“Three, two, one, zero! Happy New Year!” The cry went up, and Lorne flung his streamers, tossed his hat into the air, then turned to swing Sharon into his arms for the first kiss of the year, only to find her wrapped securely in the arms of that big, blond, bearded fellow, and not even trying to get away.
Marc lifted his head for a fraction of a second. “Happy New Year,” he said, and then he took up kissing Sharon again, oblivious of the hand shaking his shoulder, the voice shouting in his ear.
She pulled away from him a small bit, smiled dreamily and said, “Happy New Year to you too,” and then returned to what was fast becoming one of her favorite pastimes, kissing Marc Duval.
Moments later, while most of the crowd around them sang “Auld Lang Syne,” they were still swaying together, looking into each other’s, eyes, making silent and probably impossible promises, but this was New Year’s Eve, and anything went. Finally, Sharon became aware that Lorne was there, teetering drunkenly, a different hat crookedly atop his head, several multicolored streamers around his neck, his proper banker’s tie askew. Various shades of lipstick decorated his face.
“Excuse me,” he said. “But you’re kissing my date again, Mac.”
“I’m kissing a woman who wants me to kiss her,” said Marc, and did it once more—with feeling.
“Sharon!” This time Lorne’s hand clamped on her shoulder, and he peeled her out of Marc’s arms. “You owe me an explanation!”
“Yes,” she said, shrugging his hands off her. “I do. And an answer. The answer, Lorne, is no. And this,” she said, turning back into Marc’s arms as the band struck up another slow, sweet tune, “is the explanation.” Over her shoulder, she added a quiet “Good-bye.”
They had danced for several minutes when Sharon suddenly remembered. “Oh, my gosh! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Will she mind?”
“Who?” He looked completely mystified.
“The blonde.” Her voice was low and trembling. “Your date.”
His smile was another one she knew she would treasure forever. “Ahhh, yes! The blonde. So now you know what I felt like when I knew you meant to keep your date, and again, tonight, watching you get into that geek’s car all dressed up for him, not me.”
“If murderous is how you felt, then, yes I know,” she admitted.
“Her name is Candice Taylor. I’m here with her and her husband. Feel better?”
“Much.” Beyond Marc’s shoulder, she saw Lorne approaching again, trying to battle a path through the thick crowd. “Marc, I’d like very much to go home,” she said. “But not with the man who brought me.”
He laughed. “As if you really thought for one minute after you saw me here that you’d be going home with anyone else. We’ll leave anytime you say, sweetheart. It can’t be too soon for me. The way I want to celebrate New Year’s Eve can’t be done legally on a dance floor.”
Then, before Lorne could fight his way through the crowd, Marc seemed to open a path as if by magic in the opposite direction, and the two of them had her cape and her purse and were gone long before the other man could get to her.
“You’re very good at cutting swaths through crowds,” she said as she leaned back in the seat of his truck, glad to be out of the noise and away from any possible repercussions that might have arisen. “In fact, you seem to be good at a lot of things, Mr. Duval.”
He grinned at her, then winked. “I’m also very handy in the kitchen, if you recall.” He wasn’t talking about cooking.
She was glad the green glow of the dashboard lights would hide her suddenly flushed face. Would this man always be able to make her blush as well as make her heart pound simply by evoking an erotic memory?
She laughed lightly, sounding half amused, half chagrined. “You know what I’ve just done?”
“What have you just done?” Marc asked, taking her hand and holding it under his on the steering wheel.
“I think I’ve just rented my first forklift.”
“Forklift?” He cut a bemused glance sideways at her.
She sighed and pulled her hand out from under his. “Yes. I was scared, Marc, scared of Lorne, scared of his drinking, his driving, and his not-so-veiled threats. So I called in some muscle. You.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll be your muscle any day of the week. Just turn on the key, aim me in the right direction, and I’ll lift my fork at any bully who’s bothering you.” She smiled at him as he stopped for a red light, and he lifted a hand to slide it over her shining hair, cupping the nape of her neck.
“What’s the going rate on rented muscle?” she asked.
He kissed her chin, then quickly, very quickly, her lips. The light changed. He let his foot up off the clutch and eased forward. “Sweetheart, you haven’t rented me. What you’ve done is leased me. And I’m thinking along the lines of a long-term contract.”
So was she. More than anything else, what she wanted in life was a forever contract with Marc Duval.
Marc awoke and knew at once that Sharon was gone from his side. There was an emptiness not only in the bed, but in his heart because she was absent. He listened, hearing only silence, waited several minutes in case she was just in the bathroom and would return momentarily, then got up and drew on his shorts and shirt. Opening the door, he looked out into the hall. From somewhere downstairs a light shone, and he moved softly to the head of the stairs, paused, then walked down.
He came to an abrupt halt when he heard it, a faint whisper of sound, a tentative ripple of notes, as if a mouse were running along a keyboard. He waited, and it came again, this time with a hint of sureness in it, an entire bar of separate notes, each one softly enunciated, but lingering and fading into the stillness of the night before the next one came. He sat down in the middle of the staircase and listened while Sharon renewed her friendship with her harp.
It was, he thought, as if she and the instrument were conversing. She would ask a gentle question; the harp would respond. Then, it would lead for a moment, and she would, after a pause, come back with a contribution. It was fascinating as well as heartbreaking, because he knew that what she was doing was happening against her will. She was composing. Trying this, trying that, creating a pleasing phrase, asking the harp if it was better this way or that. In the pauses, he thought she might be writing down what they had agreed upon.
For more than an hour he sat there, until his muscles were cramped and his back ached for want of movement, but she still played. The phrases were coming with greater confidence now, seeming to pour from her, running up the scale and down, sometimes loud and exuberant like a stream down a rocky mountainside, other times soft and serene, a boat gliding across a faintly rippled ocean with just enough wind to keep the sails filled. Again and again, though, there were the questions and answers, the discussions between woman and harp, and the final decision was always pleasing to the ear.
And then, as softly as the music had begun, it faded away. Marc waited again, but there were no further sounds from below.
Getting up, he stretched and continued on down into the light, pausing at the entrance to the living room. He saw Sharon, her black bell of hair hanging forward, bent over a desk, writing, her right hand moving quickly, her left now and then impatiently tucking her hair behind one ear or the other. At length, she sat back and massaged her neck, emitting a long, satisfied sigh.
Marc stepped forward and brushed her hands aside, rubbing her stiff muscles for her.
She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “Did I wake you?”
He kissed her upside down. “No. I woke up because you were gone, but I didn’t hear you until I was halfway down the stairs.” He spun her chair around so she faced him, and crouched before her. “It’s very beautiful music, Sharon.”
She smiled. “I think so, too, but it still needs a lot of work.”
There was a glow about her that made her even more achingly beautiful than ever before. It came from somewhere deep inside, and he wanted
to capture it for all time, but knew there was no way he could, in spite of what he’d said so impulsively about wanting a long-term contract. He had to be realistic. All he could do was hope that he might be permitted to stay nearby for a time and see it whenever it was present.
“Do you know what makes it even more beautiful—to me, anyway?” she said, then without waiting for an answer, rushed on. “It’s because I did it for me! I realized tonight that of course I could still compose. I don’t have to do it for the public. I don’t have to do it for Ellis. I don’t have to do it for anybody but myself and those I love. Only I was too unhappy for too long to realize that. I just told myself that I was doing nothing more for Ellis to steal, but if he doesn’t know I’m doing it, there’s no way he can steal it!”
Dropping from the chair, she knelt before him and flung her arms around his neck. “You gave me this, Marc! You showed me how to be happy again. And with my heart singing so loud inside me, I had to let it come out.”
He squeezed his eyes tightly against the burning behind his lids, and held her in a bear hug, then stood with her still in his arms.
“Are you ready to go back to bed?”
She nestled close. “If that means what I think it means, then yes, I’m ready.”
He lay beside her, smoothing her hair back, looking into her deep, dark eyes. He wished he could spend the rest of his life doing just that. “Did you mean it?” he asked.
“Mean what?”
He swallowed. “You said that you love me. I know it might just have been what some people say in the heat of the moment, but I want to know if it’s true.”
She ran her fingers into the curly hair of his beard. “I love you,” she said, meeting his gaze without fear, giving him all the trust in her heart, “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before I said it in … passion, but I’ve never found it easy to say those words. I …”
She bit her lip and looked away. “Tell me,” he said, turning her face back toward his. “Don’t hide from me, Sharon.”
There was shame in her eyes when she said, “He used to laugh at me for saying it. He said it was a ‘puerile’ thing to say. That was one of his favorite words for me, ‘puerile.’ So I guess I quit saying it unless it was sort of … dragged out of me.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever hear any three words from you that mean more to me,” he said huskily. She smiled and said them again, then curled up, nestling against him with a sigh.
Marc turned out the light and lay there beside her, one hand on her hip, a dreadful melancholy stealing over him. What had he done? And far more important than what he had done, what was he going to do?
He wanted more than he’d believed he’d ever want anything again, to marry this woman in whose bed he lay. He wanted her children to be his. He wanted to have a child with her. He loved her. She loved him. What would be more logical than using that love to mesh their lives forever? Yet, when he should have asked her to be his wife, he had not. And he could not ask her without telling her his story. And if he did that, she would never, never marry him. If, through some great, good fortune, she did agree to be his wife, he knew he’d have to watch her trust in him erode.
So, he asked himself, how could he ever stay and marry her? He’d never forget her terror that day he’d been angry with her for refusing to break her date with the banker. He’d been able to make it better then, but over time, her fear of him would grow. He couldn’t live with that, with knowing there was doubt in her heart. If only he hadn’t told her he loved her before he knew what had been done to her. If only he hadn’t made love to her without knowing how that bastard had undermined her self-confidence—not only as a musician, but as a woman. But he knew, too, that if he left her now, he could destroy her newly regained self-assurance before it reached its full bloom.
Restlessly, he shifted in the bed, his hands behind his head, sleep driven from his exhausted mind by more questions than there would ever be answers for. Beside him, Sharon turned her back, snuggled her rump against his thigh, and he shifted to rest one hand on the indentation of her waist. She was so perfect, this love of his, and tonight, she had started to compose again. In restoring her confidence in herself as a woman, he had given her the strength to branch out into other aspects of her life she’d believed were closed alleys. If he left her now, would she go right back to the way she’d been, hiding, not believing in herself, not creating anything, not trusting? There had to be a way! Maybe he’d be able to give her a parting gift that would make up for everything else. He would stay until he’d done that for her, at least.
Finally, he drew her deep into his arms and let her warmth seep through the icy cold of his spirit, as he drifted into a less than healing sleep.
She woke him when it was still dark, leaning over him, shaking him. “Marc!” There was the same kind of elation in her tone as there had been earlier, after she’d played her harp.
Sleepily, he drew her down against him, breathing in the perfume of her skin and hair. He snuggled her close, but she pulled back from him and reached out to turn on a light. He flung an arm over his eyes and groaned.
“Wake up,” she said, getting up onto her knees and wrapping her hands around his wrist, trying to pull it down. “Let’s go up to the mountain and surprise the McKenzies and the kids. I feel like skiing today. I feel like flying today!” He took his arm down and hauled himself to a sitting position. Her jubilation showed not only in her voice but in the shine of her eyes, the glow of her skin, and he could refuse her nothing.
“Get off this bed this minute,” he warned her, his voice a deep growl, his eyes filled with love and laughter, “or well go flying all right, but not down a ski slope.”
She paused to consider the alternative, then grinned, and he was delighted anew at this cheeky gamine he had discovered within her. “Well, we could always surprise them at lunchtime rather than breakfast,” she said.
“Not,” he said with a growl, “if you expect me to have any energy left for skiing.”
Reluctantly, she backed off the bed and went to shower. This time, he had the good sense to let her do it by herself, and used the kids’ bathroom for his own morning ablutions.
“I guess we should turn in,” Marc said, casting a longing glance at Sharon. She was curled by the fire, half asleep, watching the lazy flames as they died down. The children and their hosts had long since gone to bed, replete after a New Year’s dinner of slow-baked glazed ham and all the trimmings.
She and Marc had arrived in time for brunch to find the kids brown and happy and full of the things they’d done, the tumbles they’d taken, and the new skills they’d mastered. Harry and Zinnie, far from looking worn and exhausted as Sharon had feared they would, seemed even younger and more full of zest than before. It had been a perfect day for skiing. The sun shone brilliantly, and before she had skied two runs, Sharon’s face was glowing with the beginnings of a burn, which, she assured Marc, would be a nice, brown tan by morning.
But now the day was over and a decision had to be made. Sharon knew it. Marc knew it. And they both knew that it was hers to make.
She turned and looked at him. She saw the question in his eyes, the longing, and felt such a surge of love and need, she didn’t know how she could contain it. With a lithe movement, she got to her feet and came to stand before him. She looked miserable. The glow of the night before was gone. Her infectious exuberance of the day had died somewhere between Zinnie showing them the room that she’d assumed they’d share, and this moment.
“I’ll take the couch in the den,” she said quietly. “You have the bedroom.” Bending, she kissed him and then stood erect. Careful not to touch her, he got to his feet as well.
“What’s going to happen when we’re home again, Sharon? Is it going to be like this, not only separate beds in separate rooms, but separate houses as well?”
Lifting her eyes to his, she said, “We’ll work something out, Marc. We’ll find ways to be together.”
“Be to
gether?”
She turned pinker than her sunburn and looked down until he tilted her face up, one hand under her chin. “Sleep together,” she said. “You could come over … after … after the kids are asleep, I guess.”
“And leave before they get up.” His tone was flat.
She slipped free of his hand. “Yes.” It was a bare whisper of sound.
“I want more than that. I want us to be together all the time,” he said, “not just sometimes. I want to go to sleep with you in my arms and wake up that way in the morning.”
Her brows drew together. “Live with me?” Her voice cracked. “With us?”
After a moment, he nodded. “Yes. Sharon, we’ve come too far in our relationship for any other kind of arrangement.”
She stared at him. Except one, she wanted to say, but could not. Because, when it came right down to it, even though they’d known each other to talk to for several months, even though she’d been aware of him on every level of her being since the first day she’d seen him, it was only a little more than a week since those incredible kisses they’d shared on Christmas Eve. Everything else that had happened to them since then, making love, declaring their love, sleeping together the whole time the kids were away, had been crammed into such a short space that neither of them could honestly say what they were ready for. And clearly, he was not ready to talk of anything but living together.
She shook her head. “I know that it’s done all the time now, Marc, and nobody thinks anything of it. I know lots of kids see their mothers living that way, but I just … can’t. I’m sorry.”
He could ask her to marry him. He knew that. He saw her dark, seeking eyes silently wondering why he did not. And he wanted to do it so bad, he hurt deep inside. But he knew that he couldn’t. Because he was going to have to leave. Sometime. Sometime before it was too late, he was going to have to find a way to ease himself out of her life before he did even more damage to her than had already been done. So he didn’t say it, and after a moment, she turned and went into the den.
Moonlight Man Page 11
