Where would she be sleeping? Was there a guest room? It was impossible for her to fathom Carston’s reactions. One minute there was something in his eyes…tenderness? Passion? The next minute it was gone, and mere friendliness appeared. If only she could understand what was going on. The wine she’d been drinking hadn’t helped any, of course. It only added to her confusion.
Dinner by candlelight took place at the long wooden table in the main room, and despite the intensity of the situation, its newness, conversation was easy. Sherry realized she was enjoying herself immensely. On the right, the log fire crackling in the hearth sent a flickering glow across Carston’s features, outlining their strength, his intelligence. Did he know how his eyes laughed when something she said amused him?
He has seduction down to a fine art, she warned herself, not that the warning would do her any good. How many women had passed through here and lost their heart in the same way she had? It wasn’t a thought worth dwelling on. Not if she had her own immediate happiness at heart. Heartbreak was for later; now was for living to the full. Just a few short weeks ago, wouldn’t she have given anything to be in this position?
“This meal has been absolutely wonderful,” she said with utter sincerity. “If you ever decide to change careers, you’d make a wonderful chef.”
“Angling for more of the same?”
“I’d be a fool if I didn’t.” They exchanged smiles, and the air thickened.
Then his expression became neutral again. “I’d make a rotten chef. I enjoy cooking, but I could never stand the stress of being a professional. I’m a loner, as I told you. I’d never be able to work with people around me all the time. I need this.” He waved his arm, a gesture that took in the silence of the room, the still dark night outside the wide windows. “Living out here, feeling I’m alone on the planet—even though it’s only an illusion.”
Sherry watched him closely but said nothing. Was he trying to warn her off? Again? Tell her not to nourish any illusions as far as he was concerned? Okay. Message received.
“What about you? Will you go back to Hollywood when this is over?”
“No,” she said slowly, putting down her spoon. They had just finished a very splendid dessert of fresh sliced oranges topped with the lightest cream she’d ever tasted. “Life is strange. When I did my concert in Midville, I intended it to be one of my last—my personal swan song, if you’d like. I’d been on the road for just too long, been in the public eye for so many years; I had the feeling that particular lifestyle was eating away at my soul. It was time for a change, and acting seemed like a good idea. After I got that offer in Hollywood, I jumped into the new career. And pretty soon, I realized what a bad choice I’d made.”
“Meaning?”
“I want to go back to music.”
“Concerts? Going on the road again?”
“Maybe,” she said slowly. “I don’t really know. But if I do, I’ll go about it in a different way. Good-bye forever to red curls and flash. Less moving around and more research.” She shrugged. “In any case, that’s what I’ve been thinking about lately.”
And since receiving his manuscript, she’d thought of other things too: what if Carston fell in love with her? What if he wanted her with him? What if this was the beginning of a long-term love story? Then what?
But thoughts like those were silly. They only paved the way to disillusion and disappointment. You couldn’t survive in the big wild world if you let yourself slide into the “what if” syndrome. Carston might not let himself fall in love with her. He certainly didn’t want her to stay with him forever—hadn’t he just finished telling her that again? That he was a loner? That this was a short-term engagement in every way. Part two of the fling proposal made in Midville. When the play ended, they’d be saying, “Nice to have known you,” and “Let’s keep in touch,” and “Call when you’re out this way again,” and “Good-bye.” Unless their relationship could continue on some less committed level. One that had them living close to each other but not together. She thought of those pretty wooden houses in the nearby town of Cutter’s Edge…Then cut the thought short.
Why was she so besotted with this man? So ready to make any concession just to be near him? She had to pull herself together.
“You look exhausted,” said Carston, gently.
She looked up, nodded. He was right. It had been a long day, an incredibly stressful one. It had become stressful again. In a different way. “I am,” she said simply.
He stood. Came around to behind her chair and began, very gently but wonderfully, massaging her shoulders. She closed her eyes. It felt fabulous. Every time he touched her, it felt fabulous. It was the same magic that was working now, just as it had a few months ago. It hadn’t gone away, changed, or lessened. She sighed.
He misinterpreted the sound. “Come on. Bedtime.”
Whatever that meant. She stood, tried to sound casual. “I suppose we’d better tackle the dishes first.”
“Certainly not. Mrs. Ried comes down from the village at the crack of dawn every morning. She’ll be astounded to find out I have a house guest, especially a house guest as famous as Sherry Valentine.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulders, led her away from the table. It felt so good to be here, close to him, nestled in the warmth of his body. How lucky she was to have the chance to be with him again.
“I bet your Mrs. Ried has already heard the news from every single person in Cutter’s Edge. I had to go into a grocery store and ask for directions to your house, and the snoopy woman in there asked me right out if I was your ‘friend.’ If Cutter’s Edge is anything like Dog’s Pass, the news was ricocheting around the community before my left foot was back in the taxi.”
Grabbing her bags, he led her down a stairway. “The bedrooms are all on a lower level and lead out onto a beautiful wildflower-covered prairie. You’ll see it in the morning, and I’m willing to bet nothing in Dog’s Pass can beat it.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” said Sherry. Not that she’d tell him why. Not at this point in the game. Besides, was this the time for another long explanation? No. But it never seemed like the right time. Especially since she was always lost in those heady sensations whenever he was close: the loving feeling, longing, desire. She wanted nothing more than his arms around her tonight, his lips against hers, his warmth beside her, his scent floating around her. She wanted so much to make love with him. If she didn’t have that…
“Carston?”
He stopped, looked down at her, his eyes unreadable.
“Do I get to sleep with you?”
“Is that what you want?” His voice was husky.
“More than you can imagine.” She wanted to kick herself. And what if he said no? And she’d promised herself she wouldn’t make a fool of herself, wouldn’t come on strong.
He put her bags down on the floor. “More than I can imagine? Are you serious? I just wasn’t certain…” He sighed. “I mean, this is my house, and you’re in my play. We’ll be working together, and I didn’t want you to feel that…I mean…I wanted to be a gentleman…”
She didn’t let him finish. Turning to face him, she stood on tiptoe, planted a soft butterfly kiss on his wonderful lips. Feathered them. Felt how right the contact was.
He sighed, a ragged sound of want. And suddenly the air crackled with the strange electricity they generated together. Folding his arms around her, he kissed her tenderly, then more deeply.
Kisses? She couldn’t remember any kisses being like this. His tongue explored her mouth, and she arched against him, her hands clutching the cloth of his shirt, fires raging deep in her belly. From a great distance, she heard herself moan, heard his ragged breath mirroring her need. Then, abruptly, he swept her into his arms like weightless warm air, carried her through a doorway.
Incandescent moonlight touched white walls and a large bed in the center of the room. And gently, as if she were made of porcelain, he slipped her fine cotton dress over he
r head, unclasped the lacy bra revealing breasts swollen with desire, slid her thin panties down over her hips.
He stared at her, his eyes feasting in her nudity. “How beautiful you are,” he said, his voice low in his throat. “So much beauty, and all of it’s for me.” With the tips of his fingers, he traced her face, her mouth with utmost tenderness. Then bent, drew each achingly sensitive nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue. Continued downward in a burning path, over her belly to the hot, damp juncture of her thighs.
Coils of passion ricocheted through her. “Please wait,” she gasped. “Please, Carston. I want to see you naked, too. Please.”
He laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “Please?” His eyes glittered.
Slowly he undressed, and she took in the taut chest, his long, strong legs, the hard maleness showing how much he desired her. He was totally naked now, and she stepped in closer. Caressed his body with hers, reveled in the tight strength of his muscles against her softness.
“You’re the one who’s beautiful,” she murmured, curling one leg around his hip, so that her intimacy touched his. His ragged moan of pleasure delighted her. “I want you so,” she whispered. “I want to explore you with my fingers, with my tongue, with my whole body.” She moved downward, tracing a moist pathway from his taut male nipples down to his flat stomach.
“Wait,” he gasped.
She looked up at him, saw his blazing eyes.
“I want this to go slowly,” he growled. “Just this time. This first time.” He pulled her up into his arms again. “I’ve waited so long…”
And so had she. It had been an eternity, all that time separating them. Now, the waiting was over, and she wanted him to know how much he meant to her. That she was here because he mattered to her. Very much. She hesitated, only for a split second, before opening her heart. “I love you. I do love you, Carston Hewlett.”
“I know,” he whispered.
“You know?”
He leaned back slightly to look at her. Cupped her chin lovingly. “Thank you.”
He hadn’t said he loved her too, but that didn’t matter. She’d read his face, and everything had been written there. He felt the same about her, she knew that. He loved her. He wouldn’t admit it, he couldn’t. Not yet. But there was no mistaking his care, his trust, and his tenderness. Those were wonderful things, and they were enough for the moment. She could wait for the words. They’d come later.
****
This wasn’t California sunlight dancing across the pillow and love-tossed sheets, and she hadn’t imagined the night spent with Carston either. A whole night of wonderful, satisfying lovemaking, drifting to sleep in his arms, waking again to his kisses and more loving. Instinctively, her hand reached out, searched for him.
He wasn’t there. Her eyes shot open and she sat bolt upright. Where was he? What had gone wrong?
Then she saw him, coming back through the doorway carrying two cups of what smelled like coffee. He was stark naked. And unutterably wonderful-looking. Already her fingers tingled with the desire to touch. Their eyes locked and the air in the space separating them vibrated. Carefully, he put the cups down on a dresser top, then sat down on the bed and pulled her effortlessly into his arms.
“Good morning, Sherry,” he said softly, his mouth against hers.
When they broke apart, she read pure tenderness in his face. And vulnerability also?
Then, without warning, his expression changed, became something more controlled. He reached for the coffee cups, handed her one. “Milk, no sugar. Just the way you like it.”
She stared. “How do you know that?”
“Traverton,” he said shortly. “Breakfast in the Paradise Café.”
“You remember?” She was astounded. It had meant that much to him? It must have.
He looked embarrassed. “Just my writer’s memory coming into play. Keeps all the banalities of daily life carefully filed away for some future use.”
That was only an excuse. He was covering up again. Concealing his feelings. But she knew what she’d read in his face only a brief minute before. That tenderness he felt he had to hide. Why? Was he warning her not to read too much into this situation? Possibly.
The hell with warnings. How did he know where this would go? He wasn’t a fortune-teller and neither was she. She would play this relationship for all it was worth. Without defenses. And, if it eventually came to a rocky end, then she still would have gained something. An experience. Better forget about the heartbreak for the moment.
With a gentle fingertip, he brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. “You ready to start work on the play this morning?”
Anxiety shot back into the picture again, dragging along with it a fear of failure and timidity. “Look, Carston. I still don’t know why you’re insisting on having me in your play. Why not get someone great for the role of Melissa? Someone like Lila Patterson. I saw what she could do on stage. She’s great. Experienced. Talented. She would do the role justice.”
“You ever hear Lila sing?” His voice was dry; his mouth twitched into a grin. “Swan Song is about a singer, right? A singer at the end of her career.”
“That’s a lousy argument. The part is written for an actress.”
“Sherry, tell me what you think of the play. Have you read it yet?”
“Is that supposed to be a bad joke?” She was miffed. “How banal and ungrateful do you think I am? And don’t start treating me with condescension again, Hewlett. Of course I read it. I devoured it. I pretty well know the whole thing by heart already.”
“You do?” He looked astounded, almost doubtful, as if he didn’t dare believe her.
Embarrassed, she waved her hands in a dismissing gesture. “Well, that’s not such a big deal for me, you know. I’ve been learning song lyrics ever since I was around four years old.”
But now he was pleased as well as surprised, she could see that—although he was doing his very best to hide it. “Do you like the character of Melissa?”
“Oh, I really do. She’s so independent, so strong, yet so touching. I love the whole play, Carston. Very much. I just don’t know if I can carry it off.”
He shook his head. “Too late now. No exit possible. You’re here, I’m here. Work starts right after breakfast.”
“Too late? Why? Because…well, because of last night…You don’t have to…” She stopped because he looked annoyed.
Then annoyance vanished. He stared at her speculatively. “I think, finally, I know what the real problem is. You’re frightened, right?”
“Scared silly.” She nodded with relief that he finally understood.
“Okay then. Let’s put this into perspective. This production is for the theater festival in Brandt. I’m not hard-heartedly pushing you out onto the New York stage, right? This is a chance for you to find your feet. There’s no pressure, and there will be no horrible consequences. Now, how do you feel about it?”
“Still scared,” she said honestly. “But I’ll work on it, okay?”
“Hollywood didn’t scare you?”
“Scare me?” She stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t even imagine the scripts I read out there. I was even offered a role in a film about teenage Egyptian mummies who come to life again after a nuclear disaster. The mummies end up eating any human survivors.”
Carston began to laugh. “If that’s all it takes to give you confidence, I’ll write a mummy scene into the play.”
“Go ahead. Make fun of me.” She sniffed, tossed her head. And hoped her lucky star hadn’t shifted off into some very distant, unattainable galaxy.
****
She was sitting out on the terrace, perfectly unaware he was watching her, admiring the shine of her soft pale hair escaping from its loose chignon and the glint of a sunbeam on her cheekbone. He felt a wave of tenderness rolling through his soul, and he wondered if he would ever get tired of touching Sherry, of looking at her and being with her.
She still didn’t know h
e’d thought of her night and day while writing Swan Song. That she’d been his muse. That his fear of losing her completely had spurred him on. Inspired him. Made him do everything in his power to get her back. Of course he couldn’t have given the role of Melissa to anyone else: this was Sherry’s play. But if he told her that, wouldn’t it put more pressure on her? He couldn’t take that risk. Her fear of failure was too strong.
Or perhaps he hadn’t confided in her because he wanted to hide how much he cared? Did he even want to admit it to himself? Sure, she was here with him now, but hadn’t she said she wanted to return to her singing career? And that meant, after this play went on the stage at the Brandt Festival, the relationship would be over. Sherry would be gone; he’d go back to his normal, solitary life.
The thought didn’t give him much pleasure. So what did he want? Permanence? Was permanence even a possibility after living alone for so long? He was almost certain it wasn’t. Not at his age.
How would she feel about living out here in the country? She’d grown up in the backwoods and probably had no desire to return to the country life. She needed bright lights, applause, and adulation.
How could they stay together? She’d be on the road for much of the time, and he’d have to read gossip magazines to find out what was going on. What about the paparazzi? He could just picture a squadron of journalist’s cars lining the road in front of his house and fans sneaking through the woods. Goodbye to peace, quiet, and a private life.
All things considered, it was better to wait, play for time, and not let his heart open totally. Or futilely. And why even worry? How much time had he now actually spent with Sherry? A few days? And here he was, fretting about a future they’d probably never share.
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