her into his conscious mind, Paul envisioned Karen back in the house on the Maine coast, back in the house and back in the bed they had shared that last night. His body tightened painfully as he relived the sweetness of Karen’s surrender, felt again the thrill of possessing her, being possessed by her.
The very intensity of his feelings made Paul uneasy, and with grim determination he banished the memories from his mind.
What in the world was the matter with him? The question was almost like an old friend, so familiar was it to him.
He had been confused and angry most of the time since he’d returned home, and he still was. That condition was another old friend.
>
Could he possibly be experiencing a delayed midlife crisis? Paul frowned. This consideration was completely new and unexpected. He voiced his opinion of midlife crises, delayed or otherwise, with a muttered, pithy curse.
Well, then, what the hell was the matter with him? Paul’s smile was extremely wry. He was pining for a woman, that was what was the matter with him. And he didn’t know quite how to handle his jumbled emotions.
Lord! Paul thought, raking a hand through his hair. How could he possibly know how to handle these unfamiliar emotions; he had never felt this way before. The realization stilled his fingers. Paul’s hand fell to the desk unnoticed.
He had never felt this way before! Not even with his wife, the beautiful Carolyn, had he experienced quite this intensity of emotional upheaval, this need, this want, this consuming desire to simply be with another person!
Was Karen back in Maine?
Probably.
Then why was he in Pennsylvania?
Because she rejected your offer to be with her.
A sharp burst of humorless laughter broke the silence in the dimly lighted study. Suddenly impatient with the work he’d been straining his eyes over, with himself, with questions that hurt and answers that hurt even more, Paul shoved back his chair and rose to prowl around the solid oak desk.
Restless, dissatisfied, he paced to the bookshelves, only to pivot around again without glancing at a single title on the leather spines. He directed his course to a short black-leather-padded wet bar at the opposite end of the room. He was tipping a bottle over a wide squat glass when his hand was arrested by a drawling voice.
“If you’re playing bartender, you can splash some of that Scotch into a glass for me.”
Tilting his head, Paul peered at his son over the rims of his glasses. His impeccable business suit enhancing the muscular slenderness of his tall body, Peter stood in the study doorway, one shoulder propped indolently against the frame.
“On the rocks or straight up?” Paul asked dryly.
“I’m driving.” Shrugging, Peter pushed himself away from the frame and strolled to the bar to grin at his father. “I’ll have two ice cubes and a large dash of seltzer.”
Paul’s lips twisted with distaste. “A helluva thing to do to aged Scotch,” he muttered, dropping two ice cubes into the glass, then drowning both whiskey and ice with seltzer. After handing the glass to his son, Paul raised his in a salute. “What shall we drink to?”
Peter’s darkly handsome face took on a speculative expression, and his dark eyes began to glitter behind narrowed lids. “Let’s see,” he said, drawing his brows together in a frown. “We could drink to the future success of your new toy, but I think that’s assured now, considering the killing amount of work you’ve put into it.”
“Peter.” A hint of warning sounded in Paul’s voice as he recognized the edge in his son’s voice; Peter was about to go for his father’s throat—figuratively speaking.
“Or we could drink to your health,” Peter went on, ignoring his father’s warning tone. “But that’s in some doubt, considering the amount of work you’ve put into that company.”
“Peter.” The note in Paul’s tone was no longer a hint; it was a full-fledged warning to back off and shut up.
“Then again,” Peter continued, unperturbed by the parental censure, “we could drink to the woman— whoever she is.” Raising his glass to his lips, Peter took a sip of the Scotch while closely watching his father’s face for a reaction.
Though he tried his damnedest, Paul didn’t disappoint his son; a muscle jerked along his clenched jaw.
“Is she pretty, Dad?” Peter asked softly. “Are you in love with her?”
Chapter Nine
Karen, where are my gray slacks?”
With a flicker of annoyance moving over her set lips, Karen sighed and shut her eyes. Gray slacks. Where were they? She had pressed them earlier that morning—and then she’d hung them in his closet. “Have you looked in your closet?”
“Yes, of course, but... Oh, here they are. Sorry.” Yes, so am I. Karen didn’t allow herself to think any further about how very sorry she was about many things, starting with her concession to the request to have Charles recuperate in her home and ending with Charles recuperating in her home. She didn’t have time to think about it. There was simply too much to do. She glanced at the kitchen clock and smothered a groan. The boys would be home for the holiday weekend soon—picked up at school and delivered to
her by their grandparents. A second groan escaped her. Impatience danced along her nerves.
Why had she allowed Charles to talk her into inviting his parents to visit for the weekend? Karen grimaced. She knew precisely why she’d given in to his request; Charles had simply worn her down with pleas and promises of how wonderful it would be to have an old-fashioned family gathering for Thanksgiving. And, as his health had so very obviously improved during his stay with her, Karen hesitated to remind him that they had never gathered as a family for any holiday, even in the days when she had still believed they were a family. So in the end she had given in, ignoring his smug smile of satisfaction. But now, running behind schedule and distracted by yet another reminder of his ineptitude concerning anything vaguely domestic, even to the point of being unable to find his own slacks in his own closet, Karen was beginning to wonder if all her marbles were rolling around in the proper slots.
Get busy, Karen, she chided herself. Time waits for no man or woman, and there’s precious little time to ruminate. Besides, if she did allow herself to think about it, she’d probably start wailing or tearing her hair out of her head. And either way, she’d be a shocking sight for Rand and Mark when they arrived for the Thanksgiving holiday—not to mention Judith and Randolf.
Making a face at her own whimsical thoughts, Karen opened her eyes and glared down at the pie she’d been working on when Charles had distracted her. A sour expression pinched her lips. She hated pumpkin pie. But, as Charles had so gently reminded her, both his parents loved pumpkin pie, and really, what was Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie?
Enjoyable? Karen had not offered the comment at the time of the discussion. She had still been in shock after being informed that she would be entertaining her former in-laws for the holiday.
Now, crimping the edges of the piecrust with more vigor than necessary, Karen fumed in silent frustration. Until Charles had dropped his informational bombshell on her, she had been looking forward to the holiday simply because the boys would be home. She had even considered going out to a restaurant for the traditional meal instead of cooking it herself. Charles’s news had ended her pipe dream of being waited on.
The combined scents of pumpkin, ginger and cinnamon tickled Karen’s nose as she poured the mixture into the pie shell. A soft smile curved her lips. Too bad the finished product didn’t taste as good as it smelled, she mused, sliding the pie onto the center rack in the oven. She was setting the oven timer when Charles sauntered into the kitchen.
“How do I look?” he asked, striking a pose for her.
Experiencing an eerie sense of deja vu, Karen turned to face him. His pose was much the same as Paul’s had been weeks before when he’d breezed into the kitchen after repairing the shutters. Swamped with a longing so intense she felt light-headed for an instant, Karen couldn’t speak or even breathe. There before her, in Charles’s stead, stood the one person she yearned to see. His aristocratic head was tilted at a quizzical angle, and his beautiful mouth curved teasingly. He was smiling at her, for her, only for her. Karen was forced to grasp the edge of the stove to steady herself, so great was the shaft of pain that sliced into her chest. In despair, she felt every minute of every aching hour she had lived through since driving away from Paul in that restaurant parking lot increasing her loneliness a hundred times over. Her heart, her mind, her body wept with need of him.
Paul.
“Karen?” Charles took a step toward her. “You look so strange. Are you all right?”
Ka
ren blinked and began breathing again. “Yes, of course.” She managed a shaky smile to reassure him. “The heat from the oven,” she said, improvising. “It made me a little dizzy.”
Unconvinced, Charles arched a skeptical brow. “You’re pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I said I was.” Stepping around him, she walked to the sink to rinse the flour off her hands and run cold water over her thundering pulse. Frowning, she stared at the vein throbbing in her wrist. This was ridiculous! Rattled, she flinched when Charles laid a hand on her shoulder.
“I think you’d better sit down.” There was a hint of a command in his tone that abraded her nerves.
“I’m all right!”
Karen was suddenly impatient. She was a thirty-seven-year-old mother of two, mooning like a teenager over a man she’d known exactly three days! It had to stop. She could deal with her feelings of guilt over her moral lapse; she couldn’t handle a bad case of lovesickness.
Lovesickness? Everything inside Karen went still. Love? A tremor ran down her legs, leaving them weak. Love! Unsteady, quaking inside, she stumbled to a chair, unconsciously obeying Charles’s order. Her head whirling, she stared at the homey, domestic-looking clutter of sprinkled flour and baking utensils on the table.
She couldn’t be in love!
“Here, sip this.”
Karen started and frowned at the small glass Charles shoved into her hand. The pungent aroma of expensive bourbon filled her senses. Frowning, she glanced up at him.
“What’s this for?”
“You.” Charles’s expression was grim. “It’ll clear your head.”
It’ll take more than bourbon. Karen smiled at the thought. Charles thought she was smiling at him, and he smiled back at her.
“Go on,” he urged. “Drink it.”
Why not? Raising the glass, she sipped and choked on the potent whiskey. Charles laughed. Karen tossed him a wry look.
“Better?”
“Much better,” she lied, taking another tiny sip. “My head’s clear now.” That much was true; Karen felt extremely clearheaded. She wasn’t particularly happy with the condition. Mental lucidity brought the truth crashing home.
