“Another progress meeting like the last one?” Meg asked with a wink.
“A three-hour lunch and a half-hour chat,” Joe said. “Definitely my idea of the perfect business meeting.”
Patrick moved away from the car, his house keys dangling from his fingers. “It’s not my fault you two are so efficient,” he said as Meg shifted back into drive. “I’ve never been paid so much for doing so little.”
He waved them off and Meg slowly moved down the driveway toward the road to Lakeland House. Hunt was quiet in the back seat, and they respected his need for privacy. Joe put a tape into the stereo and they both sang along with the Beatles, blissfully off-key, as she drove. At one point Joe reached over and gently stroked the back of her neck, and a potent mixture of sexuality and tenderness flooded her senses, making her drive a half mile past the gates to the Kennedy Colony before she realized her mistake.
Ah, Lindstrom, she thought as she made a U-turn and retraced her path, what on earth are you getting yourself into?
#
Somewhere between Mario’s and Lakeland House, Huntington Kendall IV decided to leave for New York that night. Meg tried to convince him to stay until morning but Joe could tell from the set of the younger man’s jaw that it was a losing battle.
“There’s no point, Margarita,” Joe said to her as she paced up and down the length of the study, her short black skirt riding high on her thigh with each stride. “He’s got the van packed up; he’s wide awake and stone-cold sober. There’s no good reason for him to stay here another night.”
She stopped and put her hands on her slender hips. “It’s after midnight,” she said sternly. “The roads are unlighted, and his sense of direction is as bad as yours. I think those are three pretty good reasons for him to stay another night”
Hunt, the subject of this conversation, was leaning against the mantelpiece. Joe could almost feel the adrenaline zinging through Hunt’s veins. The creative juices were flowing and Hunt had to get to his next destination before the need left him high and dry. It was something Joe could well understand.
He turned to the younger man, noting the way even his red hair seemed bushier than usual. “It’s Earth Mother’s influence,” he said with a grin “It has our Meg here wanting to mother everyone in sight.”
Meg glared at Joe, and he laughed.
“Speaking of Earth Mother,” Hunt said, his voice minus its customary note of irony. “Ivan gave up before we finished packing up the trailer I rented.” He hesitated a second, his big, sad eyes fastened to Joe. “I need a hand getting her in.”
“No problem,” Joe said easily, noting Hunt’s sigh of relief. “Between the three of us, we should be able to manage in no time.”
Meg kicked off her dangerously high sandals and slipped into her worn running shoes. The contrast between running shoes and sexy black dress made Joe smile as they followed Hunt out the back door and into the yard. Strips of silvery moonlight filtered through the trees that towered overhead, and he watched Margarita move in and out of the magical light as if in a dream. A sudden ferocious gust of wind, presaging the winter ahead, whistled past them, and Joe shrugged out of his suit jacket and placed it around her narrow shoulders.
Earth Mother, swaddled to her shoulders in one of the protective red blankets, looked surreal and comical alone in the bare backyard.
“I think she grew,” Meg said, circling the statue and shaking her head. “I don’t know how you’ll ever get it into your trailer.”
“Neither do I.” Hunt looked over at Joe. “I was hoping one of you would have an idea.”
Earth Mother was as wide as she was tall, and there was absolutely no way Joe could see that anyone could get a grip on her and lift her into the rented vehicle. Twice he tried to grab the statue around the waist, its narrowest part, but his grip slipped each time, and he ended up with a handful of plaster-cast bosom and a very red face.
Meg and Hunt were trying not to laugh, but the third time his hands roamed Earth Mother’s matronly breasts, Meg couldn’t hold back.
“Why don’t you try it, Lindstrom?” Joe said, unable to resist the urge to laugh at himself. “There’s no other place to grab the damned thing.”
Meg was laughing too hard to answer him.
Hunt, on the other hand, was looking more miserable by the minute. “I wanted to get on the road before dawn,” he said sadly, with a long look at his creation. “I should have put wheels on her butt.”
“Or built it inside your van.” Joe put an arm around the younger man. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “We’ll find a way.”
It was part Joe’s affection for Hunt and another part his desire to be alone with Margarita that fueled his ingenuity, but one hour and four glasses of Asti Cinzano later, Meg and Joe had rigged up a ramp made of sturdy pine boards they’d found in the basement and with a mighty and concerted effort, the three of them managed to push the great lady up the ramp and into the safety of the U-Haul trailer that was attached to Hunt’s van.
Hunt, whose adrenaline had been heightened by the pot of coffee he’d consumed, collapsed dramatically on the cold ground, his red suspenders drooping off his bony shoulders. “That’s it,” he groaned. “In my next reincarnation I’m coming back as a minimalist.”
“The hell with that,” Joe said, leaning against the edge of the truck, breathing heavily. “Come back as a chiropractor. We could keep you in business.” He rubbed his right thigh where Earth Mother’s sharp left foot had dug in.
Meg, looking absurdly sexy in her dress and his oversized suit jacket, sat next to him, her feet resting on the ramp they had improvised. The long elegant line of her legs from ankle to knee glimmered in the moonlight, drawing his eye up, toward the delights still hidden. He saw her proudly astride a white stallion as she raced across the black night, her angel’s hair flowing down her naked back.
It took him a long moment to surface from his fantasy and realize she was talking to him.
“I thought lack of oxygen to the brain had done you in.” Her voice, low and laughing, teased his senses. “I convinced Hunt to stay for one last cup of coffee. Are you game?”
Joe stood up and helped her to her feet. “If our coffee’s Cinzano.” Acting on impulse, he draped one arm around Meg’s waist and another across Hunt’s shoulders. For a moment, brief and sweet, he wished he could stop time and preserve that instant where he felt poised on the edge of something he couldn’t quite define. The last time he’d felt that sense of benevolent destiny, he was seventeen years old and had yet to go to war. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to be young and hopeful. It was nice to be reminded that life could still hold some wonderful surprises.
But he’d learned that the place where Hunt was standing shifted more swiftly than quicksand beneath a young man’s feet. He wanted to give Hunt a few more moments of Lakeland’s protection before the artist left, even if it meant delaying the moment he and Meg had been anticipating.
“Come on,” he said, leading them toward the kitchen. “Let’s have one more cup of coffee for the road.”
Chapter Ten
“Call me when you get back to New York.” Hunt, his voice uncharacteristically shaky, embraced Meg in a hug so strong she was afraid her ribs would crack. “Do you have my number?”
Meg patted the pocket of Joe’s jacket, which still lay across her shoulders. “Right here,” she said. “I’ll put it in the Rolodex as soon as I go back inside.”
“I could do it for you,” Hunt said. “Just take a minute.”
Joe stepped forward, and Meg watched as he extended his hand to the younger man. “No more delaying, man,” he said, not unkindly. “You’ve had four cups of coffee and three goodbye scenes. It’s time to make your exit.”
Hunt took Joe’s solid hand in his own large and bony one and Meg watched as Hunt’s ever-present control faltered. Joe patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and said something Meg couldn’t quite make out. Hunt nodded, and even though his Adam’s apple w
as contorting with emotion, she could see that he was reassured. Despite the chill wind that blew steadily across the driveway, Meg felt warmed from within, filled to overflowing with love and hope in a way she hadn’t felt warmed in many years.
“Let us know what happens with that gallery owner,” Joe said, plunging his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “We’ll be thinking about you on Monday.”
Hunt rolled his eyes dramatically in an attempt to regain his old insouciance. “I’m the one who has to sidle up to those bourgeois types and get them to open their minds to me.”
“They will,” Meg said, thinking about the scope and brilliance of the young man’s work. “And then they’ll open their galleries.”
Hunt snapped his suspenders with his thumbs and opened the door to his van. “I’m off,” he said. “Andy Hardy Conquers the Big Apple.”
“You’ll conquer it, Andy,” Joe said. “Keep the faith.”
Joe put his arm around Meg, and she moved closer to him. Hunt climbed into the van and closed the door. He looked young and thin, and it was painfully obvious that his sophisticated veneer shattered before real emotion. Meg’s heart went out to him, for he reminded her of herself not too many years earlier.
The engine roared to life, and the headlights flashed on, their glare blinding her for a moment. Gears clunked as Hunt shifted into reverse.
“Drive carefully!” she called out, shielding her eyes from the bright white lights.
Hunt saluted them with a beep of the van’s horn and began to ease slowly down the driveway, disappearing around the first curving turn.
Next to Meg, Joe cleared his throat. “Can you tell me why I feel like a parent?”
“I’m the wrong one to ask. I feel like I’m sending my firstborn off to war and I’m only a few years older.”
A strong gust of wind rocked them on their feet. “Come on,” Joe said. “Let’s go inside.”
The house seemed very still after the night noises outside. It was a pleasant stillness, one that reminded Meg of just how alone she and Joe really were now that Hunt had left to seek his fortune. She followed Joe into the study where he offered her the last of the champagne.
“I’ll split it with you,” she said, slipping off her running shoes, then curling up barefoot on the sofa.
Joe handed her a half glass of the golden wine, then sat next to her. Her bare feet were pressed against his thigh. She flexed her toes and felt an answering tremor run through him. She hid her smile with the glass of champagne.
She was feeling pleasantly high, decidedly mellow and more sensually alive than at any time in her life. Somehow her universe had been compressed down to this moment, this split second in time, and she longed to hold it in the palm of her hand. Joe watched her, those wonderful eyes of his skimming over her face as if he were trying to capture her heart.
She took another sip of champagne. “What are you thinking about?”
His mouth tilted in a smile. “How it felt to be Hunt’s age, standing at the edge of a cliff and not being afraid to fall.” She watched his chest rise and fall as he drew in a long breath. “Somewhere along the way you lose that feeling.”
“Maybe you have to lose it,” Meg answered slowly. “Maybe that’s what helps you cope with reality. Life could become very painful if you kept on tilting at windmills.”
Joe chuckled and put his empty champagne glass down on the end table near him. “And maybe I’d rather keep tilting at windmills.”
“My sister was like that,” she said, champagne taking the edge off sorrow. “Always running after her dreams.”
“That’s the only way you can make them come true.” He touched her hair with strong, tanned fingers.
“Maybe if she’d settled for less, she’d still be alive today,” Meg answered softly. “Maybe she shouldn’t have wanted so much.”
“The wanting is what keeps us alive, Margarita. When you lose that feeling, that’s when you’re really dead.”
It scared Meg to think about chasing her dreams, and she let the champagne and the honeyed sound of his voice lull her. He got up and crossed the room, switching on the radio nestled on the shelves between the Encyclopaedia Brittanica and the Oxford English Dictionary. Lush, soft music wrapped itself around her heart.
As he walked back toward her, he slipped a finger into the knot of his tie and drew it down, then deftly unbuttoned the neck of his white shirt. Simple, spare movements performing a quite basic male action. But the way he captured and held her gaze while he released himself from the civilized garment made her pulses quicken with pleasure.
He held out his hand for her empty glass, and put it on the end table with his own.
“You owe me a dance.”He drew her to her feet. His breath was sweet, intoxicating with champagne and desire.
“A fox trot, to be precise.” She could barely speak.
“Fox trot, waltz, I don’t give a damn. I’ll take anything that will bring you into my arms.” He placed one hand at the base of her spine, his fingers lightly splaying out over the sweet hollow. As if on cue, the radio switched into a song so poignant that she felt tears spring to life. She placed her left hand on his shoulder, and he took her right hand in his. “Enchantment requires music,” he murmured in her ear, beginning to move to the melody surrounding them. “I know your scent, Margarita, the way your lips taste like the ripest fruit. I know how you look in sunshine and in candlelight. The sound of your voice stays with me after we say goodnight.”
She was drowning in the flood of sensation his words opened up in her heart. She ducked her head and rested her forehead against the side of his neck. That masterful hand at the base of her spine pulled her closer until the line of her body rested firmly and fully against the line of his. Stabbing pinpoints of pleasure—so exquisite that they bordered on pain—radiated out from her core. She was pure sensation.
“Now I want to know how you’ll feel beneath me.” He kissed behind her ear, the curve of her jaw, the vulnerable spot at the base of her throat. “I want to slide my hands under your skirt and feel the softness of your thighs against my fingers. I want to find that you want me as much as I want you.”
She moaned. Instinctively her body pressed against his, and the feel of him, hard and urgent, against her thigh set her on fire. She took his hand and placed it just under the hem of her dress. His strong fingers hungrily savored the slither of silk. His obvious pleasure intensified her own.
“I don’t want any barriers between us.” His fingers slid over the tops of her stockings and touched bare flesh. “Not tonight.”
She met his eyes. “No barriers.” She unbuttoned his shirt and slid it over his incredible shoulders.
“I want all of you.” His gentle, powerful fingers played with the lace trim on her panties. “Your mind, your heart—“ His fingers slipped inside the elastic band, and her body went molten with longing. “Everything.”
His chest was bare. She leaned slightly forward and put her mouth over one of his flat nipples, flicking her tongue lightly across its surface, taking blatant pleasure from the way his heart pounded beneath her lips. The thick curling hair of his chest was soft against her skin as she kissed a trail down his flat abdomen, her fingertips playing just beneath the waistband of his pants in a way that caused his body to tremble.
His hands slid up her hips and grasped her by the waist, pushing her away from him until she found herself looking deeply into his eyes.
“I’ve waited all my life to find you, Margarita.” Beautiful words. Words she believed.
“I know,” she said, touching his mouth with her index finger. “I never believed I would find you.” She felt as if she’d been released from a state of suspended animation, as if all of her life that went before had been nothing more than preparation for the bursts of pure emotion that rocketed through her now.
Reaching behind her, she unzipped her dress and let it fall off her shoulders, exposing her breasts to his eyes. She moved away from his touch and le
t the dress fall the rest of the way to the floor. Then, not taking her eyes from him, she shed stockings and garter belt, then panties. She’d ridden white waters and traveled places where law was nothing more than a word, but she knew this offering of her heart and body was the first truly dangerous thing she had ever done.
#
In his life, Joe had found beauty in words, in paintings, in many women. But when Meg Lindstrom, his Margarita, stood before him, naked and proud, he felt as if he were looking through the gates of heaven. She shimmered in the fire glow; her pale hair drifted across her shoulders, one long wave curling across her left breast. Her dark eyes never left his face.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, small tribute to the womanly splendor that made him ache. “Even more beautiful than I’d imagined.”
She smiled, and he saw a blush rise from her breasts to her throat. “You’ve been thinking about me?” she asked gently.
“Every day,” he said, moving closer to her. “Every hour.” He pulled her into his arms, shuddering at the deep pleasure of her skin against his as her high, firm breasts flattened against his chest. “Every minute since I met you.”
“Joe,” she whispered against his lips. She pressed warm kisses along the sides of his jaw, then worked her way back to his lips again. “Love me, Joe.”
Desire rose up inside him like a gathering storm. A flood of words pounded in his brain, words he’d committed to paper a thousand times, placed in the mouths of a thousand different characters, yet never fully understood. Now they echoed inside his heart, their rightness making him believe in magic again.
Quickly, he rid himself of the rest of his clothes; then, he swept Margarita into his arms and carried her to the sofa in front of the fireplace. Kneeling on the floor next to her, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her incredible mouth, then began the slow, teasing journey down the column of her throat to the soft contours of her breasts and the proud curve of her rib cage.
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