The thrust of his marauding fingers made her gasp; she was barely conscious of being lowered onto the counter, stripped of the T-shirt. She cried out in sweet misery as he nibbled endlessly at her tightening nipple.
His voice was a ragged, strangely vulnerable rasp. “You are so—soft—so warm—so sweet—”
Mallory was grasping at his bare muscle-corded shoulders now, wanting him, needing him. “Nathan,” she pleaded. “Oh, Nathan, please—”
He chuckled hoarsely. “On a kitchen counter? Woman, thy name is wanton.”
Mallory trembled, frantic and furious and dazed with passion. “You didn’t mind the floor,” she argued in a choked whisper.
He laughed and lifted her gently into his arms, then carried her back through the penthouse to the bedroom. There, they made sweet, fierce, sensual love.
When, at last, Nathan slept, Mallory watched him for a long time as she lay on her side in the big, tousled bed, one cheek propped in her hand. If she lived to be a thousand, she thought ruefully, she would never fully understand this man.
At the restaurant and then in the elevator, he had been hard and recalcitrant—almost cruel. And yet, as a lover, he was unfailingly gentle. Tenderness aside, Mallory knew that he would not change his mind. No matter how unpleasant their marriage might become, he would not release her from it easily.
Her feelings about this were mixed; on the one hand, she found the prospect of being near her husband, whatever his past sins, very appealing. On the other, however, she was insulted by his imperious attitude. No matter what, it was wrong for one person to control another in that way, to dictate where someone would live and with whom.
Sleep eluded Mallory, and she finally got up to read over her lines for the next day. It proved a difficult task, since her thoughts kept sneaking back to Nathan, alternately tender and furious.
11
In the morning, Nathan was up and dressed and already charming the housekeeper when Mallory ambled sleepily into the kitchen and helped herself to a cup of coffee. Nathan immediately exchanged the mug of steaming brew for a glass of orange juice, and while the housekeeper was amused, Mallory wasn’t. She glared at him in surly challenge.
Paper bags rustled crisply as the housekeeper began unpacking all the groceries she’d apparently brought to work with her, and Nathan folded his arms across the front of his green velour shirt and grinned. “From now on, you’re off caffeine,” he said.
Mallory scowled, but since her concern for the child growing inside her was as great as Nathan’s, she cast one baleful look at the forbidden coffee and drank her orange juice without protest.
The huge and ghastly breakfast Nathan and the housekeeper eventually assembled was another matter, though—Mallory’s stomach was threatening mayhem. She managed one piece of toast, but no power on earth could have coerced her to eat more.
When Nathan sat down across from her, prepared to consume two eggs, hash brown potatoes and link sausage, she leapt to her feet and fled inelegantly to the nearest bathroom. Nathan followed, refusing to respect her privacy.
“Go away!” she gasped in wretched desperation.
But he wouldn’t. He held her hair and was ready with a cool washcloth when the violent spate of sickness finally ended.
“See?” he drawled companionably. “You need me.”
Mallory glared at him. “If it weren’t for you, fella, I wouldn’t have this problem!”
He laughed and then shrugged. “I am a man of many talents, pumpkin.”
Mallory couldn’t help grinning. His talents were undeniable. “You’re not going to follow me around with a washcloth all day, are you?”
“Certainly not,” he answered, his dark eyes bright with tender amusement. “But tonight is another matter. I’ve got rehearsals today, but I’ll pick you up at the studio when you’re through.”
True to his word, he was there at the appointed time.
That day set the pattern for those to follow; each day, while Mallory was taping the show, Nathan went to a rented hall to rehearse with the band. They spent their evenings together in unaccustomed solitude, listening to music, watching television, making love. There was a tenuous sort of peace between them, but, in the last analysis, the only deep communications they shared were expressed by their bodies.
Mallory was reluctant to rock the proverbial boat by bringing up sensitive issues, such as Diane Vincent or Nathan’s unreasonable decree that she would live with him at Angel Cove. As attractive as the idea was, it was still unreasonable, and she sensed that he felt the same way.
Mallory’s commitment to the soap was completed the day before Nathan’s concert, and there was a huge party that evening, given by Brad Ranner, to bid her farewell. It seemed that everyone Mallory had ever met was invited to that party, with the notable exception of Diane Vincent. The banquet room of the posh hotel where it was held was packed to the rafters.
Secretly, Mallory dreaded the fuss of it all, but she was determined to play this final role well. She wore a simple white silk caftan, bordered with glistening silver stitching, a sumptuous blue fox jacket and a slightly shaky smile.
“Star treatment,” Trish Demming whispered in awe, looking appreciatively at the great crystal chandeliers and the embossed silk on the walls, her hand linked comfortably to the crook of Alex’s arm. “Wow, Mall, I’m impressed.”
Kate Sheridan’s assessment of the affair was typically acerbic. “Don’t let her stay in this madhouse very long,” she ordered Nathan in a stage whisper. “She’s about to drop as it is.”
“I’ll hold up,” Mallory said, but her tone lacked conviction.
Nathan grinned, making no comment. He was a breathtaking sight in his tailored black tuxedo, which he hated, and impeccable white silk shirt.
Trish drew Mallory aside briefly to tell her that her things had been packed and removed from the little house on the island, and that the trees along the driveway had been cut down without incident. The Johnsons would be moving in any day. Mallory felt sad and slightly bereft. Cutting herself off from that part of her past was the wise thing to do, and she knew it. But that didn’t make the parting any less painful.
The rest of the evening dragged on, seeming endless to Mallory. First, a dinner worthy of a Roman banquet was served, and she couldn’t choke down so much as a bite. Following that, Brad made a flowery speech that brought stains of embarrassment surging into her cheeks.
Throughout that first segment of the night, Nathan sustained Mallory with well-timed touches, comical looks of wonder when the praise grew to ridiculous proportions and an occasional wink. “Give ’em hell, McKendrick,” he whispered, when it became clear that Brad expected her to join him at the podium and speak.
Embarrassed almost beyond speech (somehow, this was so different from performing in front of cameras) Mallory made her way to Brad’s side, graciously accepted an engraved plaque and an innocuous kiss on the cheek, and managed a few faltering words of gratitude and farewell. Returning to her seat beside Nathan was a vast relief, and she tossed a slightly frantic look in his direction as he stood and drew out her chair for her in a quiet display of chivalry.
He bent to brush his lips provocatively against her earlobe. “Pardon me, lady,” he whispered, “but you wouldn’t happen to have a chocolate cookie, would you?”
Mallory laughed, glad of the fact that the lights had been lowered, thus hiding her blush.
No protest was forthcoming when Nathan insisted that they leave the party early; from the looks of things, it was going to continue until all hours. And, as the Porsche navigated the dark, rain-slickened streets, Mallory was grateful to be on her way home.
Home. A corner of Mallory’s mouth lifted in a reflective smile. Home had always been the island, but now it was wherever Nathan happened to be at the moment.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked, looking away from the road for only a moment.
“Nothing,” Mallory lied. “So tomorrow is the big concert. Wha
t happens after that?”
“We go into seclusion for the promised year,” Nathan answered without meeting her eyes again. “Mallory—”
Their constant lovemaking had lent the relationship an intimacy it had never had before, in spite of the odd distances that often intruded, and Mallory reached out, without thinking, to lay one hand on the muscular length of his thigh. “What?”
“I’m sorry for telling you that you had to live on the island with me, whether you wanted it or not. I know that wasn’t right.” He paused, shifting the car into a low gear to make a stop at a traffic light, and turned to look at her. “I was desperate.”
Mallory’s heart climbed into her throat. “Desperate?” she whispered.
“Losing you and that baby doesn’t bear considering, Mallory. I know we’ve got a long way to go before we get this marriage back on its feet, but please—don’t leave me.”
Hot tears glistened, scalding, in Mallory’s eyes. Never in the six years she’d been married to Nathan had she seen him reveal so much open vulnerability. “The other night you said we should never talk, just make love. Why is it that we fight the way we do, Nathan?”
The traffic light changed to green, and the car was moving again. Nathan appeared to be concentrating on the road, but a muscle flexed and unflexed at the base of his jawline. “I don’t know. Maybe we’d better start by finding that out, Mrs. McKendrick.”
At the apartment complex, Nathan surrendered the silver Porsche to the night doorman and ushered Mallory quickly across the elegant lobby and into an elevator. During the swift, silent ride to the penthouse, he studied the changing numbers over the doors with solemn interest.
After their showers, taken separately for once, they made love in the bed beneath the magical, ever-changing view presented by the skylight. Both reached shattering levels of fulfillment, and yet there was a hollow quality to their joining, a sense of never really touching.
Knowing that Nathan was still awake, and brooding, Mallory laid a cautious hand on the mat of dark hair covering his hard chest. “What is it?” she asked softly.
There was a long, discomforting silence before he answered, not with a statement, but with a question. “Did you really want to quit the show, Mallory?”
She raised herself onto one elbow, her free hand still moving on Nathan’s chest. “Yes,” she replied in complete honesty.
Even though it was dark, she could feel his ebony gaze touching her, searching her face. “I’ve hated the whole thing from the first,” he said in a low voice, and the words had the tone of a reluctant confession. “All the same, if I forced you to give up something you really wanted—”
Mallory had a dreadful, inexplicable feeling. It was almost as though they were survivors of some horrible shipwreck, clinging to the flimsy debris of some hopelessly mangled vessel foundering in deep and threatening waters. “You didn’t,” she said quickly, but she knew, even as she leaned over to kiss him, even as her lips brushed his, that he wasn’t convinced.
It was a very long time before Mallory slept, and the meter of Nathan’s breathing revealed that he was awake, too. Underneath all her happiness about the baby and her freedom from the grueling hours on the set and the new closeness she and Nathan seemed to be establishing, was a layer of solid pain. Nathan might really love her, as he claimed. On the other hand, he was a gifted performer and it would be easy for him to pretend such feelings.
Mallory sighed and turned away from him, afraid that he would somehow sense the tears that were gathering on her cheeks. He wanted the child growing within her, and, remembering that intimate scene she’d stumbled upon in the island boathouse, Mallory had a suspicion that he was merely accepting her as a necessary part of the bargain.
When sunlight streamed through the huge window in the roof, Mallory awakened to find herself alone in the spacious bed and numb with a cold that bore no relation at all to the temperature of the room. Thanks to a medication Dr. Lester had given her, which she swallowed before even getting out of bed, Mallory did not suffer her usual bout of violent illness. That was a mercy, she reflected, since she already felt sick on some fundamental, half-discerned level.
She was startled when Pat appeared in the bedroom doorway, a fetching blonde, her slender frame regal even in blue jeans, a T-shirt and a pink hooded running jacket. Roger’s diamond engagement ring flashed, like silver fire, on her left hand.
“Hi, there, pregnant person!” she chimed in greeting.
Mallory burst into tears.
Pat approached slowly. “Wow. What did I say?”
Mallory sniffled and dashed away the evidence of her doubts and fears. “Nothing,” she reassured her sister-in-law quickly. “You know how it is—my hormones are suffering from the Cement-Mixer Syndrome.”
Pat laughed, looked vastly relieved and sat down on the end of the bed, her hands balled in the pockets of her jacket. “Nathan is walking the customary two feet off the ground,” she commented. But then there was an almost imperceptible change in her startlingly pretty face. “So why does this place have all the ambience of a battlefield?”
Mallory sank back on her pillows and studied the skylight. It was still beaded with dew, and tiny rainbows framed each droplet. When she said nothing, Pat continued bravely.
“Something is amiss here. You and Nathan are living together again—you’re expecting a baby—but something is definitely wrong. And don’t try to throw me off the track, sister dear, because I’m wise to all your routines.”
Mallory summoned all she’d learned in her year as an actress and fixed a bright smile on her face. It ached, trembling as though it might fall away to lie among the hundreds of miniature rainbows reflected from the skylight onto the white satin comforter on the bed. “Both Nathan and I are still a little raw from all the troubles we’ve had lately, Pat—that’s all.”
“Sure,” Pat said with angry skepticism.
Mallory had let slip the disaster in the boathouse to Brad, but she had no intention of dropping it on Nathan’s sister. The burden would be both unnecessary and unfair. “Your brother has already left for one last rehearsal, I take it?” she hedged.
“You know Nathan. If it isn’t right, fight.”
Mallory sighed, nodded. Nathan could probably have given a dazzling performance with no rehearsal at all. But he was, where his music was concerned, a raging perfectionist. She certainly didn’t envy the band the demanding day and night ahead. “How were the ticket sales?”
Pat shrugged. “What tickets? They’ve been gone since day one. Mallory, you are going, aren’t you? To the concert, I mean?”
Mallory’s eyes shot back to Pat’s face. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Nathan said you might be—well—busy.”
Busy? On the night of what could be his last concert ever? It was inconceivable, and Mallory was stung to think that he would doubt her that way. The hurt gave her words a biting edge. “Gee, it is my bowling night,” she said sardonically. “But the league will surely forgive me if I don’t show up.”
“Mallory—”
But Mallory knotted her fists and pounded them down on the bedding in furious frustration. “Damn that man! What kind of wife does he think I am?”
“Oh, Mallory, shut up!” Pat snapped, neatly stemming the flow of her sister-in-law’s diatribe. “It’s no big deal and I’m sorry I said anything!”
Mallory flung back the covers and swung herself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. “That rat!”
Pat was instantly on her feet, her face flushed with responding anger. “Mallory, it’s too damned easy to make you mad, you know that? Is temperament a fringe benefit from the soap or did you have it all along?”
Ignoring Pat, Mallory stormed into the bathroom to fill the intimidating tile bathtub that always reminded her of a small swimming pool. When she returned, a half hour later, she was chagrined to find that Pat was gone.
Now you’ve done it, McKendrick, she berated herself as she slathered cream ch
eese onto a sliced bagel with fierce, jerky motions. Pat’s always there for you, and you repay her with your best bitch act!
After choking down most of the bagel, Mallory exchanged her flannel robe for jeans, a cotton blouse and her gray rabbit bomber jacket. She hadn’t intended to intrude on the final rehearsals, but now she would have to; Pat would almost certainly be there, and Mallory wanted to extend an immediate apology.
Probably because they were Seattlites, the guards already posted at the Kingdome entrance Mallory selected recognized her and allowed her inside unchallenged. She made her way quickly into the auditorium itself and was instantly transfixed by the swelling, poetic tide of the ballad Nathan was singing. When the song was over, she walked down a wide aisle, her hands in her coat pockets, toward the small group of people sitting in the first row of seats. Nathan, busy conferring with the drummer and the lead guitar player, did not notice her approach.
Her guess had been correct—Pat was there, along with several other women, her sneakered feet propped unceremoniously on the edge of her seat. Mallory touched her shoulder tentatively. “Pat?”
Pat stood up and turned to face her brother’s wife with shy eyes. “Hi, Mall.”
“I’m so sorry!” Mallory blurted, tears brimming in her lower lashes, her chin trembling.
“Me, too!” Pat cried, flinging her arms around Mallory, in spite of the seat back rising between them.
“This is all very touching,” Nathan drawled irritably, into his microphone, “but we’re trying to work here.”
Mallory grimaced, but Pat turned and put out her tongue with all the impudent aplomb reserved for a younger sister.
Some of the tension left Nathan’s face, and he laughed. At his cue, the band and members of the sound crew dared to laugh, too.
“So that’s how you handle the dreaded Nathan McKendrick!” Mallory grinned, watching her sister-in-law with bright eyes.
“An occasional kick in the shins works, too,” Pat confided in a loud whisper.
Mallory chuckled and again touched Pat’s shoulder. “I’m getting out of here. Kicked shins or none, he’ll be a beast all day. Am I forgiven?”
Snowflakes on the Sea Page 20
