by Jenny Lykins
"Katie, sweetheart, go with Mamie and get ready for bed. She has your supper in your room."
Katie's little eyelids were already at half-mast and falling fast. Mamie scooped her into her massive arms and puffed up the stairs, leaving Hunter alone with his breath-taking wife.
He took his foot off the bottom step to relieve the painful stance Marin's stunning presence had created. Dear God, she was beautiful. He ached to hold her, to feel her arms welcoming him to her. How long had it been? It seemed like years. How much longer would it be before he would stop hearing her call out another man's name?
Too long.
She gave him a lazy, heated stare before she swept passed him on her way to the dining room. He watched her skirts swish behind her, then she turned and looked at him with eyes the color of dark honey.
"Should we wait for you, Hunter?" Her voice was low and slightly breathless. A bolt of heat shot to the center of his being and tightened his groin. She had to know what she was doing to him.
"Yes." He fought the raspiness in his voice. "I won't be much longer."
She continued to stare at him, hot and unblinking, as her breasts rose and fell slowly.
"I hope not. I'm..." she slide her glance to the evidence of the effect she was having on him, "...very hungry."
She turned and opened the pocket doors to the dining room, stepped through and slid them shut behind her.
Hunter stood at the foot of the stairs and scrubbed a hand across his face. She wasn't playing fair.
He tried to block her image from his mind while he dragged himself to their room, and while he baptized his head and shoulders with an entire pitcher of cold water. Her scented bath still filled the tub in the dressing room and an occasional whiff of gardenia heated his blood and intensified his ache. When he caught himself breathing deeply, in search of her scent, he stormed across the room and slammed the dressing room door.
Enough was enough. He shoved his arms into a clean white shirt and refused to think about how soft and fragile his wife had looked on the stairs. He buttoned on a collar and tied a royal blue tie and refused to think about how good she smelled. He slid into a blue waistcoat and yanked on his gray jacket and refused to think of that hot, promising look she'd given him before entering the dining room. When he stomped down the stairs he decided he would not even look at her during dinner.
She was the first thing he saw when he slammed the pocket doors back into the wall.
The soft glow of the candles lent her creamy skin a delicate peach hue. Her rich, dark curls hung free save for the sides, which were caught up loosely at her temples. Gleaming, huge curls caressed her silky shoulders and one long, wispy curl laid itself enticingly across her breast. Though her gown was formal, her hair was so casual as to be socially unacceptable.
Hunter found the combination to be almost too erotic to bear.
He realized he'd been standing in the doorway for several seconds, staring at his wife and creating a most embarrassing position for himself. Lucille watched him with pursed lips but remained silent. Marin raised long, black lashes and gazed at him with exaggerated innocence. He strode to the end of the table and dropped into his chair, threw his napkin in his lap, picked up the nearest bowl and began filling his plate with whatever substance was in the bowl.
He kept his eyes on his plate, his mother, Izzy. He forced polite responses to any conversation directed to him and felt he did an admirable job of creating an air of insouciance. He consumed every bite of his meal, though he couldn't have named a single item he'd eaten. Quite possibly it had been chicken, but it had all tasted like sawdust.
He was aware of Lucille eying him with speculation. She gave Marin her fair share of attention, too, yet she amazed him by not commenting. After dabbing his lips with his napkin, he threw the linen square onto his plate and was about to make his escape when Izzy reentered the dining room with dessert.
His first instinct was to decline, but he made the mistake of looking at Marin. She still exuded that controlled, exaggerated innocence as Izzy placed before them huge, crystal goblets filled with some frothy pink concoction topped with stemmed cherries. Marin seemed so smugly confident that she was besting him, he decided to stay and prove her wrong.
He popped the first pitted cherry into his mouth and pulled off the stem. The creamy mousse coating the fruit tasted cool and delicious. The simple fact that the dessert did not have the consistency of sawdust made him the tiniest bit cocky. He cast a glance at Marin.
She concentrated on lifting one pink-coated cherry by its stem and drawing it lazily into her mouth. Her lips parted slightly as she captured it between white, even teeth. He watched as her lips closed when she pulled off the stem, then chewed the tiny fruit as if it were the rarest of delicacies.
She lifted the second cherry and lowered it onto her tongue. Her eyes and lips closed at the same time. As she withdrew the stem he could almost feel her roll the cherry across her tongue; feel her savor the taste and the shape and the texture.
When she picked up the last of the fruit, she raised her amber eyes to his for the first time. With deliberate slowness she dipped the garnish into the frothy mousse. Without taking her gaze from his she pulled the cherry between her lips and gently licked away the pink foam.
He watched her, unblinking, never realizing how long he'd stared until his eyes began to burn. When he finally blinked, he realized how easily she'd pulled him into her seductive little scene. Anger quickened his already racing heart. He shifted his gaze to Lucille, who'd watched the entire episode with her spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. When he realized that he, too, sat with a spoon forgotten in mid air, he placed it with studied care back on a plate, then rose from his chair.
"You'll excuse me," he said to no one in particular. He refused to look at Marin again. His gaze glanced over his mother, who had not moved a muscle except for her eyes.
With as much dignity as he could muster after nearly salivating over his wife's little display, he clenched his jaw and walked from the room.
*******
He walked the bluffs, a restlessness in him churning up the fires of passion he had fought to stamp out. He would not give in to her, by God. He would prove to her that he was immune to her games.
As he paced he kept one eye on the distant, dim glow from their bedroom window. He lifted the nearly empty bottle of Kentucky whiskey to his lips and enjoyed the smooth burn in his throat while the liquor curled warmly through his veins.
He wished now he'd stopped long enough to grab a full bottle instead of one that was already half gone. He wouldn't mind loosing a few sheets to the wind on this night. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd been drunk, but tonight he would gladly add another.
An image of her dusky tongue licking the foam from those cherries sent him spinning on his heel and pacing north along the river. She had gently sucked that cherry into her soft, moist lips and...
He pulled another long draught of whiskey down his throat and waited for it to reach his brain. His bloodflow was in dire need of redirecting. If he could numb his thoughts...
The dim rectangle of light in his bedroom faded to black. So, she'd already given up waiting for him to come to bed. He'd been determined she would wait all night. Somehow the ease with which she had given up gnawed at him. Had she lost interest in the game? Wasn't he worth waiting for?
He lifted the bottle to his lips but stopped before his first sip. In one flashing movement he hurled the bottle skyward. Its dark shape spun end over end across a silver and black sky. He was on his way back to the house before the splash of water reached his ears.
All the windows were black rectangles against a pearly gray house when he crossed the west lawn. A cloud passed over the moon and darkened the landscape. He tripped over a large, jutting rock and cursed it soundly for being in his path. He cursed the cloud that covered the moon and cursed the woman in whose bed he should be. When the silvery moonlight returned he looked back at his home
glowing black and gray and cursed it too.
A movement upstairs caught his attention. His gaze shifted to find the source, then his breath faltered and desire lodged in his chest.
Marin stood on the upper veranda, the darkened window framing her like a black canvas. The wind molded her robe to her body and lifted yards of pale, gossamer silk to billow around her like a mist off the river. Her waist-length curls tangled wildly with the flowing silk as the moon washed her skin with its colorless light.
He didn't want to breathe. He didn't want to blink. He didn't want to miss one glorious second of her beauty.
Did she know he was there, below her, watching?
He got his answer when she lowered her gaze and looked straight at him. No emotion showed in her eyes. Just long, heated promises.
He stared up at her, willing his blood to cool and failing with each passing second. His throat ached to swallow, his eyes burned to close, until her fingers slowly unbuttoned the edges of her robe and pulled them wide to catch the breeze.
What breath he'd been holding rushed from his lungs. She offered up her magnificent body like a goddess to the wind. The silk billowed around her, caressing her naked flesh as he'd burned to for weeks.
His dry throat worked as he fought to swallow. It seemed all the whiskey he'd consumed slammed at once into his brain and all the blood left his extremities save one, which now swelled in painful reminder. The breeze died and the yards of silk rippled down to settle in draping folds around Marin's body. She continued to gaze at him a moment longer, then turned and stepped into their bedroom.
*******
His first deep breath in what felt like hours brought a dizziness that fanned the flame of his anger. Without benefit of thought he stormed through the front door, the heels of his boots pounding up the stairs to their room.
The door bounced off the wall when he threw it open. She stood beside the window, moonlight glinting off her hair and the yards of silk that only partially covered her.
She watched him, her body motionless but for the uneven rise and fall of her breasts. The silk of her robe quivered against her ivory skin, then fell open even more to tease his senses.
And suddenly, it was more than he could bear.
Rational thought evaporated as he strode across the room. His lips fell on hers, his fingers plunged into her hair with all the anger he'd been stoking for weeks. He took the kiss from her, drew it from her with no thought to her wishes or her will. His tongue sought hers, and sought hers again with every upthrust of his body. His hands wadded the silky fabric, tangled in her hair as his mouth twisted on hers, taking what he'd wanted for so long and what she'd dangled before him. Somehow his clothes fell away and he pressed against her, wanting to pull her soul right into his. When he couldn't get close enough he lifted her angrily and wrapped her legs around his waist. He did it all with anger. In his anger he was safe.
And then they were one, and he drove himself on as he held her, taking desperately what he feared would never again be his. He drew from her recompense for calling another man's name, for giving him reason to doubt her.
For making him wish he were Ryan.
Then in one long, blinding shudder he released back to her all that he had taken, and more.
His ragged breathing slowed as he held her thus, his feet planted firmly to keep his knees from buckling with the experience. He opened his eyes and looked at his wife, knowing he would see only hurt and accusation.
Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, her head thrown back so that the long satin of her curls brushed the tops of his thighs. As if she sensed he watched, she lifted her head and looked at him through half-closed eyes...the look of a woman who had just been thoroughly satisfied.
He hadn't meant to satisfy her. He hadn't meant to give her anything. He'd taken her, viciously and with no regard to her needs.
No doubt, just as she'd planned.
No words passed between them. Just the ageless communication of two lovers who had drained each other dry.
He slid her slowly down the length of his body until her feet touched the floor. With a yank, he pulled together the edges of the robe she still wore, then bent and scooped up his clothes. He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, then turned.
Damn the whiskey. And damn himself for drinking it. It had dulled his judgement and fired his passion. It had dented his will until it brought him to her. And he'd known from his first drink that it would.
"You won," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
*******
Marin watched the door close behind Hunter. It was all she could do not to run after him to apologize for baiting him so.
But she'd wanted what he'd done to her tonight. They'd both needed to purge the ghosts. He'd come to her in anger, fed his passion with his anger, and no doubt believed he'd made love to her with it and because of it. But she'd felt the love, the desperation with which he'd claimed her, and she'd found that to be the most powerful emotion. She'd returned his love with the same, desperate hunger; had taken as much as he, but he had not allowed himself to notice. The exquisite release, when it had come, had nearly left her shattered.
But she had never expected him to cover her body, then walk away from her with disgust in his eyes. "You won," he had said. Did he really believe she looked at him as a prize to win or lose? Could he not see that this was her pitiful attempt to set their lives right?
If she thought he would listen she would go after him, make him see how their lives could be again. But she realized now what she should have seen before. He would have to work this trust thing out alone, in his own good time. And she would have to pray with all her heart that he would someday believe her. In fact, as she stood in the middle of the room, she bowed her head and did just that.
When she raised her head, she gasped and closed her eyes again.
It couldn't be!
She opened her eyes to slits, then widened them to half dollars.
The hospital room surrounded her, not with a hazy, dreamlike quality, but with the solidness of reality. But she was awake! Wasn't she?
Oh, dear God, I'm going crazy!
"No you're not."
Ryan! Oh, thank you, God! Thank you! Her thoughts flew to him. she didn't even try to speak anymore.
He stood beside her bed, the sleeves of his flight suit rolled above his wrists, the small, red silk scarf knotted loosely at his throat.
"Our time is up, Fireball. I can't come back like this again. And you have to make a decision."
I can't do this!
"You have to do it. Your body is weakening every day. The spirit lives on forever, Marin, but the body can't live without the soul. You've been gone from yours too long. Gone even before the accident."
Marin knew he spoke the truth. A part of her had died the day he did.
"Only my body died that day." He'd intercepted her thought. "And the only thing that died in you was trusting in love to bring you happiness." His warm, solid hand slid overtop of hers. "You trusted your parents, your grandparents, your brother. You trusted me with your love, and I left you, too."
Tears sprang to her eyes and burned as they hovered there.
"But we've been given a second chance to be together. All you have to do is trust."
Marin felt all of her losses - all the deaths, all the unbearable pain - well up and slam into her chest like a booted foot. The tears ran off her face to seep into the thin hospital pillow.
Ryan! Ryan! I don't know what to do! I don't know how to do it!
"If you can't trust me, Fireball, can you trust Hunter?"
Her gaze flew to Ryan's. She'd never brought Hunter into this. She'd never mentioned him.
"If you can trust him, sweetheart, if you can find happiness with him, then choose him. Love him with all the passion that you love me."
He stared at her, his eyes filled with peaceful serenity. She could only stare back, the tears a steady stream now through her hair and onto t
he pillow.
Ryan bent low, his warm lips feathered across hers, then she tasted the sweetness of his tongue as he kissed her. His kiss quickened her heart. Her thoughts became a confused jumble. How could she choose between the two men she loved?
"You don't have to choose, sweetheart," he whispered. "Your spirit has already decided."
The room began to darken and Ryan's image began to fade. Panic jolted Marin to the core, but a draining lethargy held her immobile. As the engulfing darkness settled over her she heard the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor falter, then change to one long, steady tone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
She opened her eyes to darkness. With a choked whimper, she searched the column of her neck for signs of a pulse. Only after her fingertips found the regular, rapid throb did she allow herself to relax.
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the black of her surroundings faded to dark gray. She rolled to her side and felt blindly for a match. In the flare of the flame she reached for a candle.
"Are you feeling better?"
She nearly dropped the burning candle at the sound of Hunter's voice.
He rose stiffly from the shadows, looking like hell with dark circles under his eyes and black stubble on his jaw. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen!
"I came back last night to apologize and found you kneeling in the - "
She kicked the covers from her legs and catapulted into his chest. She slid her arms around his neck in a Katie-style death grip and cut off his words with a kiss that rivaled the one he'd given her last night.
He hesitated only moments before his hands encircled her waist, then moved up and down her body as if verifying she was real. The result was like two sticks rubbing together - with every stroke their heat increased.
He held her in the air, almost exactly as he had a few hours earlier, but this time his kisses gentled. He gave as well as took each time their tongues met.
