Fire And Ice

by Diana Palmer

  “We had something very special,” he replied, his voice quiet in the stillness, his gaze level and intense.

  “Sex always seems special until the infatuation wears off,” she returned.

  “It wasn’t sex,” he corrected. “You may not know the difference, but I do. I wanted you in ways that had nothing to do with that very lovely body of yours.”

  She stared at him, her mind trying to make sense of the words and failing miserably. “It isn’t wise to trust impulses,” she murmured.

  “You spent a great deal of time in my bed before we were interrupted that night,” he replied. “Hardly an impulse on your part, was it?”

  She felt her face flush, but she didn’t look away. “I’d had quite a lot of wine,” she hedged.

  “Is that what you’ve convinced yourself happened?” he mused. “That I got you drunk and led you astray?” He paused to crush out his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “I’m going to be out of town for a few days—a business trip I can’t get out of. Maybe it’s just as well. You might miss me.”

  She stared at him unobserved while he bent to the ashtray. She loved every hard line of his broad face, the way his thick hair curled just a little at his nape, the formidable size of his shoulders. He was so much a man, so big a part of her life, and she didn’t want to think about days going by when she wouldn’t at least have a glimpse of him at the dinner table or in the hallway at night. He’d been home every evening since they’d been in Chicago. She’d gotten…used to him being around. Her eyes dulled.

  He turned, catching a glimpse of the sadness that lingered on her face. “Will you?” he asked, going close to catch her upper arms and tug her to him roughly.

  “Will I what?” she murmured. Her eyes were on his wide, sensuous mouth and she barely heard him.

  “Miss me.”

  Her lips parted involuntarily. Her fingers rested against his vest, but she didn’t try to push him away.

  “Suppose you kiss me goodbye?” he murmured. “Just for old time’s sake.”

  “We haven’t known each other long enough to qualify for that,” she reminded him in a breathless tone.

  “I’ve known you all my life, Margie,” he said as his mouth opened and brushed her lips teasingly. “I’ve known you for a hundred years, and I’ve wanted you since day one…God, kiss me!”

  He took her mouth, his arms riveting her body to the length of him, and she moaned softly as the magic washed over her. Her hands tangled in his thick hair, holding his mouth over hers as the kiss became more intimate, more demanding. Her body trembled with a fever and an ache that threatened to buckle her knees.

  His tongue penetrated the sweet, dark recesses of her mouth in a rhythm that was blatantly suggestive while his hands traveled down from her breasts to her upper thighs and moved her hips slowly, sensuously against his.

  She moaned again, arching sinuously with the motion of his hips, her nails biting into his shoulders. She wanted him, ached for him, and all the harsh words and accusations and recriminations were forgotten in the burst of passion he kindled in her slender body.

  “I’m on fire for you,” she whimpered involuntarily against his demanding mouth.

  “How the hell do you think I feel?” he growled.

  “I know you want me,” she said in a voice that shook, and she looked up into his fierce eyes with blatant hunger in her own.

  “Want you,” he murmured. “What a tame word for a notorious romance author to use. Is that the best description you can come up with?”

  She smiled slowly, sensuously, suddenly filled with confidence. “Are you going to talk, or kiss me?”

  “You’d better hope I keep talking,” he said, and made a very visible effort to control himself. “The kitchen table isn’t the best place to make love, but it’s looking more and more inviting to me right now.”

  She laughed softly. “What a wicked thought. I wonder if it’s ever been used in a book?”

  “Just hold it right there, lady,” he said, and some of the old mischief was back in his dark eyes. “I draw the line at being used for research.”

  “I’d make it worth your while,” she promised with blatant seduction in her voice, batting her eyelashes at him.

  He laughed delightedly. “Would you? How exciting. Suppose you lie down on that kitchen table and we’ll talk about it….”

  “Cannon!” Andy’s voice came echoing down the hall, shattering the tenuous intimacy of the kitchen.

  “Damn,” Cannon muttered. “He’s lying in wait for me.”

  “It’s just as well,” Margie observed. “God knows how I’d be able to work with splinters in my back.”

  He burst out laughing, and the sound was new and sweet and delicious and after the days of darkness and scowling, Margie felt girlishly happy, and her joy gave her a sudden vibrant beauty that made Cannon catch his breath.

  “Why did you have to wait all this while to smile at me,” he moaned, “and then choose a time when I’m an hour late for the airport?”

  “I’ll work on my timing while you’re gone,” she promised, and smiled at him again.

  He touched her mouth with his finger. “Will you miss me?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, letting the barriers down.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” he said. His eyes held hers. “When I get back, we’ll talk.”

  She nodded. “I’d like that.”

  Then he was gone. And all the color seemed to go out of the world with him.

  Ten

  “Cannon should be home today,” Victorine murmured on Friday, glancing up from her needlepoint.

  Margie tried not to look excited. “I’m sure he’s looking forward to the party tonight,” she said mischievously. “Even if it’s only to satisfy his curiosity about Jan’s organizational talents.”

  “I think she’s done a marvelous job,” Victorine volunteered. “As good as I could have done myself.”

  Margie looked intently at the other woman. “Did you really have a heart attack?” she asked, voicing the question she’d been asking herself for the past week.

  Victorine glanced up with innocent astonishment firmly in place on her delicate features. “Me?” she asked.

  Margie grinned. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

  “Not at all, dear.” The older woman laughed. “Cannon was about to make one of the biggest mistakes of his life. I had to do something. And that was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment. How’s the book coming, by the way?”

  “I’m still a chapter short,” Margie sighed. “I’ve been pounding and pounding, and that deadline is just a week away.”

  “It’s probably my fault,” Victorine said apologetically. “I’m sure being here has slowed you down considerably. But one thing I’m certain of—Jan will make a success of the party. And that will force Cannon’s hand. He’ll agree to the marriage, I promise you.”

  “I wish I had your confidence,” Margie said with a faint smile. “Well, I’m off to the lake. I thought a little peace and quiet might perk up the old creative juices.”

  “They might perk up from another source,” Victorine murmured, “if he weren’t so bull-headed and inflexible and unable to admit he’s human enough to make mistakes.”

  Margie only laughed. She got up, picked up her tackle box and walked down to the lake.

  * * *

  Cannon arrived only a half an hour before the dinner party was scheduled to begin, looking tired and older and drained of life.

  Margie was just coming down the staircase in a silver gown—the same gown she’d worn that magic night with him. He was on his way up the staircase, and when he happened to raise his head and see her, something explosive darkened his eyes, stiffened his posture.

  “My God, you’re beautiful,” he said quietly. “Elegant, poised, glowing…”

  She licked suddenly dry lips. “Thank you,” she managed.

  He moved farther up the staircase, his dark eyes holding hers relentlessly unt
il he was on the step below her.

  He smelled of cologne and soap and tobacco, and she liked the dark, charcoal gray suit he was wearing; it emphasized the darkness of his hair, the olive complexion of his broad face.

  “You…almost missed the party,” she stammered. He made her nervous, this close.

  “I missed my flight and had to catch another,” he replied, but his eyes were on her body. “It’s good to be back home,” he murmured deeply. His fingers moved around to the back of her head, coaxing it toward his. “Is this lipstick smudge-proof?” he whispered as his mouth approached hers.

  “I…I don’t know,” she whispered back.

  His mouth parted, coaxing hers to open, to let him ease gently, slowly, into it, so that she could feel his warmth, breathe in his smoky fragrance. His breath was as ragged as hers, his heart beating wildly against the hands she’d pressed to his chest to steady herself.

  “I missed you,” he managed in a whisper, his hand tightening at her nape. “Oh, God, I missed you so…!”

  It was the last straw. Her arms swept up and around his neck, and she heard his briefcase fall with a muffled thud. She could feel every hard line of his body against the softness of hers, feel the rough slam of his heart. He kissed her again, and the kiss went on and on until he was the only solid thing left in a world that had dropped out from under her shaky legs.

  It was a long time before his ardent mouth lifted and she looked up with misty, half-open green eyes.

  “Do you know how long it’s been since I slept, since I could sleep? Do you know how it feels to lie in a bed alone and want someone with you until you feel as if you’re being cut apart with a dull saw?”

  “It won’t work,” she whispered, almost afraid to reach out for the happiness before her. Her eyes searched his, adoring him.

  “I’m going to make it work, Margie,” he said in a choked whisper, bending again to her mouth. “Darling…”

  She parted her lips, lifting them up to his just as a door opened. He jerked back, his eyes blazing with mingled desire and frustration.

  “Ready?” Jan asked, coming into view in a soft pink chiffon dress that flattered her complexion and the slender lines of her body. “Hi, Cannon! Welcome home,” she added, watching him reluctantly move away from Margie to pick up the fallen briefcase. “The guests should be arriving any moment.”

  He sighed roughly, managing a weary smile for her. “If I’ll do dressed as I am, honey, I’ll put my briefcase upstairs and be right with you.”

  “You look very nice. Doesn’t he, Margie?” Jan murmured with a dry glance at her flushed sister.

  “Very nice,” she echoed.

  He held out a hand. “Help me put away the briefcase,” he murmured, not bothering to hide the hunger in his face from Jan.

  “Go ahead,” Jan murmured, winking at Margie as she turned and went downstairs. “I’ll handle everything down here,” she added as the doorbell rang.

  Another door opened and Andy came rushing out into the hall, his hand straightening his tie. He grinned at the tableau Cannon and Margie made, frozen in place on the staircase.

  “Hi,” he said. “You both look great. Jan downstairs? I’ll find her. You two coming?” he called over his shoulder.

  Cannon was still staring at Margie, who hadn’t moved an inch. “In a few minutes. We’ve got to put away my briefcase first.”

  “You’ve got to what?” Andy burst out, stopping to gape at them.

  “Oh, darling, our guests are here!” Jan called gaily, waving to him.

  “Huh? Oh, of course!” Andy turned away, moving quickly down to join Jan in the hallway.

  “We…we should go down,” Margie whispered.

  Cannon shook his dark head. “Not now. Not yet. I need you!”

  She searched for something to say, and failed miserably.

  Another door opened and closed and Victorine, in a long, peach-colored gown with a Victorian neckline, moved toward them with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

  “Blocking traffic?” she murmured. “Why don’t you two go and comb your hair?”

  “Is that a better excuse than putting away my briefcase?” Cannon asked as she passed them.

  “Your father and I used to use it all the time,” she assured him. “You wouldn’t mind if I congratulated Jan on her coming engagement…?”

  He sighed, watching the guests throng in the hall below. “Anything you want,” he agreed, catching Margie’s hand. “It looks as though she’s done a superb job with the arrangements.”

  “Yes indeed,” came the smug reply.

  Cannon’s hand tightened on Margie’s as he tugged her back up the staircase and down the hall to his room, while her conscience warred with the desire in her body and she almost ran to keep up with him.

  He opened the door and closed it behind them, dropping the briefcase even as he reached for her.

  She gave in without a struggle, letting him put her on the soft, cream-colored coverlet. A moment later he came down beside her, his fingers tearing at the tie and the buttons of his shirt.

  “You’ll wrinkle it…” she whispered shakily, helping him out of the jacket, the shirt.

  “Damn the wrinkles,” he said, his hands impatient as they stripped the silver gown to her waist. In the next moment he found her mouth hungrily with his own.

  She could barely think when he finally lifted his head, her mouth slightly swollen from the fierce ardor of his lips, her body languorous, her legs trembling from the long, sweet contact with his.

  “Stopping so soon?” she whispered unsteadily.

  His eyes devoured her, taking in the disheveled glory of her long, dark hair which had come unpinned, the delicious bareness of her body above the waist.

  “Well,” he murmured with a faint grin, “we do have to put in an appearance downstairs.”

  She arched sinuously, smiling at the way his eyes darkened, following the movement.

  “You little witch,” he growled, moving his mouth down to cover the saucy little smile until he felt her lips quiver and part.

  When he had released her mouth she cradled his head against her breasts and kissed his dark, cool hair. “I love you,” she whispered.

  He lifted his head, looking down at her with agony in his face. “I thought I’d killed your feeling for me,” he admitted roughly. “I swear to God, I never meant to react that way. It was strictly an impulsive outburst, one I’ve regretted every minute since. I wanted to apologize—I tried to before we left Florida—but you wouldn’t let me close enough.” His eyes closed. “God, I thought you’d never let me get close to you again!”

  She touched his mouth with soft fingers, her eyes adoring him. “I was afraid to,” she admitted. “I was afraid my world and yours would never mix.”

  “We’ll make them mix,” he promised. His lips brushed against her bareness, making her tremble. “We’re going to get married, Margie. I hope you’ll meet me halfway on that issue, but if not, I don’t really mind carrying you to the altar kicking and screaming. It would make great copy for all the morning editions—a really unique sendoff for your movie.”

  “That would really take the edge off your conservative image,” she reminded him. “Your board of directors…”

  He tilted her face up to his dark eyes. “I love you,” he said in a curt, emphatic tone. “You, Mrs. Silver, you and your notorious alter ego. And nothing is as important as that in my life. Not the corporation, not my bank account, nothing!”

  She felt the tears well up in her emerald eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered, brushing the tears away with warm, loving lips. “Everything’s going to work out beautifully.”

  “But it almost didn’t,” she pointed out.

  “No,” he admitted. “But fortunately, I have a mother with a devious mind and a big heart who knows me better than I know myself.”

  She gaped at him. “You knew about her faked heart attack?”

  He grinned. “Of course
I did. But you’ll notice that I went right along with it. I wanted you here more than she did.”

  Her mouth pouted. “I don’t see why. You spent as much time as possible away from the house….”

  “Hoping that you’d mind, that you’d miss me half as much as I was missing you,” he admitted in a husky whisper. “It was almost enough that I could see you, here in my house, or spy on you when you went fishing.”

  “You watched me?”

  “I had to,” he confessed, pulling her against him, and everything was revealed in his face. “Sometimes the hunger was so terrible, Margie.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “All the color went out of my world when you left it….”

  His mouth descended on hers slowly, achingly tender, before she could get the rest of the words out. He eased her against the pillows, his body covering hers with a raging hunger.

  Her fingers speared through his thick hair, holding him, cradling his head as the kiss deepened and lengthened and his weight crushed her down into the mattress.

  “I need you,” he said softly, his breath mingling with hers. His fingers brushed down over her breasts, her waist, her hips, savoring the smoothness of skin, the firmness of muscle.

  “They’ll miss us,” she managed. But the fever was burning her, too, and all the hunger and all the love was clamoring for expression, for fulfillment.

  His hands came up to frame her face and his eyes searched hers quietly, intently. “I can feel what you want,” he said, his voice deep and slow in the stillness. “Just as you can feel how much I want you. I can’t hide it. I can let you go—but it will feel like tearing off an arm, and I can’t hide that, either. I’ve been a long time without a woman, and I want you so much I’m shaking with it.”

  She knew that. It made her feel strangely triumphant—that she could create the raging hunger, that she alone could satisfy it. She loved him beyond bearing, and despite her faint, lingering nervousness of allowing a man such intimate knowledge of her, she was past denying him.

  She forced her taut muscles to relax, her hands to caress the hard contours of his body, her breath to slow and deepen.