He must have done something to the panel on the wall, because there was music, soft and languorous. He caressed her hair, untangling it, drawing it away from her face. She could hear her own breathing, his.
She confessed, “I’ve been aching, dreaming you.” Loving him, but she sealed the word behind her lips.
His lips were slow on hers, teasing, not taking. Brushing her full lower lip, waiting, feeling her response. He moved to caress her cheek, her eyes, her temple where a pulse beat thick and heavy.
When her hands sought restlessly in the soft thickness of his sweater, he drew them away and pulled the sweater off with a smooth motion. The music was a pulse, beating around them. Anticipation. She could feel the hard ridges of his chest muscles through the shirt, the soft areas where his hair grew thickly. She groaned when the open palms of his hands brushed slowly across the peaks of her breasts.
She wasn’t aware of undoing the buttons of his shirt until she felt her fingers searching through the tight, dark hairs that grew underneath. Then her arms were tangled in her own sweat shirt as he drew it away and threw it back somewhere, to join his sweater.
“Are you going to kiss me?” Was that her voice? That husky, seductive breath?
His voice was slow, husky, promising, “I’m going to love you.” She felt the muscles go tight at the pit of her stomach as his hands shaped the upper slopes of her breasts above her bra. “Slowly,” he said harshly. “As slowly as I can.”
Her fingers curled around the hard bulge of his male breasts, fondling the tangle of his chest pelt as he moved close to her. He bent to trace the curve of her breast with his lips. Her legs turned to rubber as a heavy pulse beat at her centre.
“I told you I’d melt,” she said raggedly.
His answer was a low growl. He released her, but only for a moment, his fingers trembling as they freed the fastener of her jeans. He left the denim covering behind as he swung her into his arms.
She had thought she would be shy, lying almost naked on the massive bed with Patrick staring down at her white flesh in the moonlight. She was better covered than she would be in a bikini, but she had always been a girl for one-piece bathing suits. And shy, until tonight.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He was so careful with her, holding his own passion tightly leashed. Then, abruptly, there was only need and the harsh gasp in his throat when she moved against him. And fire.
His hands, caressing away the silky scraps of fabric that separated them. His lips, teasing the turgid swelling of her breasts, then drawing her need deeply inside his mouth, driving her wild so that her fingers curled hard into the muscles at his shoulders, her teeth worried the firm flesh of his shoulder.
His hand, probing her restlessness, finding her moist and heated with woman’s passion. Careful, so careful, invading the place that was only his. Hard, needing, holding back until she felt the rightness of his possession and moved against him.
She knew the moment when he lost control, heard the groan torn from his throat, felt the hard possession of his body. Her passion met his, welcoming it, feeling his harsh need inside her as a joyful victory, fullness, loving. Right. She moved against him again, fire against fire. Then the rhythm was his, theirs, and joy became tangled with impatience, with need, with heat until everything exploded and there was only sensation and loving in the world.
Chapter Eight
Molly woke with the sun on her face and Patrick’s arm across her waist, his face nestled against her shoulder. She closed her eyes and let the feel of him soak in.
So it had not been a dream. Her dreams of Patrick were always filled with heat, but the warm security of his arms holding her while he slept was something she had not anticipated in dreams.
Better than fantasy.
When Patrick moved in his sleep, she felt her body respond. When she turned her head, careful not to disturb him, she saw the sheet tangled around his limbs. Like Jeremy, she thought with painful tenderness.
She was not going to cry and she was absolutely not going to ruin the life of the man she loved by hanging on. Not when she knew she could only bring him a load of scandal.
He did not stir when she slid away, but he came to her later while she was standing under the pounding shower. “There isn’t room!” she gasped, but there was.
He took the tiny complimentary shampoo bottle from her hand and lathered the white stuff through her hair. His fingers sent long tingles of heat through her scalp and her body as he massaged the water through her hair, rinsing the soap away. When the water and the hair were streaming down her face and her back, he found a bar of soap from somewhere and drew her back against his hard length while he soaped the rest of her body.
“Oh, Patrick,” she whispered. He made her feel so loved, so cherished. She slid her wet arms around his neck, reached up and pulled his lips down to her mouth.
Hours later, tucked into the passenger seat of Patrick’s Corvette and driving north again, Molly began to worry.
“Your family are going to think... are going to know—”
“That we’re lovers?” His hand found hers and closed over it. There was a faint smile on his lips. “They’ll be right, won’t they? I told you, Molly, you have to learn not to worry.”
“Some things need worrying about.” She bit her lip. Like Saul, and tax collectors.
“Hand those things to me.” His hand tightened. “I’ll look after them for you.”
She stared at the highway ahead. Another hour and they would be in Nanaimo. Then Gabriola Island and the cabin. Saul’s cabin. The government’s cabin.
“I’ve looked after myself a long time,” she said carefully, because there were no words for what really needed saying. Good-bye. Because Patrick wanted to take over her problems, slay her dragons. Because she must not let the man she loved be hurt by Saul.
“Too long,” muttered Patrick. “You’ve looked after yourself too long.”
He stared grimly out the windshield and said flatly, “I want you in my life, Molly. Your problems, whatever the hell they are. Your worries. Your dinosaurs.” He shot her one grim look from under lowered brows.” Your love. Our children, Molly, because I’ve seen you with Jeremy and Sally. You want that, too, as much as I do.”
She closed her eyes tightly and whispered, “It can’t work.” She felt the sick war of dreams and fate tangled in her stomach. What would he think if she threw up? Right here, all over his beautiful car. She swallowed hard and wished herself anywhere but here at the side of the man she loved. “No,” she said painfully. “It won’t work. It can’t work.”
She watched his fingers curl around the steering wheel. “I’ll change your mind,” he said quietly, and she knew him well enough to know that a quiet-spoken Patrick was at his most determined, that he was a man who got what he wanted in life.
In the end, she would have to run away. Unless she could persuade him that she didn’t love him. She hugged herself with arms crossed tightly across her chest. Don’t tell lies, and don’t run away. Two of her rules, vows made when Carla took in the twelve year old Molly and gave her control of her own life. Rules for a girl who had lived in the shadow of a man who didn’t believe in rules. She had a collection of them, things she believed in. Be honest with the people you care about. Pay what you owe the day the bill comes.
She shivered in the warm blast of air that came from the heater of Patrick’s car, cold because there were no words between them now, only the sick feeling of tension.
They came across on the last ferry of the night, arriving at Gabriola just after eleven. Quiet inside the car, so much unsaid. Molly closed her eyes and tried to feel calm. It was ironic that peaceful Gabriola now had the power to fill her with dread.
Tomorrow was Tuesday. The second working day of the week. Normally, Patrick would have been in his offices in Nanaimo on a Monday, not away in a Victoria luxury hotel with his lover.
What had happened here on the island while they were away in Victo
ria? Had the bailiffs come? Would Molly find a lock or a seal or whatever they used on the door of her cabin? Would the neighbors know already? Who came to do it anyway? Was it a sheriffs car? Some kind of Canada Revenue Agency vehicle? The RCMP? There was a small detachment on Gabriola, just two police cars.
When Patrick drove past the farm, the buildings were dark except for the yard lights that shone on the farmhouse and the barns. “Edward’s lights are out too,” he said a moment later. “Presumably they’re all sleeping.” He passed his own drive, then turned up hers. The car bumped slowly over the roughness of the drive and came to rest in front of her cabin. Patrick put the brake on and turned to face Molly. His fingers traced the shape of her cheek.
“I want to be with you tonight.” He saw her swallow and said harshly, “I want all your nights, Molly.” She shook her head, denying her own dream, but he went on grimly. “When I can’t see you, I need to know you’re just a phone call away, that when I come home, it’s our home and if you’re not there, you will be soon because it’s the place we both belong.”
She hadn’t realized that she was shaking her head again and again until he stilled the motion with his hands in her hair. “You love me. I know you do.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible.”
She felt tears well up and squeezed her lids tight to hold them back. Desperately, she whispered, “I need time. I have to think.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.” How long would it take for the due process of law to break her bubble? “I have to finish the illustrations for the book. I can’t concentrate on it. Patrick, I’d make a rotten politician’s wife.” She might have managed it, she thought, if it weren’t for Saul.
He jerked impatiently. “I don’t believe this is about politics.”
She shook her head, the closest to a lie she had ever come with Patrick. It wasn’t about politics. It was about her father.
“I’m in love with you, Molly.”
She shuddered. “I can’t let you be.”
“You’re not stupid enough to think you can stop me. Or yourself, for that matter. I’ll give you time if that’s what you need, but you’re not getting rid of me.” He smiled and she wondered what it would take to make him give up.
“How long, Molly? How much breathing space do you need? How much time to finish the dinosaurs?”
“Two weeks?” He made an impatient movement and she jerked out, “Ten days.”
“Am I supposed to stay away that long? “
He had taught her joy and love, and she was never going to be all right again. She was greedy, selfish, and she whispered, “I don’t want you to stay away.” Just a few days. Just until the end. “I need...no talk about the future.”
“You’ll be mine, Molly.” His voice seemed to take hold of her body, her soul. “Talk or no talk, you gave yourself to me the first time you looked into my eyes. Sooner or later, you’ll realize it’s inevitable.”
She fumbled for the handle of door.
“Good-night, my love.” That quiet voice was filled with confidence. He knew he owned her heart.
He moved his car slightly as she went up the stairs, shining his lights on the door for her. She felt her heart beat again when she saw that there was nothing unusual on the door. No seal. No padlock. She used the key to unlock it and went inside.
Trouble followed her inside, rubbing against her ankles. Molly found a note on the kitchen counter.
We fed Trouble and gave her water. She’s eating real cat food now. We got some from unkel David and she ate it all up. There’s more in the cupboard under the fridge. Hope you had a good holiday. Jeremy.
“I’m sorry I forgot you,” she whispered, bending down to stroke the sleek fur. How on earth had Jeremy gotten inside the cabin? She must remember to ask tomorrow. Meanwhile, Trouble was moving urgently back and forth in front of Molly, rubbing, mewing.
The box of cat food was exactly where Jeremy had promised. “I didn’t mean to forget you,” she told Trouble. “You see, I’ve never been in love before, and it’s turned by brain to mush.”
Trouble purred her understanding and attacked the dish of cat food as if she had not eaten for a week. Thank goodness Jeremy had remembered about Trouble. Or was it Patrick who had thought of it? Probably, she decided. He might have asked Jeremy to look after the cat while she was gone. She supposed she was the one who had left the back door unlocked, finally picking up the relaxed attitude of the Gabriolans about locking doors and cars.
She locked up now, because she needed to keep her city habits. She would not be here much longer, not unless someone came up with a miracle. She changed into a nightshirt upstairs, but didn’t get into bed. She knew he would call, and when the telephone rang, she hurried downstairs to answer it.
“All settled?” he asked. If he had not called, Molly knew she would have lain upstairs, awake and waiting.
“Did you ask Jeremy to look after Trouble?”
“I asked Edward. He’s more dependable.” There was music behind Patrick’s voice. “Edward must have delegated the job. Trouble’s there?”
“Yes.” In her mind she labeled it as Patrick’s music, because she had heard it in the background the last time he called her from home.
“You’ve tamed that cat. Molly’s magic. Does she sleep with you?”
“Not so far, but I’m working on it.”
“Try me,” he suggested. “I’ll accept. Is it against the rules for me to tell you that I love you?” It was, but she suspected that he did not believe in rules he hadn’t made himself. She was smiling when she put the phone down. Maybe, somehow... with luck...
In the days that followed, Patrick did not stay away, but neither did he talk about tomorrows. Sometimes Molly caught herself wondering if she had imagined those two days in Victoria, fantasized Patrick’s intense need of her. There was no sign of it now; he treated Molly with the same casual warmth he showed towards his sister.
While she might have resisted Patrick’s continued pursuit of her, this new tactic threw her off balance. Molly’s dreams took on a new flavor of deep yearning.
Molly turned around one day at the Hollisons” and caught Patrick’s eyes on her. The world faded. Molly could not hear Sally, who was pulling her sweater and asking about Bronty's love life; or Jeremy, who was complaining loudly about having to clear the table. The only reality was Patrick, his eyes holding hers so that she could feel her chest expand when he breathed.
Then it was gone. She saw it happen. Patrick blinked slowly and deliberately replaced the intensity with something that was almost laughter. Waiting. Then she understood. Nothing had changed. Patrick was using deliberate tactics on her. Manipulating her. He was a man who knew how to use the weapons he had to get what he wanted, and he wanted Molly Natham.
Molly, with disaster hovering, and Saul probably tossing back a glass of wine and talking about painting somewhere in Europe.
Sarah Hollison returned home complete with twin babies Tammy and Terry. She invited Molly and Patrick to dinner and presented Molly with a bouquet of yellow roses.
“Molly, thank you.” Sarah smiled warmly as if Molly really were family, then she added, “Don’t forget who your friends are when you need someone.”
Edward cooked dinner the day Sarah returned home; gourmet fare that put Molly’s plain cooking to shame. Patrick’s eyes laughed with her across the table when she saw the gorgeous pineapple-garnished ham that came to the table.
“I told you,” he murmured.
“Told her what?” demanded Edward, his worried eyes going over the table, looking for a problem he hadn’t seen.
“That you could cook well enough to keep yourself from starving.”
Sarah dropped her fork. “You didn’t make Molly cook your meals?”
“Well,” he said hesitantly. “You know I’ve had to do all that business with the bank, and that hassle with the health inspector and you in hospital.”
/> “Edward! You absolute rat! How could you?”
Molly had to laugh at Edward’s look of embarrassment. He shrugged and Molly caught mischief in his eyes. “Actually, it was a nice change. You never do any cooking around here.”
The argument that followed moved from heat to laughter. Then after dinner, Sarah went up to feed the babies while Edward dragged Patrick off to do the dishes, muttering, “Women don’t know their place any more,” but Molly wasn’t fooled this time.
“You’re a menace,” she told him. “I’m going in to watch the news.”
She curled up on the living room sofa, enjoying the sound of the men’s voices from the kitchen, the warmth of the fire crackling in the fireplace, while the announcer on the television set cheerfully reported disasters on the other side of the world.
“So what’s new,” asked Patrick as he came in, still rolling his sleeves down.
She smiled. “You had your hands in dishwater?”
“Hmm. Not everything would fit in the machine. Is that who I think it is on the big screen?”
“Who else?” asked Edward, coming in behind Patrick. “Dustin Overley is the political fool of the year.”
Patrick watched, his face impassive, one hand in the pocket of his trousers. Just another political scandal, but it sounded like the end of Dustin Overley”s political career. Molly shivered, staring up at Patrick’s intent face.
The camera shifted to a demonstration against an increase in university tuition fees and Edward wondered, “Can he carry it off, do you think?”
Patrick shrugged. “Probably not, it’s too late now. He should have come out with it in the first place, or stayed out of politics. Even the courts aren’t very sympathetic when it’s a politician getting the brunt of the hot press.”
Edward turned his half-worried frown on Molly. “Who the hell would get into politics, eh Molly? Pat’s crazy to think of it. Next year on TV we’ll be hearing all about that cow Pat killed when he was eighteen.”
Patrick laughed. “He’s slandering me, Molly. I didn’t kill that damned cow.”
Edward shrugged, hiding laughter with a frown. “Close enough for the scandal sheets. David told me the cow bloody near died, and all because his kid brother mucked up the feed mix. What do you think, Molly? Unbecoming behavior for an MLA? Right?”
With Strings Attached (Gabriola Island) Page 12
