“It’s because of Mari.”
“Yes.”
Her head jerked up. “Stop arguing with me!”
Had he given something away in his tone? “Sweet, I haven’t any intention of arguing with you.” He added, “Right now. Right now there isn’t any point in arguing with you about anything, now, is there?”
She closed her eyes wearily. “No.”
“You’re so tired you can’t see straight.”
“You have to go home.”
“Yes, you said that.” He stopped playing with her hair, and to distract her said quietly, “I think you’d better tell me the rest of it, Laura. Like on what grounds did you get the divorce?”
“I…Owen.”
His fingers were very gently, very quietly unbuttoning her blouse, which wasn’t easy. The room was dark, and she persisted in wearing blouses with itty-bitty buttons. “I’m going to give you a back rub. And then put you to bed. No pass. No kisses. No nothing. Hear me? Now, on what grounds did you get the divorce?”
“I don’t want a back rub!”
“I don’t much care. You’re getting one.”
Laura stared up at him mutinously as he slipped his palm between her soft skin and the cloth of her blouse. Off one shoulder, then the other. His touch was as impersonal as it was…determined. And the look in his dark eyes sent an irrational, foolish tremor up and down her spine. He would have her believe she wanted him to undress her. To be naked in front of him. As vulnerable as a woman can be…only with him. “Don’t…look at me that way. Owen—”
“Just talk, Laura. Stop thinking. Custody of Mari—how was that set up?” He dropped her blouse on the floor.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I heard you. You don’t want a relationship, and it has nothing to do with Peter. A back rub is not a relationship; a back rub is just a back rub, and you’re tired as hell. You also happen to trust me, whether you know it or not. So let’s not make too much fuss over nothing.”
“I am not taking off this skirt.”
“Of course you’re not. I am.” The skirt had an elasticized waistband. He skimmed his fingers inside, sliding it down over her hips, controlling the impulse to linger. Her skin was white and smooth, all shadowed hollows and curves in the darkness. The scent of her was everywhere.
“Owen,” Laura said politely, “I’m going to smack you.”
It would have been difficult to hit him when she was flat on her stomach on the mattress. One lost a certain amount of fighting momentum, dressed only in panties and bra, when a man’s muscled thighs were straddling you. When he leaned over her and stole the pillow from beneath her cheek, she felt the weight of him, the maleness of him.
His fingers pushed aside her hair, then settled in on the knotted muscles at the nape of her neck. You have to make him leave. But her body wasn’t listening to her head. With each kneading caress, her thighs tensed together and the blood in her veins was turning warm, thick, heated. It was dark, making her near nudity feel less…intimate. Or more.
She desperately didn’t want him to leave. She just wanted to be twenty again, before she’d met Peter, before sexual feelings and anxiety had become a matched set for her. It wasn’t possible to go back. And if Owen had been any kind of…gentleman, he’d have left when she asked him to.
But he hadn’t. Like a pirate’s, his hands possessively marauded her flesh, stealing the bra straps from her shoulders, kneading tense muscles as if they were booty. He stroked her skin as if it were treasure. His thumbs probed each vertebra, turning each into liquid.
“That’s my lady,” he murmured. “Unhook your bra in front, sweet.”
“There’s no need to—”
“Or I can,” he said smoothly.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Owen,” Laura said irritably.
There was another moment’s silence. Laura unhooked the bra. As fast as she whipped off the wisp of nylon, her body mashed to the mattress as if glued there. She was also in a sudden hurry to talk. “All right. You asked me about the divorce…”
As she talked, Owen’s hands claimed more and more territory. Her neck, so vulnerable. The sweet slope of her hips. The sides of her breasts. He listened, but every muscle, every pulse, every nerve, strained with the primal need to take her. To gather her up, lay kisses on every secret place, to cover and claim. To make love to her and make love to her and make love to her. To teach her to abandon her restraint, to coax the sensual Laura into flower, to erase that foolish, foolish fear that she wasn’t woman enough.
Instead, he forced himself to listen. “…so you had a time with the lawyers.”
“Divorce lawyers only want to talk settlements. I didn’t want a settlement; I just wanted out, and I wasn’t about to tell some stranger about my personal life. I understand that the law is the law, but my marital problem wasn’t any of their business.”
“Yes.” He didn’t smile, but for an instant he had a wry suspicion that Laura just might not have made the attorneys’ job all that simple.
“The easiest way to get a divorce these days is on grounds of ‘irretrievable breakdown of the marriage.’ Only my attorneys said I wouldn’t find a judge who’d give me a divorce on those grounds—at least not a fast divorce—because I was expecting a child. So I had to find other grounds.” Laura closed her eyes. Exhaustion was stealing over her like a black fog. Suddenly, it was all so easy to talk about. Talking muted the rush of yearning evoked by Owen’s hands, the flood of wanting that was so disturbing. “I got my fast divorce, Owen, and I got it before Mari was born. Somehow…when you’re very sure of what you feel, of what’s right, of what you want…there’s always a way.”
His hands stilled. “Laura. What did you have to do?” he asked quietly.
“Sue him for infidelity. Ironic, yes? I stood up there and said he’d been unfaithful with other women—and knew very well he’d never touched another woman.” Her voice was muffled in the pillow. “The attorney told me I’d need proof. I didn’t. The judge was an old codger, half senile, and anyway he couldn’t say much once Peter stood up and admitted to having had a number of long…affairs.”
Owen’s hand glided up to her shoulders, his mind recreating that scene in the courtroom. “I thought you told me your ex-husband didn’t want the divorce.”
“He didn’t. But in court, he didn’t have a choice because he was afraid I’d blurt out the truth, that he slept with men.” Laura’s voice took on a weary note. Owen’s fingers stole over her scalp, soothing, soothing, soothing. “He didn’t want anyone to know. Our friends had no idea, and any hint of his homosexuality would have destroyed his parents. That’s why I moved, why I broke contact with all the people I knew. I couldn’t answer their questions without either lying or hurting him, so I left.” She added quietly, “Yes, I lied in court, Owen. It seemed the only way. I didn’t want to destroy Peter, just…to get out of his life.”
Which sounded, to Owen, very much like Laura. Never to hurt anyone, no matter how badly she’d been hurt. “And custody?”
“The judge wouldn’t—or couldn’t—rule on the permanent custody of an unborn child. Temporarily, the baby’s simply mine, and Peter has ‘reasonable visiting rights.’ Later on, we’ll have to go back to court and make a more permanent arrangement.”
His hands stilled again. “Are you worried about that?”
Laura sighed. “No. Mari is mine. If Peter fights for custody, I’ll use his private life against him if I have to.” She added fiercely, “I don’t want to do that, but I’ll do anything to keep Mari.”
“I know you would, Laura,” he said softly.
She hesitated, her voice becoming more distant. “I haven’t…got all that settled in my head yet. About his rights, where Mari is concerned. Mari’s his daughter, probably the only child he’ll ever have. He’s a talented man; he can be warm and affectionate and gentle. I have to be fair. In my head, I believe he has the right to spend time with her, to be her fat
her. But in my heart, I seem to have some old-fashioned prejudices, Owen. It’s not just his sexual preference. Deep inside, he’s a troubled, unhappy man; I don’t want that rubbing off on Mari. I don’t want confusion in her life. Owen?”
He leaned closer to hear.
“What have you done to me? I feel like one long soggy noodle,” she murmured groggily.
He chuckled. “Sleep,” he whispered. Long after he’d covered her, he lay next to her on his back in the darkness, his eyes open and his heart thudding in his chest.
Through the long night, he went over and over Laura’s story. Laura did what she had to do, a quality Owen respected and loved in her. She hadn’t hesitated to lie to get her divorce. She wouldn’t hesitate to tell the truth to keep her child. And whatever decision she came to about Peter’s custody rights, Owen knew it would be the right one. She was a strong woman, extremely capable of making decisions, willing to travel a rough road if that’s what it took to do the right thing.
His lady was also hurt and vulnerable—he was just beginning to understand how much. She’d built a mountain between herself and intimacy…his lady who smelled like hyacinths, who had a terrible pride about facing problems alone, who’d brought warmth and laughter to his life without even trying.
He was in love with her. In his head, he knew Laura had to be the one to tear down that mountain. In his heart, he wanted to do it for her. Either way, he knew he had to tread carefully.
Laura woke with a start. Sunlight was streaming over her bed as if it were midmorning. A glance at the clock confirmed it was nearly eight o’clock, and a glance at the dented pillow next to her confirmed that she hadn’t slept alone.
This just wasn’t possible. Mari should have been starving two hours earlier, and as for Owen—he couldn’t possibly have spent the night, because she wouldn’t have let him. Except that snapshot memories darted through her mind like the click of a camera. Quick images of telling him her whole life story, then of Owen bringing the baby to nurse in the middle of the night. Of falling asleep and finding the baby gone. Of reaching out in the wee hours of the morning, of being enfolded in warm, strong arms, of feeling his palm cup her breast, of feeling his thighs spooned against hers… Cheeks flushed, she bolted from the bed, whipped on an ivory cotton sundress and hurried down the hall.
The baby’s room was empty. So was the bathroom. So were the hall, stairs, living room, kitchen… Heart thudding, she threw open the back door, and abruptly collapsed in relief against the doorjamb.
Owen was stretched out on a chaise lounge on the deck, barefoot. The baby was lying on her back on his stomach. Both appeared to be reading the business section of the newspaper, and Owen had a cup of coffee next to him. “Morning, lazybones.”
So bright, so innocuously cheerful. Laura was highly tempted to pick him up and throw him into the nearest body of water—but he was a little heavy, and there wasn’t a body of water handy. And unfortunately, at that exact moment, she had the terrible feeling that her heart was already dangerously attached to the man. Partly because of the way Mari looked in his arms. And the way he parted his hair. And his nose. Laura. She tried to make her voice sound lethally polite. “I don’t believe it’s this late.” Or that you’re still here was understood.
Owen’s eyes took a lazy path from her bare feet to the soft ivory sundress to the tousled hair curling on her shoulders. En route, he noted without surprise the fire in her turquoise eyes. He’d known the peaceful interlude couldn’t last. Sleeping, Laura had proved wonderfully moldable, curling around him like a temptress. He’d known better than to expect such pliability once she woke.
Folding the paper, he stood up, swinging the baby to his shoulder. “I’ll make breakfast while you feed her.”
“No,” Laura said swiftly. “I’ll feed her, then make breakfast. You—sit.”
The man didn’t have an ounce of obedience in him. By the time she’d nursed Mari, brushed her teeth and restored a little order to her hair, Owen was humming over a frying pan of scrambled eggs. One would think nothing had happened the night before. One would think that he hadn’t spent the night in her bed, that Peter had never been there, that Owen hadn’t very clearly been told she wasn’t in the market for a man in her kitchen.
“We have something to discuss,” she said firmly as she sat down to an overflowing breakfast plate.
“Shoot.”
“You’re in the habit,” she started tactfully, “of getting your own way.”
“I know.” He sounded apologetic.
“You’re not exactly arrogant, but you’re right on the borderline. I mean, you walk all over people if they let you.”
Owen tried hard to look like an innocent man holding a baby. He nodded. “I’ve been accused of this before.”
“That baby is not going to protect you, Owen.”
“I thought it was worth a try.”
“No. And I did not invite you to spend the night.”
“I know.”
“And if you think I’m incapable of kicking my own ex-husband out of my own house, you’re mistaken.”
“I knew you’d be mad about that,” he agreed, and added mildly, “Want to see a movie tonight?”
“And do what with Mari? No. And don’t stray from the subject.”
“Sorry.”
“You are not sorry about anything.” Laura put down her fork and folded her arms. Getting mad was proving tougher than it should be. For openers, it was difficult to act self-righteous around a man you’d snuggled with all night, and for closers, he clearly wasn’t paying attention. He was chucking Mari under the chin, and the baby was giggling. “Owen.”
His head whipped and he threw her a disarming smile. “I’m listening, honestly.”
“The problem is that you have nothing to do,” she announced severely. “You’re at loose ends, trying to stay away from work for a time. So you saw a lady in a little distress and found yourself a cause. I’ve been thinking about this—”
“Want some coffee?” he interrupted politely.
“No, thank you.” She frowned, distracted, and then picked up the thread again. “I mean, look, Owen. It’s obvious I’m not the kind of woman you’d normally be attracted to.” She motioned to her hair. “Unstyled and uncut, four months now.”
He looked where the sun was gilding a streak of soft hair near her temples.
She motioned to her face. “No makeup.”
He noted the creamy softness of her skin. Just one night of decent sleep had erased the fragile hollows beneath her eyes.
“No style.” She motioned to the simple sundress, then to her stomach. “Paunchy.”
He loved her in ivory and wondered vaguely when she was going to get over her sensitivity about her stomach, which was flatter than most women’s anyway.
“So…” Laura repeated firmly, “you’re not here because you’re attracted to me, Owen. Look, maybe I’ve sent you the wrong signals about needing someone. You have this protective nature—”
“I know you didn’t spend the whole night thinking this stuff up, because you slept like a log,” Owen said mildly. “I really think you need a cup of coffee.”
“I don’t want a cup of coffee.”
“Sure?”
She sighed as he gently put a steaming mug in front of her. Owen studied her, his dark eyes impassive. When she took the first sip, it was his turn.
“You’re right about everything,” he said magnanimously, and watched her eyes blink wide open. “We couldn’t possibly have a case of attraction going for us. I mean, look at me.” He motioned to his thick mane of hair. “I know it looks okay now, but you probably guessed. At sixty-five, the men in our family start going bald.” He motioned to his chin. “My mother calls this a bulldog chin.” He motioned down and down again. “Bony knees. Big feet. Hairy le—”
“Owen.” He was a mean mimic. And she could feel a most irrational smile forming on her lips.
“So you couldn’t possibly be attracted to me
, now, could you, sweet?”
“I didn’t say that,” Laura said abruptly, and then frowned. Owen was…twisting things.
Owen said softly, “Laura, he was one man, a man with a unique set of problems that he tried to lay on you. How long are you going to make yourself pay for his problems? Wake up, honey. I love you, and I think you’re damn close to loving me. And I don’t think it’s caring or loving that you’re afraid of—but the intimate physical side of a relationship. Sex can wait. You’ll trust that it’s right in time.” He glanced around. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“I’ll do the dishes.” Laura leaped to her feet, grabbing the plates. “Owen, you’re wrong. I’m not afraid of…anything. You’re dead wrong. My dad is a geologist; we traveled all over the world. I was never afraid of starting over, making new friends, settling in new places. It took courage to demand a divorce when I was two months pregnant. Moving here, where I knew no one, having the baby alone—no one can accuse me of not having courage!”
Owen rinsed out a cup and set it in the dishwasher, holding Mari at the same time. “You are,” he agreed lightly, “a very courageous lady. Want the margarine in the fridge?”
“No. Yes.” Laura flipped back her hair, feeling thoroughly unnerved. Thoroughly distracted, she rinsed the rest of the dishes and slipped them in the dishwasher. I love you, and I think you’re damn dose to loving me.
Did she? Did she love the man who was busy carrying her baby around, putting the bread in the wrong place and stealing a cookie from the box directly after breakfast? The man who never coated honesty with sugar or champagne? The man she’d trusted enough to tell her story to the night before?
Yes.
And for a time she wanted to just be alone and absorb the reality of loving him. Instead, he was bringing her an egg-caked frying pan to scour and leaning over her while she did it, the baby kicking on his shoulder and his voice as soothing as silk in water. “So we’re just going to spend time together for a while. No-pressure time, okay?”
“No.” She attacked the pan with a vengeance.
“I always leave the egg pan on the counter to soak.”
Sweets to the Sweet Page 8
