"I think I bought enough for both of us," Connor said.
Mariah took his arm. "It was fun," she decided. "I got all the satisfaction and none of the pain. After all, it's not my checkbook."
"Hey, thanks." Connor poked her with his elbow. "You egged me on."
"Did not!"
"Did, too."
She poked him back. "Did not. I'm too cowardly to spend that much money, even if it's not mine."
Tacitly admitting defeat, he said with satisfaction, "Now I can unpack my books."
"Mmm-hmm," she agreed contentedly, slowing to look into a toy shop window at a wonderful train set, the tracks laid to wind through a cotton-batting wonderland of fir trees and tiny villages sparkling with Christmas lights.
"I always wanted one of those," Connor said, first going stock-still, then crowding close to the window to take in every detail, like a child with his nose pressed to the glass.
"If you have a son…" she suggested gently, watching the wonder on his face rather than the chugging train.
"Yeah." Clearly reluctant, he turned away from the display, then stopped. "Hey! Maybe Evan would like one for Christmas."
"What kid wouldn't?" She trailed him into the toy shop and offered consultation when asked as he chose a beginning set.
"Once you get started," the clerk told him, "you can add a car or more tracks or accessories for a birthday or another holiday."
Connor and Mariah made it back to the car, both lugging heavy bagfuls of boxes containing railroad cars and tracks.
"An early start on Christmas shopping," Connor declared, as he opened the trunk and unloaded them both.
"I've been buying all fall."
"Yeah, but you're a woman. That's different."
"We plan ahead?" she said in amusement.
He grinned at her, making her heart skip a beat. "Something like that."
"Exactly why women should be running the world."
"What shall we do for dinner?" he asked as they got into the car. "You in the mood to gussy up and go out on the town? Or shall we stick to jeans and go for burgers or Chinese?"
Mariah grabbed for a little bit of courage and suggested, almost casually, "We could cook."
Hand outstretched to turn the key, Connor suddenly went very still, his narrowed gaze pinning her. "Are you sure you'd rather? I figure you have to cook every day."
Her smile was meant to be flirtatious and came closer to tremulous. "I thought we'd cook."
"Are you sure?" he asked again, voice husky.
Her minute amount of courage deserted her. "If you'd rather eat out…"
"No," he said. "I'd love to cook with you."
The rough moment was past. She could almost pretend they'd only been talking about dinner. As they drove to the grocery store, they discussed what to make, settling on chicken in an incredible—he claimed—orange sauce with her wild rice cooked in chicken stock with herbs. Asparagus looked good, they decided, browsing the produce section. Connor chose a white wine.
"Zofie and I baked cookies Thursday night. Two kinds," she told him, when he asked, "oatmeal raisin and peanut butter. Will that do for dessert?"
"Milk and cookies?" He nuzzled her cheek, brushing a kiss below her ear. "Are you kidding?"
He insisted on paying the total, but they companionably carried the groceries into her apartment and prepared their feast, pausing only a dozen times or so for slow kisses that made her guess dizzily that Connor already expected to stay.
Mariah dug in the back of her buffet for her good crystal, candlestick holders and a pair of elegant white tapers she'd saved for a rainy—or romantic—day. She lit them and then turned off the dining-room lights.
In the golden light of the candles she could almost imagine this wasn't really the table where she and Zofie ate every night, the six-year-old separating all her food into color categories.
When Mariah said so, Connor laughed. "I didn't like foods mixed together when I was a kid, either. Especially unfamiliar ones. Mom was always ripping out recipes for casseroles from the newspaper or the back of a box and presenting it without warning. I'd sit there wondering what that evil bit of green was. 'Eat,' she'd order."
"I'm too tolerant," Mariah admitted. "Your mother's way is probably best. You aren't picky anymore, are you?"
"I still like to know what's going in a dish."
She took a first bite of tender chicken. "This is divine."
"And perfect with the rice." He smiled at her, the flickering light accenting cheekbones and the strength of his jaw, casting shadows that made him mysterious.
Mariah wondered if she looked any more exotic without bare electric lighting.
As if he'd read her mind, he suddenly set down his fork. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" he asked, voice thickened. "You have the sexiest mouth I've ever seen, and the most glorious eyes. Your eyes were the first thing I noticed about you."
"They're just … hazel." She swallowed. "I always wanted dark eyes, like Zofie's."
"Yours look like a forest floor with shafts of sunlight touching it." He took her hand, his thumb drawing patterns on the back. "Have you ever hiked up in the Olympics? Back to places where moss creeps across the ground and up the trunks of ancient trees? Where the silence is so profound, you barely dare breathe?"
She shook her head wordlessly.
"I'll take you and Zofie. This summer. I want to see you there, with a band of sunshine lighting the fire in your hair and bringing out the gold in your eyes."
"That … would be fun," she whispered. "I've never hiked. I didn't know where to go."
He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a soft kiss on the back, and gently returned it to her. Taking a sip of wine, he seemed to make a deliberate effort to become a good guest again, rather than an ardent lover. His voice was only a little husky when he resumed talking, this time meditatively. "I grew up in the mountains. Hiking, climbing—I was sixteen when John and I went up Mount Olympus. Hugh was plenty steamed at being told he was too young to go."
"I'll bet."
"He talked someone into taking him the very next summer, when he was fifteen. Never let us forget he was the youngest to climb Olympus."
They both ate, but not as much as the dinner deserved. Conversation began and trailed off sporadically. Mariah was conscious only of his shadowed eyes, the curve of his mouth, the strength of his big hand fingering the delicate wineglass. She had never been so very aware of anyone before, had never made a decision like this—I will make love with this man. Simon had been her only lover, and their first time had just … happened. This was far more difficult, and yet she had no doubts.
Connor suddenly looked directly at her. His voice roughened. "Am I staying tonight, Mariah? Is it too soon for me to ask?"
"No … I mean, yes. I mean…" She gave up. Took a deep breath. "Please stay."
"Then," he pushed back his chair and stood, "I'm done eating. All I can think about is you."
Her heart leaped and tumbled, her pulse bouncing in her ears and making her own voice sound far away to her. "I'm … not hungry, either."
He held out a hand; she took it and let him pull her to her feet. Then he framed her face with his hands and looked for a long time, his mouth curving. "Ah, Mariah," he murmured huskily, just before he kissed her.
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
He started gentle, seeking, his lips soft, touching her nowhere but here, with his mouth on hers and his hands lifting her face. She shivered and swayed, and abruptly the kiss deepened. His tongue probed her mouth, sliding over hers, and his hands dropped to her shoulders, then her back and hip as he pulled her tight against him.
Mariah had thought she might feel many things: pleasure in the closeness to another person, perhaps, or acute nervousness or a sweet unfurling of passion. What she had never expected was this sudden raw urgency, ignited by powerful thighs hard against hers, by the evidence of his arousal, by the skill of his touch. She wanted
closer, she was desperate to feel his bare skin beneath her hands, his mouth on her breast, his weight pressing her down.
Connor nipped her neck. "I have wanted you," he said hoarsely, "from the minute you walked into the principal's office. I thought, It's her."
Her voice wasn't her own. "And all I could think about was your eyes on me. I could never forget your eyes." She kissed the hollow at the base of his throat.
A sound vibrated beneath her lips. "Sometimes I feel so damned guilty…"
"Don't!" She pressed a hand over his mouth. Her breath came in small gasps. "Not now. Please. Not now."
He groaned and took her mouth in a long, drugging kiss. "Not now," he whispered. "You're right. Anytime but now."
He blew out the candles. Then, without warning, he bent and lifted her into his arms. Letting out a cry, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as he maneuvered her through the doorway and started down the hall.
"Which room?"
"At the end." His neck was strong, the skin smooth and she loved the smell of sweat and aftershave and Connor. Mariah kissed his throat, felt him swallow, kissed him again.
Her bedroom was plainer than the rest of the apartment; Zofie's needs came first. Mariah had a moment of wanting to explain, forgotten when Connor lowered her to the bed. He hadn't even looked at her room. His eyes hadn't left hers. He knelt beside the bed and untied her sneakers, tossing them aside, the socks after them. Just his hands on her feet sent heat crashing though her. Then his fingers wrapped her ankles and gently massaged.
She moaned.
Connor rose to kick off his own shoes and socks before he joined her on the bed. Instead of kissing her, he began unbuttoning her blouse, taking his time, running a fingertip down the bare skin from one button to the next. Mariah held her breath and watched his face. She saw much the same wonder as when he looked at the magical train set, but more was there, too: tenderness and desire that made the silver-gray of his eyes molten.
After he spread her blouse wide, he flicked open the front catch of her bra. Murmuring his pleasure, he filled his hands with her breasts. The river of heat pouring through Mariah's veins pooled in her belly. She shivered and arched, pushing her hands under his sweatshirt to stroke bare skin. He groaned in turn and bent to take her breast in his mouth.
They said everything and nothing as they explored each other, shedding one article of clothing at a time. It was lovely and slow and infuriating, so that she was glad when he cracked first, suddenly pressing her back on the mattress, his mouth hot and demanding, his knee urging her thighs apart. She opened herself to him willingly, with no trepidation, no thoughts at all, only an intense waterfall of feelings.
There was a pause during which he swore under his breath and she heard the tearing of a package. He had come prepared, thank goodness. For all her vaunted ability to plan, she hadn't. Not about this.
One more kiss, a glimpse of his face, taut with wanting, eyes glittering, and he was pressing into her. The effort to go slowly cost him; he was shaking, his teeth gritted. But, oh, it felt exquisite, as unfamiliar as if it were her first time, and yet not so frightening. Her body adjusted, tightening when he tried to pull back.
The next time he filled her felt just as good. He moved faster, harder, deeper, until she was clutching on to him for dear life, meeting his every thrust, crying out for the completion that was a breath away.
It came in stunning waves that brought his name to her lips, a whisper, a paean. "Connor!"
He groaned, shuddered and joined her. "Mariah," he said against her neck. "Sweet Mariah."
Eventually he rolled off her, drawing her to his side. With her head pillowed on his shoulder, hearing the powerful beat of his heart, comforted by the steadiness of his breathing and the warmth of his body, she wondered briefly whether he would stay or decide soon that he should leave. But her eyelids were leaden, her relaxation so complete she couldn't have formed a sentence if fire had leaped through the bedroom door. She slept.
When she awakened it was dark and she had a jolting moment of disorientation because there was a heavy arm lying across her waist. Her nose was burrowed against his side. A man…
Remembering, she smiled against his skin. So as not to wake him, she carefully disentangled herself and slipped out of bed to go to the bathroom. Every light in the apartment was blazing. She turned them all off, pausing for barely a moment to look at the wasted food and dirty dishes spread over the dining-room table. Then she turned out that light, too, and made her way back to the bedroom.
Faint illumination from a street lamp outside fell through the cracks in the blinds. It wasn't enough to keep her from stumbling over a shoe and giving a muffled gasp on the way. Whether she'd woken him, or he had already been awake, she didn't know, only that his hands reached for her when she slipped into the bed. His mouth found hers as unerringly as if he could see her clearly.
Her body responded without hesitation. There was something deliciously intimate about making love in near-complete darkness, saying nothing, touch taking the place of other senses. They didn't play so long this time; instead, he entered her gently, and passion built in slow, pleasurable stages.
The words, I love you, rose to her lips, but she bit them back. Not love. A fling.
Wasn't it?
They climaxed together, Connor murmuring words that didn't include I love you. Irrationally, she wanted them.
The next time she awoke, morning-sunshine filtered through the blinds. Connor still slept beside her, the covers down around his waist, one forearm across his eyes as if he were resisting the intrusion of light.
She lay there looking her fill, savoring all the little details she hadn't seen last night in the first urgency, or in the dark. Even relaxed as he was, powerful muscles in his chest and arms and shoulders were well defined. He had dark, ridiculously long lashes that any girl would envy. His mouth was softer when he wasn't guarding his expression. Sexier, she thought, tempted to touch it.
The pronounced auburn to the fine hairs curling on his chest made her guess that, if he grew a beard, it would be a deep red. If he had children, would one of them be a carrot head? She pictured a small defiant Connor with freckles, clear gray eyes and flame-bright hair. Smiling, at last she stole from bed and went to take a shower.
He joined her, with predictable, if wickedly erotic, results. It was nearly eleven o'clock before they reached the kitchen to make breakfast.
"Let's clean up first," Connor suggested. "I can't leave you with this." He saw her glance at the clock and asked, "When does Zofie get home?" She checked the schedule on the refrigerator and relaxed. "Her game is at noon in Port Angeles, so there's no way they'll be here until one-thirty or so, later if they stop for lunch like they usually do."
The cleanup went fast. They sat at the breakfast bar afterward and ate toasted raisin-cinnamon bagels, talking languidly about very little. Around noon, Connor said reluctantly, "I should get going. I have laundry to do, and the usual weekend chores."
"I should do the same," she admitted. "This was a lovely weekend, Connor."
Eyes intent even if his mouth was smiling, he said, "It was just the beginning."
She actually felt the sting of tears. "I hope so."
"Count on it." He tugged her against him for a hard kiss. "Walk me out?"
"Of course." Mariah put on slippers and a sweater against the chill and stepped over the Sunday paper on her doorstep to stroll out to his car with him.
Connor pulled her into his arms again and growled, "Damn it, I don't want to go," before he kissed her with regret and sudden frustration and sensual promise. When she started to pull back at the sound of a car turning in behind them, his arms briefly tightened before he let her go.
"Mariah, I…" He looked past her, and his mouth clamped shut.
On a rush of fear, she turned, just in time to see Zofie, in her soccer clothes, tumble out of Simon's car and fling herself at her mother.
"I don't feel good, Momm
y!" she wailed.
Simon, who had gotten out on the other side, stood frozen, staring over the car roof at Connor. It was the longest time before his anguished gaze swung to Mariah.
Whatever she had expected and feared, it was not this. Please, she thought, unable to look away from his wounded eyes. Please let him be angry. Let me see anything but this terrible pain and bewilderment at my betrayal.
Connor looked at the man whose ex-wife he wanted and felt the greatest shame of his life.
He couldn't lie to himself. He was at least partially responsible for the breakup of their marriage, and see what a prize he was winning now for his role. What did that make him? he wondered in disgust.
What if he had been wrong about Simon? What if Simon Stavig had never touched little Lily? Connor hadn't been able to prove a damn thing; he hadn't been able to make an arrest. But Simon had been irrevocably damaged by the mere allegation. He'd lost his wife, his hometown, his job. His child, in a meaningful way.
What if I didn't try hard enough to find alternative explanations for Lily's abuse, just because I didn't like Simon Stavig? Connor asked himself, appalled.
Mariah turned her head and gazed blindly at him. "Just go," she said.
"I can't leave you," he argued in a low voice.
"Go!" she repeated fiercely. "We'll be fine."
Stavig still hadn't moved. He looked stunned and defeated.
Connor clenched his jaw and nodded. "I'll call," he told Mariah.
She didn't acknowledge him, maybe didn't hear him.
"Let's get your stuff out of the car," she was telling Zofie. "I'm so sorry you're sick. And you had to miss the game, didn't you?"
Connor went only as far as the entrance to the parking lot, where he pulled over. He watched the tableau in his driver's side mirror as Mariah opened the car door and took out a small pink suitcase. She and Stavig spoke briefly, tensely, and then he got in the car and backed out with screeching tires. He didn't even see Connor as his car passed, bursting out of the parking lot on two tires.
THE WORD OF A CHILD Page 20
