Snowflakes on the Sea

by Linda Lael Miller

  “I’m holding out for October,” Mallory said airily, coming back to the table with her fresh coffee. “I’ve always wanted to pose nude with seventeen pumpkins and a scarecrow.”

  “Kinky,” Nathan observed. “You’re not going to break your contact with Brad, are you?”

  Mallory sighed. No doubt, the light repartee was over and there would be another fight. “No,” she said, bracing herself inwardly.

  But a grin lifted one corner of Nathan’s mouth, and he shook his head in bewildered amusement. “How the hell am I supposed to be a domineering husband if you won’t ever give in?”

  “I’m not being stubborn, Nathan,” Mallory replied seriously. “It’s a point of honor with me, that’s all.”

  “Honor is wasted on the likes of Brad Ranner, but, for the sake of my sanity, I’m not going to fight you. Which is not to say I wouldn’t like to fight him.”

  Mallory shrugged. “Do to him what you will, oh avenging master—just don’t get yourself thrown into jail. I’ve had all the separations I need.”

  Nathan looked away, toward the coffeepot, which emitted an electronic chortle. “I went to his apartment last night, before calling on my sensible sister.”

  “And?”

  “And his housekeeper told me he was in Mexico, taking a vacation.”

  Mallory laughed. “He’s in hiding!”

  “If he’s smart, he’ll stay in hiding.”

  “Why did you go to Pat’s house last night, instead of to the island or somewhere else?”

  Nathan grinned. “I knew she’d make me see reason. Since when did she stop being my sister and become yours? She called me an idiot!”

  “If the sombrero fits, wear it, señor.”

  He grimaced. “Very funny. Open your bathrobe.”

  Mallory arched one eyebrow and brought a protective hand to clasp the robe shut at the neck. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I want to see if you’re centerfold material.”

  She stood up in mock outrage, bent on fleeing the scene to shower and dress. But Nathan caught her arm, without rising from his chair, and wrenched her onto his lap.

  She struggled—albeit halfheartedly—but he subdued her easily and situated her so that she was astraddle his lap, facing him. Then, with an animal growl, he opened her robe.

  Mallory gasped in pleasurable indignation as he caught both her wrists behind her, in one powerful hand, and pressed them against the small of her back, so that her full and pulsing breasts, now deliciously vulnerable, were thrust toward him.

  She shivered as he bent his head to flick tauntingly at one nipple with just the tip of his tongue. The rosebud morsel responded with a fetching pout.

  “Yum,” he said, and his breath was warm against the tingling flesh of Mallory’s breast.

  Mallory moaned, and when she spoke, her breath came in soft gasps. “Will—I—do?”

  He went to the other nipple, brought it to the same peak as its counterpart. “You definitely will,” he rasped. “But not as a centerfold.”

  Mallory squirmed slightly in pleasure as he teased the chosen nipple, causing it to throb. “Why not?” she whispered.

  Nathan laughed and opened her robe further, though he still held her prisoner, assessing her with smoldering approval. With his free hand, he touched her stomach. “There would be a staple here,” he said, sliding fiery fingertips across her abdomen to the other side. “And here.”

  “We can’t—ooh—have that—”

  “Umm,” replied Nathan, in a greedy purr. And then he chuckled as Mallory arched her back and tilted her head back, offering herself freely.

  Slowly, sensuously, he drank his fill of her, his warm mouth tugging at one breast and then at the other, until Mallory was frantic with the need to join with him, to soar with him, to cause him the same tender torment he was causing her.

  But Nathan was in no hurry. He feasted upon her until she was certain she could bear no more, and then he lifted her, so that she was standing, and feasted again.

  And as he savored her, Mallory trembled, and her passions built to new heights. Whimpering low in her throat, she arched herself toward him and tangled her fingers in his dark hair. Again and again, he brought her to the very precipice of total release, only to draw back again, and bare her aching secret, and stroke it to maddening need with the tip of one finger.

  “What do you want, Mallory?” he teased in a gruff voice.

  In halting words, she told him, and he moved to the floor, drawing her with him, but even then he would not grant her what she was willing to plead for. She knelt, and he slid beneath her, drawing her down onto the warm, consuming motions of his mouth.

  Her knees were spread far apart and she was frantic and she writhed upon the long, tormenting strokes of his tongue. Savage release stiffened her entire body, and her cry of gratification echoed throughout the kitchen.

  She moved to free herself, but he held her, helplessly impaled on the pleasure he offered. “No—” she whimpered, “oh, no, Nathan—not again—please—”

  He lifted her slightly, only high enough to vow, “I’m not through with you yet, lady. Not by a long shot.”

  “N-Nathan—”

  But he was again kissing her, nibbling her, tasting her. Fierce and jagged desire shot through her; she could not hope to escape him and even if she could have, she would not have tried. With a sound that was part sob and part croon, she leaned forward to take the only vengeance available.

  He moved beneath her in frantic surrender as she repaid him, and as she soared skyward on the wings of a searing release, he followed. Their cries mingled, ragged and primitive, and became one sound.

  And when it was over, they lay still, casualties of the same battle, unable to move for a very long time.

  Finally, Nathan sat up beside a still-supine Mallory, and caressed the love-warmed, passion-heavy breast that welcomed him.

  “Enough?” she managed in a labored whisper, not knowing what she wanted his answer to be.

  He laughed hoarsely. “Dreamer. I could make love to you from now till the day I draw my first Social Security check, lady, and it still wouldn’t be enough. I want more of you—a lot more.”

  Mallory had finally caught her breath, and she laughed, too. “You are insatiable.”

  He released her breast to lay his palm on the kitchen floor. “And you are prone to waxy yellow buildup. Since that would be an ignoble fate, I think I’ll carry you into the bedroom and have my way with you.”

  “Again?”

  He chuckled. “Pumpkin, consider yourself laid.”

  With that, Nathan stood, pulled Mallory after him, and lifted her into his arms. “I love you so much,” he said softly, and his mouth was gentle as it touched hers.

  Mallory pushed at him, though she made no move to free herself from his embrace. “Listen, mister—I love you, too. But maybe I’m tired of always being the submissive partner. Maybe I’d like to be the leader for once.”

  “Lead on,” he said gruffly.

  And just moments later, in the quiet comfort of their bedroom, Nathan proved how strong he was, how secure in his own concept of himself. He was strong enough to be vulnerable, strong enough to submit.

  9

  The next day was a momentous one for the McKendricks—Renee Parker withdrew her lawsuit without comment, and Mallory’s house was officially up for sale. Too, rehearsals for the Seattle concert began in earnest. Nathan prepared for it, with a renewed spirit, and the house at Angel Cove rang with laughter and music.

  Determined not to be a wet blanket, Mallory watched and listened as the days passed, but she also called on the administrator of the local elementary school and offered her services as a substitute teacher, read a backlog of books that she hadn’t had time for before, and spent happy hours visiting Trish and Kate.

  After two weeks, she was fully recovered.

  Of course, she was delighted when her doctor pronounced her well, but there was a tiny tremor in the pit of
her stomach, too. She had almost a month left to run on her contract with Brad, and she still meant to honor it, even though she dreaded every line and scene.

  Tanned and probably well aware that Nathan was occupied in another part of the villa on Angel Cove, Brad Ranner appeared within an hour of Mallory’s return from Seattle and her doctor’s office, a new script under his arm.

  Mallory met him in the main entry hall, her eyes on the script. “The death scene, I presume?”

  Brad grinned. “Nothing so predictable, sweetheart. Tracy Ballard is going to be arrested for shoplifting and see the error of her ways. In the end, she’ll be flying off to serve with the Peace Corps, thus atoning for her many sins.”

  In spite of everything, Mallory laughed. “Whatever else that storyline is, it can’t be called ‘predictable.’ By the way, how are you accounting for Tracy’s absence now?”

  Brad passed Mallory and walked, with studied casualness, into the large, empty living room. There, he put the script on a coffee table and sat down on the sofa. “She’s being held captive in the attic of an old church by her lover’s crazed ex-wife.”

  Mallory shook her head in amused amazement and moved to the butler’s cart, where Mrs. Jeffries had left a pot of hot coffee only minutes before. “Coffee?”

  Brad cast a nervous look around the room and nodded. “Enough bravado. Is Nathan around?”

  Mallory took china cups from the cart and filled them with the fresh, steaming coffee. “Nathan is busy in the studio, Brad—they’re rehearsing for the Seattle concert.”

  “Good.” Brad sighed in blatant relief. “Mallory, I—”

  She stopped him with an icy look. “I think it would be better if we pretended all that stuff didn’t happen, don’t you?”

  Brad was flushed. “No, I don’t,” he answered hotly. “Mallory, there are things I have to explain.”

  Mallory sighed and dropped into Nathan’s favorite chair, her eyes fixed on her coffee cup. “None of it will make a difference, Brad.”

  “It might. Mallory, the paternity suit was Diane’s idea—I’m sick and tired of being the heavy in this melodrama.”

  Mallory rolled her sea green eyes. “That doesn’t surprise me, Brad—both Nathan and I suspected Diane. But it doesn’t excuse what you did either. You had to have set this thing rolling long before we had that row about my contract and the cable offer.”

  Brad spoke gently. “I did. It was a rotten and devious thing to do, I know—”

  “You can say that again. Why did you do it, Brad?”

  He looked away. “Because I love you, Mallory. I have since the day you walked into the studio and read for Tracy Ballard’s role. I thought you were single, until the people in public relations clued me in.” Brad returned distracted blue eyes to Mallory’s face, and the high color of embarrassment burned in his cheeks. “When I found out you were Nathan McKendrick’s wife, I considered jumping off the Space Needle. As time went by, I could see that you were ultraunhappy, so—”

  “So you decided to sandbag my marriage.”

  Shame was clear in Brad’s eyes. “Something like that. God, Mallory, I’m sorry. I was into the thing before I really thought—”

  Either Brad Ranner was genuinely remorseful or he was working on the wrong side of the cameras. In any case, Mallory had difficulty sustaining grudges, and she saw no point in hating Brad when the time they had to work together would be so short. “Forget it,” she said in businesslike tones. And then she reached out for the script.

  After that, the conversation centered on the neat disposal of Tracy Ballard. Though Mallory’s contract still had more than thirty days to run, her commitment would be completed in only ten. She knew that this was a conciliatory gesture on Brad’s part, and she was grateful.

  When Brad was ready to leave, she walked him out to his car, chatting companionably. She was unprepared for the swift, brotherly kiss he planted on her cheek before sliding behind the wheel.

  “Watch out for Diane, okay?” he said gently. “I may have seen the light, but she’s into vengeance in a big way.”

  Mallory folded her arms and shook her head. “Surely even Diane must have given up by now.”

  “Don’t count on it. I heard she was planning to make an offer on that house you’re selling.”

  Openmouthed, Mallory stared at Brad, unable to speak. Dear Lord, surely Trish wouldn’t sell her house to Diane Vincent! The moment she could, she would call and make certain.

  Brad lifted one eyebrow. “Stay on your toes, baby doll. Even if she can’t buy that particular house, she could find another to rent or something.”

  Glumly, Mallory nodded. At that time of year, there were empty houses aplenty on the island. She swallowed and changed the subject. “What about the cable deal, Brad?” she asked, stepping back as he started the engine of his white Corvette. “Did it go through?”

  Brad shook his head ruefully. “Not yet. You’re not that easy to replace, button. And let’s face it, Seattle isn’t exactly rife with accomplished actresses.”

  “It shouldn’t be so difficult,” Mallory argued. “Mine was only a minor role.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I’m waiting for another Mallory.”

  She looked away, uncomfortable, anxious to get Trish on the telephone. “I’m sorry, Brad.”

  “Don’t be. See you Monday, my love—and thanks.”

  Mallory arched an eyebrow. “For what?”

  “For not throwing that contract in my face,” he answered, shifting the car into Reverse. His lips moved slightly, miming a kiss, and then he was backing out of the driveway, onto the main road.

  Mallory waved, then hurried back into the house and made a dive for the hall telephone. She punched out Trish’s number and tapped one foot impatiently while she waited.

  “Good morning!” Trish sang after at least five rings.

  “Don’t sell my house to Diane Vincent!” Mallory blurted without so much as a hello to precede her words.

  Trish laughed. “Mallory, I presume? She asked me and I told her we wanted a cool million, since you were semifamous and all. I do have a good offer from a young couple in Seattle, Mall—he works at Boeing and she’s a painter—”

  “Take it.”

  “Don’t you want to know how much?”

  “I don’t care how much.”

  “See. Well, they want those trees cut down first—the ones at the edge of the driveway. Afraid they’ll fall through the roof next time we get one of our bridge-breaking windstorms.”

  Mallory sighed. She’d loved those trees, resisted every effort Nathan made to persuade her to have them chopped down. “Okay. The trees go. Can you arrange it, Trish, or shall I?”

  “I’ll do it, you pay the bill. Hey, why don’t you come over here and have lunch with me?”

  “The big real estate magnate has time for lunch with a neighbor?” Mallory teased.

  Trish laughed. “The magnate in question is wearing an old bathrobe and cleaning out her fridge. It’s a horror. I don’t mind when food starts growing fur, but when it tries to learn the language, I draw the line.”

  Mallory rolled her eyes. “You actually expect me to eat at your house when you’ve just made a remark like that? Come over here—the housekeeper made enough tuna salad to feed an army.”

  “Knowing you, you probably need to get out of there for a while,” Trish retorted. “I suppose the band is there?”

  “Along with wives, girlfriends and the occasional impressed relative. Let’s strike a compromise and meet at the Bayview for clam strips and french fries.”

  “You have a deal, McKendrick,” Trish replied. “Meet you there in half an hour.”

  Trish was waiting when Mallory reached the Bayview Clam Bar, the only restaurant on the island. She looked patently terrific in a soft blue cashmere suit.

  “Glad you didn’t wear your bathrobe,” Mallory observed dryly, taking her place at their favorite table.

  Trish laughed and preened just a little. �
�Don’t I look great? Thanks to you and the couple from Seattle, I can afford this getup!”

  Mallory set her purse aside and folded her arms comfortably on the table edge. “You really like selling, don’t you, Trish? Have you got any other clients besides me?”

  Trish was beaming. “Do I. Mall, I think I’ve sold that old farmhouse on Blackberry Lane—the one with the ghost. I showed it to a doctor from Renton, and he loved it!”

  A waitress came, bringing water glasses and taking their orders, and wandered off again. “I hope you charged extra for the ghost. That’s a definite plus, in my book.”

  Trish laughed, but there was something unsettling behind the merriment in her blue eyes. “Mall—”

  “What?”

  “After I talked to you, Herb called me from the office. He—he—well—”

  Mallory was annoyed. “He what?”

  “He wanted to know where the keys were for those new duplexes over on the Cove. His exact words were, ‘a knockout blonde from Seattle wants to rent two bedrooms and a view.’”

  Mallory frowned. “It might not be Diane, Trish,” she said, somewhat irritably. “Surely she isn’t the only ‘knockout blonde’ in Seattle.”

  “It’s her, all right. Herb said she was driving a red MG roadster.”

  Mallory closed her eyes for a moment. If Diane rented one of the duplex units in question, she would be living just beyond Nathan’s property line. In fact, she would be the McKendricks’s nearest neighbor. “Damn,” she muttered.

  Trish was obviously torn. “I could ask Herb not to rent one to her, but he’ll get a commission and he has a family and all—”

  “No. Business is business. Maybe she won’t stay long.” When Mallory opened her eyes, she saw that Trish looked doubtful. As doubtful as Mallory felt.

  “That bimbo,” Trish declared. “I wonder what she hopes to accomplish.”

  Mallory didn’t wonder, she knew. But she felt no compulsion to burden Trish with her suspicions, so she deliberately shifted the conversation on to another course. Throughout the remainder of the luncheon, the two women debated the existence of the ghost on Blackberry Lane.