"Only in bad movies. Trust me, Nat." He sat forward and began to rise from the sofa. "I'm perfectly ... "
Oh, hell. The world went gray, and he sank back against the cushions just in time. Natalie rushed to his side.
"Put your head down," she commanded.
He knew better than to argue. Besides, her cool hand was already on the nape of his neck, soothing away the pain. She knelt beside the sofa, her fingers still soft on his skin.
"Better?' ,
He looked up, into her beautiful eyes. ' 'Yes. Thanks."
"Well, it was my duty." She smiled. " I couldn't let you pass out, could I? If real men don't whine, they sure as heck don't faint."
Gage's brows knotted. "How'd you know that?" Natalie's smile tilted. "You told me, a long time ago." "Did I?"
"Uh-huh." She rose to her feet. "Way back in the days when you and I still had things to talk about."
There was no heat in the words. Still, they rocked him.
"What do you mean? We've always had-"
"I'll get those linens," she said, and swept from the room. After a moment, he lay back on the sofa. What kind of crack was that? They'd always had things to talk about. What they'd lacked was the time to talk, but that wasn't his fault. Natalie had her clubs and her charities, he had a business to run.
Gage yawned. He was tired. So tired. He tumbled into deep, dark sleep.
When he awoke, the room was filled with the soft, gold haze of mid afternoon sun-and, to his surprise, he felt better.
Carefully, ever so carefully, he put his good hand on the sofa cushion and eased himself up.
"Hell," he whispered. "What's the matter?"
The sound of Natalie's voice startled him. He jerked around and saw her rising from the depths of a wing chair near the fireplace.
"Gage? Do you hurt?"
"No," he said. It was almost the truth; the maniac playing the kettle drums in his head had reached a crescendo, but now he was backing off.
"Liar," Natalie said gently.
She handed him a glass half filled with water, then held out her hand. He looked at the capsules that lay in her palm and then he sighed, took one of them, and swallowed it. She took the glass from him, reached past him and set it on the table. He caught a whiff of her perfume. She smelled of wild-flowers. He'd always loved that scent. She'd worn it for years, ever since ...
"I bought you that," he said, "didn't I?"
"What?"
"That perfume." He sniffed. "It smells great."
"Yes. Yes, you did." She knelt down beside him, the way she had before he'd fallen asleep, but this time she lay her hand against his forehead. "Are you okay?"
"Mmm." He put his hand over hers. "That feels terrific."
Natalie tried to pull her hand free but his fingers tightened on hers. "No, just leave your hand there for a minute. It's nice and cool."
"I can get you an ice pack ... "
''I'd forgotten all about that," he said softly. "The perfume: It was the first present I ever gave you. You were seventeen-"
"Sixteen.' ,
"Uh-huh." His eyes met hers. "We drove out to the lake ... "
"We drove up to Superstition Butte." Natalie tugged her hand loose. "Lift your head a little, so I can fluff your pillow."
He lifted up. She leaned towards him. Her hair brushed lightly against his cheek.
"You're right. It was Superstition Butte. You were wearing that white dress, the one with the little pink flowers."
"They were blue flowers," she said softly. "And after we'd parked, you dug into your pocket and took out a beautiful little package, all wrapped in silver paper."
"Yeah." Gage chuckled. "You'll never know how my knees knocked together when I walked up to that perfume counter at Walgreen's." His eyes met hers, and his smile dipped. "That was the night I touched your breasts, for the very first time. Do you remember that, babe?"
Did she remember? How could she not? That first hesitant brush of his fingers against the softness of her flesh. The rasp of his shadowy beard against her nipples. The heat of his breath, of his mouth.
"Yes," she said softly, "I remember. That's where-it's where everything began for us. At Superstition Butte."
"We'd been up there before. But we'd always stayed in the car." Gage's voice roughened. "That night, I took that old blanket out of the trunk. We got out, and I spread the blanket over that little patch of grass."
Natalie swallowed. "You should be resting, Gage. I mean, you just got out of the hospital..."
"You opened the perfume." His voice was soft. He reached out and ran the back of his hand over her cheek. "You put some behind your ears."
"Gage," she whispered, "please ... "
"And then I took the bottle from you, babe, and I put some of the perfume on my finger and I drew my hand down, along your throat, to this little hollow, right here."
Natalie's eyes drifted shut. She began to tremble. "Don't.
Oh, don’t … "
She said the words because it was right to say them, but they had no conviction. She wanted this: the stroke of his calloused fingertips against the softness of her skin, the whisper of his lips down the length of her throat as he nuzzled open her blouse.
His hand brushed the swell of her breasts, and she moaned. "Natalie," he whispered. "My sweet. My love."
"No." Natalie pulled away. She stood up and shook her head. "We can't."
Desire knotted in his belly and hoarseness his voice. "We can. You're my wife."
"Not anymore," she said, and she swung away and ran from the room.
He must have dozed off again.
When he awoke, the room was dark except for a single lamp throwing out a soft light in the far comer.
Gage sat up, took a deep breath and struggled to his feet.
Then he hobbled down the hall, until he found the bathroom.
"Whoa," he said softly when he saw himself in the mirror. He not only felt like a giant bruise, he looked like one.
Two black eyes. Stitches. The elastic bandage. At least the pain in his head and wrist had given way to a generalized, all-over ache.
He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face. Then, moving slowly and carefully, he made his way towards a bright light at the far end of the hallway.
Natalie was in the kitchen, seated on a high stool before the sink, slicing carrots into a pot. Sometime during the afternoon, she'd changed into white shorts and a white T-shirt. Her feet were bare; her toes curled gracefully over the rung of the stool.
She looked beautiful, and, as always, incredibly sexy. But sexy wasn't what he felt.
What he felt was a love so strong, so powerful, that, just for an instant, it was difficult to breathe.
This woman was his wife. Once, she had been the centre of his life. And then, somehow, he had almost lost her. He'd thought she'd stopped loving him, but she hadn’t. He was certain of that. It was just that she was afraid of giving In to that love, and he didn't know why.
But he was going to find out.
Fate had put them together again. For a day, a week ... whatever the time granted him, he had to use it to Win Natalie back. And, once he did, he'd never let her slip away from him again.
"Hi," he said.
Natalie swung towards him. A flush rose in her cheeks, and he wondered if it was because she'd been thinking about him.
"Hi, yourself. I thought you were asleep."
"I was." He hobbled into the room and leaned back against the sink. "Seems as if I've slept the day away':'
"Well, you didn't get much sleep last night. Each time I phoned, the nurse said ... " She stopped in mid-sentence. Then she turned away, picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the pot. "I'm just making supper. I can bring you a tray and serve you in the den, if you like."
"You checked up on me," he said softly. "Hmm?"
"You called and asked the Dragon Lady how I was doing. "
"Yes. I called, a couple of times." A dozen ti
mes. Two dozen. Once every half an hour, until finally the nurse had told her she was being a nuisance. "I, ah, I didn't want to get to the hospital and find out they weren't ready to release you."
"The Dragon Lady should have told me." A smile curved his mouth. "It might have improved my disposition. I thought you didn't give a damn."
Natalie spun towards him. "I always gave a damn," she said fiercely. "You were the one who didn't, the one who who--" She glared at him. Then she tossed aside the spoon, reached for an oven mitt and opened the oven door.
"The one who what?" he said, bewildered.
"Forget it. Just-just sit down, and he'll have supper." Gage nodded. Something was happening here and he didn’t know what it was, only that it was dangerous. And, God, the last thing he wanted to do tonight was start a quarrel.
He kicked out a chair, sat down, and searched for a safe topic.
"So, uh, so, what's doing with the Landons?" "They went to Paris."
"They worked things out, then?" "Yes."
"Great. They're nice people."
Natalie slammed the oven door. "Yes, they are."
"It's a hell of a thing, when two people who love each other lose their way," he said cautiously.
Natalie opened a drawer and took out a handful of silverware. "I agree."
"Sometimes-sometimes, it just happens."
She looked up. "Nothing 'just happens,''' she said softly. "No. No, I guess not." Gage cleared his throat. "So, how did they get together again?"
"Grant and Crista?" Natalie shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. I guess they discussed the things that were keeping them apart."
"What things?"
"Things. You know, just-things."
Natalie put the silverware on the table. Gage picked it up and arranged it on the placemats.
"What if two people don't really know what things are keeping them apart? What then? I mean, what if the guy hasn't got a clue?"
Natalie's back stiffened. "That's a real problem. The very fact that he doesn't have a clue says-it says a lot about what's happened to their relationship."
"Well, why doesn't the woman just tell him?"
"Maybe she's tried to. Maybe he just hasn't listened.
Maybe things have gone too far."
"So, what is the guy supposed to do? Is he supposed to ask, 'What happened? Why did things go wrong?'"
There was a silence. When Natalie spoke, her voice was soft and shaky. "Sometimes-sometimes, it's too late for that. The what and the why don't matter. They both can just tell that-that it's over."
Gage reached out and caught hold of her hand. "It isn't over," he said fervently. "Not for me. I never stopped loving you, babe. Never, not for a minute." His fingers curled around her wrist. "Did you stop loving me?"
His heart thumped like a gypsy's castanets while he waited for her answer, for what he'd see in her eyes. At last, she turned and looked at him. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears but he couldn't tell if the tears were for him, for herself, or for what had become of them.
"Nat? Did you stop loving me?"
She knew this was the moment. All she had to do was look him in the eye and say yes, she had stopped loving him. Their marriage would really be over. Gage would never touch her again, never come after her. She would be free of him, of his love ...
"Babe?"
Natalie raised her head: Their eyes met.
"No," she said brokenly. "Never. I always loved you, Gage. And I always-"
She got no further. His chair tumbled over backwards as he rose, took her into his arms, and crushed her mouth beneath his.
"I love you," he said, his lips a breath from hers. "Nat, sweetheart, I love you so much."
And she loved him. What was the use in pretending? She loved him, she'd always loved him, ever since she was sixteen. She could make a life without him-she knew that, now. But, oh, she didn't want to. She didn't want to.
Her arms wound around his neck. Her head tilted back, and her lips parted to the thrust of his tongue. Sanity, logic, reason ... all of it fled in the sweetness of Gage's kiss. This, this, was all that mattered. Being in his arms. Tasting his kisses. Knowing his love.
His hand slipped up, under her shirt. She gasped at the feel of his fingers on her back, on her belly, oh, on her breasts.
"Your wrist," she whispered, but he shook his head and kissed her again and again, until she felt as if she were whirling In space.
"Take this off," he growled, and she helped him strip away her T-shirt, her shorts, her bra.
"And you," she whispered, her fingers trembling as she opened the zipper on his jeans.
Gage moaned her name, threaded his fingers into her hair and bent her back over his arm. He lowered his head; his lips closed on her nipple and she sighed with pleasure.
"Now," he said as she reached for him. "Now, babe, right here, because I can't wait, I can't."
"Don't wait," she whispered, and arched against him.
"Please, Gage. I want you inside me ... "
His body stiffened at the sound of her words. He caught his breath, buried his face in her hair.
"Gage?" Natalie framed his face with her hands and lifted it until they were looking into each other's eyes. "What is it? Have I hurt your wrist? Your head? Oh, I knew we shouldn't have done this, I knew-"
He lifted his hand, lay a finger gently over her mouth to silence her. Everything had to be perfect tonight. He knew it, knew he would lose her, otherwise.
"You haven't hurt me," he said softly. "Then, what is it?"
"I don't have anything with me, Nat."
Her forehead creased in puzzlement. "I don't understand." "I don't have a condom, babe. I didn't use one the other night, either." He saw her expression begin to change and he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. We'll have to wait. God knows, we don't want to get you pregnant... "
He saw the blur of her hand, felt the sharpness of her palm as it connected with his face.
"No," she said bitterly. "God knows, we sure as hell don't."
"Babe," he said, but it was too late. She was gone, and he was alone.
He paced the den. The glassy-eyed animal heads stared at him dumbly and he thought how good it would be if they could speak to him, but they remained mute. Finally, when he couldn't stand their silence anymore, he flung open the patio door and strode down the sand to the sea, but the waves and the moonlight had no answers, either.
And, damn, he needed answers.
Either he was crazy or Natalie was. And he was tired of trying to figure out which.
After a while, he walked back to the house. The light was on in one of the rooms upstairs. Let her sit upstairs and sulk. Or brood. Let her do whatever it was she was doing, because he didn't care. Forget about needing answers. Hell, he didn't even know the questions.
No way.
Not anymore.
There was a decanter of something or other on a sideboard in the den. Gage took a glass from one of the shelves above it, opened the decanter and poured. He raised the glass to his nose and sniffed.
"Gawd," he said, shuddered, and tossed half the stuff down.
He dropped into the corner of the leather sofa, picked up a magazine and opened it. The words danced on the page but he kept staring at them in grim determination to take his mind off Natalie. It didn't work; he was still trying to think about the magazine article and not her when she came marching into the room. As soon as he saw her, he knew he'd been waiting for her, listening for the sound of her footsteps.
''I'm sorry I hit you," she said. He could almost see the icicles hanging from the words as they left her mouth. "Considering your condition, I mean."
"What condition?" Gage stretched his lips in a tight smile. ''I'm fit as a fiddle. And anyway, I probably deserved getting slugged." He reached for his half-empty glass and raised it towards her in mock salute. "Not that I know what the hell I got slugged for.'
"No," she said, even more coldly, "you wouldn't." "And I don't suppose yo
u'd care to explain it to me?" "I didn't come here to discuss what happened. I just thought you might like to know what you missed for supper."
Gage yawned.
"Meat loaf," she said.
Marriage On The Edge Page 17
