All the way home, she knew that those were his headlights visible in her mirror. It felt odd, being shepherded like that—odd, but sort of nice, as if she had a guardian angel on the road with her. It was not, she told herself, a feeling she wanted to get used to. She could look after herself very well indeed.
It was difficult, though, to be self-reliant, when no sooner had she pulled into her drive than he pulled into his, stepped over the low boxwood hedge that separated their driveways, and brushed her hands aside to undo the brackets that held her skis in place. He carried them and her small suitcase to the back door for her. They both heard the phone ring inside, and she gave him a wave and a mouthed “thanks,” as she unlocked the door and shoved it open.
It was Lorne Cantrell, her banker friend, on the phone. “Have dinner with me tonight, Sharon,” he said.
She was surprised to hear from him. “I … I didn’t expect you back from Disneyland so soon. What about your children? Are you sure you want me there?”
“I didn’t mean here,” he said. “I’ve made reservations at the Roost.” That, she thought, was just a tad presumptuous on his part, unless he had someone else he could call if she refused, or he was willing to dine out alone. “I couldn’t get hold of you all day, so I went ahead anyway, just in case you were back in time. You know what it’s like there; impossible to get a table at the last minute. I’ve even booked a sitter for you,” he added, further startling her.
“That was … thoughtful, but I don’t need one. My kids are up at Mount Washington with friends. But are you certain you want to leave yours tonight? You don’t get to spend a lot of time with them, Lorne.”
“They aren’t here. Marilee caused me a lot of trouble down in California, so I brought them back and dropped them off with their mother before coming home. A sick child needs a mother, don’t you agree?”
Sick? That had cause him trouble? “I, well, yes. Certainly.” But she didn’t think it was fair to the other two to have their allotted time with their father curtailed simply because eleven-year-old Marilee was ill.
“So dine with me. Okay? I’ll pick you up about seven forty-five.”
She was about to refuse, to plead weariness from two days of hard skiing, but then she remembered with whom she had spent far too much of that time.
“Fine. Thanks, I’ll be ready.”
When a knock came at the door, she thought Lorne had arrived an hour early. She was nowhere near ready, having just come out of the shower.
It was Marc, though. A smile creased his face as his eyes swept over her clinging yellow robe and the dripping hair peeking out from under a pink and white striped towel.
“Hi,” he said. “I wondered if maybe we could find someplace nice and go out for dinner together.” The look in his eyes and the flutter in her stomach made her doubly glad she was able to say, “Oh, I’m sorry, Marc. I can’t. That was my friend Lorne Cantrell on the phone. I’ve already agreed to have dinner with him.”
“I … see.” She watched his Adam’s apple bounce up and down, and then he shrugged. “All right, then. Another time?”
“Thank you. Maybe.”
“Well, good night, Sharon. Enjoy your dinner.”
“Thanks. I imagine I will. The food at the Roost is normally very good. We go there a lot, Lorne and I. We have reservations there for the New Year’s Eve dinner-dance too,” she felt compelled to add. Marc Duval and the things he did to her had to be held at bay. One way or another, she was bound to make sure of that, even if it meant throwing Lorne in his face and pretending that her relationship with the banker was more important to her than it really was. It was the only safe way.
Before she had been at the table long enough to finish one drink, Sharon realized Lorne Cantrell was a bore. Of course, she’d known he wasn’t one for scintillating conversation, and he didn’t have an endless store of interesting tales to tell, but she hadn’t known before just what a dull person he was. She had simply seen him as safe, and safe was what she was looking for. She had thought boring would be nice for a change. It was not. It was simply … well, boring.
However, to her dismay, Lorne made it clear over their coffee and liqueur that he wanted to take their relationship several steps further ahead than she was prepared to consider, and all of a sudden the conversation wasn’t dull. It was downright horrifying.
Leaning across the table, he shoved aside the candle that separated them and took her hand. “Sharon, why don’t we get married?” he said, stunning her completely.
“Lorne! We’ve never even been to—I mean I don’t think we know each other well enough yet to make that kind of commitment.”
“We’ve never been to bed together,” he said, finishing the sentence she hadn’t, “because you’ve always kept up a barrier between us. But I realized on this trip with the kids that I can’t do it all alone any longer. I mean, well, Marilee didn’t exactly get sick.” He grimaced. “She, uh, got her period for the first time. Really, Sharon, it was a terrible time for me,” he added earnestly, a frown on his long face. “It just blew me away! I wasn’t prepared to deal with something like that! I got a hotel chambermaid to come in and help her, and we caught the next flight back. It was no fun, let me tell you.” He shoved his hair back in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture and she couldn’t help but notice he drew it forward again to cover his growing bald spot.
“And Heather is nearly ten,” he went on. “It’s going to happen to her, too. Thank goodness Phil won’t pull a lousy stunt like that one on me.”
Sharon had the feeling that Lorne had been more concerned with his own feelings than those of his likely frightened daughter.
He seemed to blame his daughter for something over which she had no control. She hoped he hadn’t made poor Marilee feel dirty or guilty or ashamed, that he’d had the sensitivity not to let his own obvious repugnance show, but suspected that he probably had made his daughter feel worse. She could only hope that the girl’s mother had taken up the slack when the kids were dropped off on her several days before their vacation was supposed to end.
“So you see what I’m saying, don’t you? If you and I were married, then when the kids are with me, and something like that comes up, you could handle it. I mean, women are so much better at things like that than men are. Not unnaturally,” he added with a short laugh. “And your boy is going to need some questions answered in a couple of years, questions my son Phil will be able to handle a lot better than you will.”
She stared at him, noticing that he didn’t say he’d be willing to guide Jason, but would turn the chore over to his own son. “You want us to get married so we can see each other’s children though puberty?”
He squirmed uncomfortably and glanced around to make sure no one had hear her. After all, it wouldn’t do for one of the town’s leading bank managers to be overheard discussing such a thing in public.
“Well, that’s only part of it. Neither of us is getting any younger, you know. Why should we spend the rest of our lives alone just because we both failed at marriage the first time? I mean, your looks won’t last forever. How many more chances do you think you’ll get?”
“My looks,” she said, not making any attempt to hide her annoyance, “seem to be holding up fairly well, Lorne. At least, I haven’t heard any complaints lately.” She wondered if he knew how ridiculous he looked with his hair combed over from a part way down by his left ear? Who was he to talk?
“All right. You look great. You always do,” he said, clearly knowing he was blowing it but not quite knowing how or why. “But I still think it would be a wise move for both of us to merge our families and resources.”
“You make it sound like a bank transfer,” she said. “Taking funds from one account and putting them into another because of higher yield, or something.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s the way my mind works. I’m a practical man, Sharon. I’ve never pretended to be anything else. However, I can see that you need some time to think
it all over before you agree with me that it would be the best move for both of us, and for our children.”
“Lorne …” How could she tactfully say that she knew now beyond a shadow of doubt that she could never marry him, not for any reason in the world. She didn’t even know why she had ever thought she might be able to, that there could be any benefit in it for her. There was no tactful way to say it. She opened her mouth to give him a very blunt no, but he held up a hand, stopping her word.
“No. Don’t say anything. Wait. We’ll see each other again New Year’s Eve. You can give me your answer then.”
“I can give it to you now,” she said. “Maybe you could find someone else for New Year’s Eve.”
His pale blue eyes looked horrified. “No, I couldn’t! It’s much too late for that, and I’ve spent a lot of money on the tickets, Sharon. I can’t believe you’d back out at this late date. Really, I think you at least owe me the courtesy of attending the dinner-dance with me, and waiting until then to give me your answer. I know you’re planning to turn me down. I’m just hoping that you’ll change your mind over the next few days, after you think about it, see the advantages our marriage would offer you as well as me.”
With a little nod, he stood, picked up the check, and then held her coat for her. They drove home in silence, but when he had walked her to her door, he bent and kissed her briefly. It was a dry, emotionless little touching of lips that did nothing to make her insides quiver. Nothing. It stirred no feelings at all beyond a faint distaste.
She sighed quietly. “Good night, Lorne.”
“Good night.” He looked totally miserable. “New Year’s Eve. Remember. Promise me that much, anyway.”
She was sorry she had to disappoint him. She knew she wasn’t hurting him, but she was certainly disappointing him. “Yes. Of course. I won’t let you down. I’ll keep our date.”
She changed from her dress into a short pink wraparound robe sashed at the waist, switched on the bedside lamp, and turned back the covers. She looked at the book lying by her bed, at its glossy, suggestive cover, and knew that its contents paled by comparison to the reality of Marc that kept running through her mind. No, she was in no rush to go to bed and it was early yet. In the kitchen, she turned on the light, put the kettle on, and made herself a cup of tea.
What a strange proposal that had been, not at all what she had thought Lorne would say if he ever asked her to marry him. And her response had not exactly been what she had anticipated either. She had thought that as time passed they would grow slowly closer together, and they would realize that they could have a warm and comfortable relationship as a married couple. However, maybe warm and comfortable weren’t what she really wanted.
When the gentle rapping came on her back door, her heart stopped, and she set her cup down with a clatter. Standing, she found her knees would barely support her. She knew who was there, and she knew why he had come. She stepped to the door and opened it, watching Marc’s expression as his gaze swept over her brief satin robe, her bare legs and feet, then back up to lock with hers.
He didn’t smile, and she noticed dimly that there were lines of tension drawn from his nose to his mouth. He had changed out of his suit and tie, was wearing a flannel shirt, tight jeans, and grubby sneakers. He looked so virile, she thought briefly of slamming the door and running for her life, but knew it was ages too late for that. She stood there, lost in his gaze. She felt a newfound confidence in herself that she’d lacked before, a sureness of her own ability to cope with whatever came of this attraction she and Marc had for each other, one she had been fighting for months. Now, she no longer wanted to fight it. She just wanted … him.
His gaze never strayed from hers, yet she felt he was totally aware of her naked body under her robe.
“He didn’t come in,” Marc said finally. His voice was taut, low, throaty.
“He wasn’t invited.” Hers was thin and breathless.
There was a pause. Again, she watched his Adam’s apple move in his throat. “Am I?”
After only a brief hesitation, she stepped back, giving him room to enter. As he kicked the door shut behind him, he reached out and gathered her close, holding her fully against him. He groaned, a deep sound of satisfaction, pulling her closer. She sighed, a long, tremulous sound of rapture, and burrowed into his incredible heat.
No, warm and comfortable she would wait for. Those were for when she was old. Right now, she could do with a whole lot of hot and wild and exciting. Right now, she could do with a whole lot of Marc Duval, and the devil with the consequences. Lifting her hands, she drew his face down and parted her lips as his covered them.
Moments later, he lifted his head and whispered, “What’s the matter? Didn’t he buy you dessert? You still seem mighty hungry.”
“I didn’t want the kind he was offering.”
“Do you want what I’m offering?”
“How do I know, until you tell me what it is?”
He bent and murmured in her ear, his words so erotic they made her squirm, and she knew her face was aflame even as she looked at him. “I want what you’re offering. Oh, Marc, I want it so bad!” she said tremulously.
Lifting her in his arms, he held her high against his chest. “Then come and get it, little one. I’m hungry, too.”
Something jangled musically just at the periphery of her hearing as he swung her around and carried her toward the stairs, and into her mind floated the image of golden bangles sliding along a dark, slender arm as it lifted to encircle a man’s neck. Yes, she said silently and with gratitude. Oh, yes. Now I understand
Chapter Six
HE PAUSED HALFWAY up the stairs to kiss her again, as if he couldn’t wait another moment. He set her on her feet in the upstairs hallway, holding her when she swayed. “Where?” he asked, his voice tight. He cleared his throat and laughed. “Look what you’ve done to me. I can hardly talk.”
“In here.” He thought he could hardly talk? She could hardly walk! With their arms around each other, they walked the few feet necessary into her room. Her double bed, top sheet already turned back, stood in the middle of the room invitingly, the one lamp casting a glow across a pillow where she had left her book.
He didn’t move toward the bed, though, only drew her close and slid his hands into her hair, looking deeply into her eyes. “Do you always read in bed?”
She nodded, unable to speak. “Not tonight,” he whispered. She shook her head.
“I like your room. It smells like you, sweet and delicate, like a field of wildflowers. And it looks like you, all neat and tidy and dainty. Do you know, it scares me how small you are. I’m not so sure I won’t hurt you if I love you the way I want to—hard and fast and furious until there’s nothing left of this vast need in me.” He smiled. “As if that could ever happen. Because even if I did love you that way, I know I’ll always want more.”
“I’m like a reed,” she said huskily, lifting a shaking hand to stroke the soft beard as it curved around under his chin. “I’ll bend. So hold me tight, love me the way you want to. The way I want you to.”
But when he lifted her and laid her on the bed, parted the front of her pink robe, and curved his hands around her creamy breasts, she shivered and couldn’t continue to meet his gaze.
His hands moved to her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
She had to tell him! She gulped, closed the front of her robe, and said, “Marc … You have to know something about me. I’m … not very good at this. I don’t … I haven’t … Not for a long time and …”
He lay down beside her, turned her face to his, forcing her to meet the ardor in his dark gold eyes. “How long, sweetheart?”
He had misunderstood. She knew that and was suddenly glad. Maybe he’d never known a woman like her before, a woman who was unable to function normally in a sexual situation. “Dysfunctional” was the term she had read more than once in self-help articles. Once, she had been extremely … functional. But that enjoyment had died a
long time ago along with many other good things she had once known.
“Three years,” she said, answering the question she knew he was asking. It had been three years since she had had sex. It had, however, been much, much longer since a man had made love to her.
“I will have to be very, very careful with you,” he said. “Never do I want to cause you a moment’s pain.”
“What about the pain of waiting?” she asked, lifting up on one elbow, beginning to unbutton his shirt. If she was going to do this, she had to do it now. Right now.
His chest was liberally covered with the softest, curliest mat of hair she had ever seen, paler than his beard, but nearly as thick. She ran her hand into it, curling her fingers to press their pads against his hard muscles.
His chuckle sounded against her neck as he nuzzled her skin. “That kind of pain,” he said, “is good for you.”
“And for you?” She found his nipples and squeezed them gently in turn, then kissed one, washing it with her tongue. He went very still, just holding her face to him with one hand on the back of her head.
Several moments later he said hoarsely, “I don’t think that kind of pain is good for me. I might have a heart attack.”
She lifted her head, eyes filled with alarm. “You have a bad heart?”
Stroking one hand up over her bent knee and down the slope of her thigh, he pushed the back of her satin robe up until he found warm, rounded flesh to touch, and the edge of a pair of panties. One finger slipped under the elastic, moving erotically from side to side over the curve of her buttock. “No. But it’s sure as hell racing like mad right now.”
“Aerobic,” she murmured, moving against him, rubbing her cheek on his woolly chest. “Good for you.”
“Oh, Lord!” He picked her up, parting her legs and sitting her astride him, nuzzling open the front of her robe. He licked the underside of one of her breasts, then pulled the tight nipple into his mouth, rubbing it with his tongue until she moaned. Still, she felt exposed sitting on his stomach, the evidence of his arousal hard under her. And the light! The light bothered her terribly. He would see. He would know. He would despise her.
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