Delinsky, Barbara

by The Stud

  "You touched. "

  "And enjoyed. " He gave her small shake. "So there's no cause for mortification. You should be proud, Jenna. What we did last night felt really good!"

  She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he wasn't just saying that to keep her spirits up. He was capable of it, she knew. She had seen the way he had buoyed Caroline when, soon after her wedding, she was convinced that her marriage was on the rocks. Ironic, given that he was against marriage for himself, but he had argued a wonderful case for patience, understanding and compromise. Caroline had listened and stuck with it Her marriage had survived that rocky start and grown strong.

  Oh, yes, Spencer could be convincing. Jenna wanted to believe every last word he said. Somehow, though, she didn't think it would be wise. A woman could become addicted to praise like that, and Spencer would soon be gone.

  With that in mind, she said, "I'm really grateful for all you're doing, Spencer. I hope you know how much. My baby is going to be so wonderful, and I have you to thank. "

  His blue eyes scolded her for trying to change the subject. "You can thank me by relaxing when I'm around. You can also thank me by looking a little messy once in a while. You didn't have to get all spiffed up. "

  "I'm not all spiffed up. "

  He looked her over. "Silk blouse? Hair in a twist? Makeup?" He challenged her with an arched brow. "On a Sunday morning?"

  She was silent in her guilt.

  "I know what you're doing, Jenna. You're trying to keep this thing businesslike, but some things don't have anything to do with business, and this is one. Sure, what we're doing is unconventional. It's an arrangement something we agreed to for a specific purpose, but that doesn't mean it has to be cold or matter-of-fact You can't be detached when it comes to something like this. There are feelings and emotions involved. " He gave her another gentle shake. "I won't have you stifling them, do you hear?"

  "I can't help but hear, " she said softly.

  "But will you listen?"

  "I'll try. "

  He stared at her for another minute before raising his hands in concession. "Okay. That sounds okay. "

  She hadn't expected him to let her off the hook so easily. The fact that he had, gave her a boost. "So what do you want for breakfast?"

  Without a moment's thought, he reeled off, "One omelet loaded, plus a bagel, but no pancakes, and I can help make the omelet. I've been cooking for myself for years. "

  She wasn't surprised. Spencer was the most independent man she knew. "That may be, but you're in my house, as my guest, doing me a monumental favor. You wouldn't let me pay for dinner last night. The least I can do is to make you breakfast. Besides, if you don't let me do it, you'll never know what kind of a cook I'll be for your child. "

  She knew she'd made her point when he raised his hands again, this time in surrender. "Make me breakfast. I'll take a shower while you do. As soon as I eat, I have to work. "

  Jenna wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it certainly wasn't the doggedness with which Spencer sat in her office and worked on his book. She had thought he'd take breaks. She had thought he'd keep tabs on what she was doing. She had thought he would pace the floor, brooding over one passage or another. But he sat still, pencil in hand, barely moving from his chair all morning.

  At first, she sat on the back patio reading the Sunday paper, expecting him to join her at any minute. She made sure that her blouse didn't bunch at the waist, that she wasn't caught reading the funnies, that her legs were gracefully arranged. When minutes became hours and she realized her efforts were wasted, she began doing the things she would normally do on a Sunday. She changed the sheets and put the old ones in the wash. She went through her closet for clothes to be dropped off at the dry cleaner the next day. She caught up on personal correspondence. She called her marketing director to discuss an upcoming advertising program.

  She waited for Spencer to emerge at lunchtime. When he didn't, she brought him a large turkey sandwich and a soda. He finished both in record time, refused seconds, and left the office only long enough to use the bathroom before going back to work.

  He did take time off for dinner, but not until eight o'clock that night and then only for pizza in the kitchen. Jenna was oddly disappointed. She had wanted to cook, but he argued that he was too preoccupied to appreciate the effort and that pizza would do just fine. So she called in an order and brought it home, then, while he ate, asked questions about his book. It was about a trek he had made through the rain forests of the Amazon in search of a tribe of Indians that was reportedly using medicinal plants to cure certain cancers. While the efficacy of those plants had yet to be proven, the core of Spencer's story consisted of the Indians' way of life.

  "When can I read it?" Jenna asked. His enthusiasm, so rich in his tone and expression, was contagious.

  "When it's published next spring. "

  "Not before?"

  He shook his head. "No one reads it before, except my editor. " He made a face. "Not that he's ever gonna like this one. " He carried his plate to the sink. "I have a feeling he'll fight me all the way. He was looking for a treasure hunt. I gave him an anthropological study. He can say he doesn't like the way the story's organized, but that's just an excuse. "

  "What does he have against an anthropological study?"

  "It's not a treasure hunt. "

  "But it could be fascinating. "

  "It is fascinating—" Spencer snorted "—but to convince him of that is something else. " He added her plate to the dishwasher and closed the door. "Okay, I'm back to work. "

  "You've never done an anthropological study before, " Jenna said, turning to let her voice follow him as he left the room.

  "Yeah, well, it's time, " he called back before he disappeared from sight.

  She wanted to ask him more, but the office swallowed him up. So she brought him coffee and kept his cup refilled, then baked brownies and offered him those. By eleven, realizing that there wasn't much more she could do for him, she decided to go to bed. Going to the office door, she waited until he reached a break point and looked up. "I think I'll turn in. Should I put on a fresh pot of coffee?"

  He sat back in his chair and regarded her with tired eyes. "Nah. I've had enough to keep me up for a while. What time do you leave tomorrow?"

  "Seven-fifteen. I have an appointment at eight. Will you be working here all day?"

  With a despairing glance at the papers that covered the desk in clumps, he nodded. "When will you be back?"

  A buzzing started in the pit of her stomach. Tomorrow night was the night. Again. "Five-thirty. Would you like to eat in or out?"

  "Out. I'll be stir-crazy by then. But I don't want to bump into my parents or Caroline—" He interrupted himself to ask, "Does Caroline know I'm here?"

  "I didn't tell her. I thought you would if you wanted to. "

  "That would have made you more uncomfortable. Has she asked you what I decided to do?"

  "Yes, but I told her we were still discussing it. "

  "Once you're pregnant, will you tell her the truth?"

  "I'm not sure, " Jenna said, then added softly, "probably not. That might be easier all the way around. " She went on before he could comment. "So where would you like to go to dinner?"

  "Someplace where we won't bump into anyone who will want to talk for three hours. And I don't want to dress up. Any suggestions?"

  "I'll think of a place, " she promised, and raised a casual hand. "'Night. " She slipped away from the door.

  "Jenna?" She leaned back in to find his eyes suddenly less tired-looking than they had been moments earlier. They were warmer, more direct and penetrating. They sent an unmistakable message, which he followed up with "I'll look forward to it"

  Keeping her poise, she simply nodded and left, but she thought about his words all the way back to her room. She thought of them later, when she lay in bed ignoring the book on her lap. They were the last things she thought about before she fell asleep and the first t
hings she thought about when she woke up in the morning. When her thermometer told her that she was ovulating, the words took on a more practical meaning. Even that, though, she pushed from her mind when she set off for work.

  She was busy all morning, going from one meeting to the next. When she had a break at noontime, she found herself wondering how Spencer was doing. The telephone beckoned, but she resisted. Theirs was a business relationship, she reminded herself, and she didn't call business associates to see if they'd eaten lunch.

  So she didn't call Spencer, but went back to work, and for a while, she successfully immersed herself in studying the company's latest spreadsheets. As the afternoon wore on, however, her mind began to wander, and always in the same direction. She thought of Spencer coming to her again, of his touching her, of the heat of his skin and the heaviness of his sex. She grew warm inside, then trembly. She actually left the office early and drove around for an hour to relax before going home.

  Spencer was sound asleep when she arrived. After searching the house for him, she found him on the patio, sprawled facedown on the chaise longue. His bare feet hung over the end. One arm was tucked under him, the other bent to the flagstone, long fingers loosely splayed. She debated waking him, but didn't have the heart. So she called the restaurant—a dark, quiet place in Providence where neither of them would have been recognized—and canceled their reservations. Then she changed into a casual sun dress and, leaving a note on the counter lest he wake up while she was gone, went to the local market for a pound of fresh shrimp.

  Spencer was still sleeping when she returned, which pleased her tremendously. She liked the idea that he was getting the rest that he needed. She also liked the idea of making dinner, which was amusing in that she was a businesswoman, not a cook—but understandable given the maternal instincts that had taken her over in recent days. Granted, Spencer wasn't a child, but the urge to nurture was there. She looked on what she was doing as practice.

  With three separate cookbooks open on the counter, she made shrimp curry, saffron rice and a cucumber salad. When Spencer slept on, she took out a fourth cookbook and whipped up a cold strawberry soup, and when she still had time to spare, she made an apple crunch for dessert. By then the sun had set, and she was wondering whether he was all right. So she went out to the darkened patio and knelt beside him. Only one eye was in sight, and it was closed. The scar running along his jaw was masked by the night and less threatening than usual. In fact, the whole of him looked less threatening than usual. He actually looked vulnerable.

  Not sure whether she liked the vulnerable Spencer over the one who was in full command, she finger-combed the hair from his brow and rested a hand on his back. His skin was warm through his T-shirt, his muscles firm to the touch. "Spencer?" she called softly. "Spencer?"

  He took a deep breath, then seemed to settle into sleep again.

  She gave him a tiny shake. "Spencer?"

  "Mmm. "

  She waited to see if he would rouse. Since he clearly wasn't unconscious, if he wanted to sleep longer, she couldn't deny him. Dinner would wait.

  She was about to stand, when he took another deep breath, squeezed his eye shut, then opened it a crack. His gaze hit her shoulder and stayed there for as long as it took him to realize what he was looking at. Then it lifted slowly to her face.

  He looked dazed. She couldn't help but smile. "I was beginning to think you'd contracted sleeping sickness in the jungle. "

  "Um-hum, " he said, without moving his mouth.

  "Were you working all day?"

  "Umm. "

  "And last night?"

  "Umm. "

  "Did you finish the revisions?"

  "Almost. " He yawned and shifted his head so that he could see her with both eyes. Pulling his free hand from the flagstone, he tucked it under his body. "What time is it?"

  "Nearly nine. "

  He grunted. "You should have woken me sooner. "

  "You were tired. "

  "We were supposed to go to dinner. "

  "That's okay. We can eat here. I've been cooking—"

  "After working all day?"

  "I'm practicing. I'll have to cook for a baby whether I'm tired or not. Besides, I don't mind cooking. It's a change from my work. Of course, I can't guarantee the results. "

  "That omelet was great. You're a terrific cook. "

  "I'm still a novice. I haven't had much practice. "

  "You didn't do it when you were growing up?"

  "We always had a cook. "

  "Why don't you now?"

  "Because it'd be pretentious. And a waste of money. And unnecessary. I don't eat a whole lot. "

  "Clearly, " he murmured. In the dark, his gaze dropped to her shoulders, then her breasts.

  "I'm not too thin, " she said in self-defense. "If I didn't watch what I eat, I'd get fat. "

  He frowned. "When you were younger, weren't you a little... "

  "Fat?"

  "Not fat. "

  "Chubby, " she put in.

  "Not chubby. Solid. "

  "That's, uh, one way to put it. Our cook was too good. "

  "Made brownies all the time, eh?" he asked.

  She remembered the plate she'd brought to him the night before. When she'd left for work, there had been a few brownies left, but they were gone when she returned. Not that Spencer had to worry about his weight. He was lean but solid, which, on a man, was a wonderful thing.

  "Yes, she made brownies, " Jenna admitted with a sigh, "and lots of other incredibly fattening things. It wasn't until I got into college that I lost weight. By the time I got to graduate school, I was into healthy eating. I had my own apartment then, so it was easy. My tastes were simple. What cooking I did was elementary. It's not much fun cooking for one. " Thinking about the pleasure she'd had earlier that night in the kitchen, she said, "It's more fun cooking for two. " Then she realized that what she'd said could be taken the wrong way, so she added, "God help this baby if it doesn't like haute cuisine. "

  Spencer continued to lie quietly, looking at her.

  With the night muting the electric charge of his eyes, she felt surprisingly comfortable.

  "The baby will like anything you make, " he said.

  "I hope so. "

  "You'll be a good mother. "

  She smiled. "I hope so. "

  The smile was still on her face when his hand came from under him and went to the back of her head. It faded when he tugged out a hairpin. "I like your hair down, " he said in a deep voice as he pulled out a second pin.

  Her pulse picked up. She wanted to tell him to stop, but the words wouldn't come. She wanted to get up and go back to the kitchen, but her legs wouldn't work. One by one, he discarded hairpins until her hair spilled onto her shoulders. He sifted through the waves, working out small tangles, massaging the place on her scalp where the pins had dug in.

  Jenna felt suddenly warmer. "Maybe I should, uh, check on the shrimp. "

  "Don't. I want you, not the shrimp. "

  "Me?" Her heart beat more loudly. "Now?"

  He curved a hand around her neck. "Come here. " A slight pressure knocked her off balance. Taking immediate advantage of that, he pulled her forward, and though she put out a hand to steady herself, before she could do more, she was half under him on the cushion.

  "Spencer... "

  He touched her lips. "Shh. " He slid his palm down her throat to the neckline of her dress. "You look sexy. "

  "I didn't intend that, " she said, then sucked in a breath when he cupped her breast. "Spencer—"

  "It's okay, honey, it's okay. " He kneaded her right through her sun dress in a way that sent hot flashes through her. She made a small sound when he brushed her beaded nipple with a thumb. "That feels good, does it?"

  It felt incredibly good. "We can't"

  "Can't what?"

  She struggled to think. He had shifted to her other breast. After delineating its shape, he opened his hand wide and put his little finger and thumb to
both nipples at once. She was robbed of all but the smallest fragment of breath and could only manage a faint "Can't do this here. "

  "Sure, we can. No one'll see. You own everything for acres around. "

  "But on the patio?" she cried on a pleading note, because his hand was moving down her body now, leaving fire in its wake. "It's not a bed. "

  He reached under her dress. "I never make love in the same place twice. Didn't I tell you that?"

  "No. " She nearly choked on a breath when he touched her where she was hot and wet. "Spencer!"

  He grinned. All she could see of it was the gleam of his teeth, it was that dark, but she heard it clear as day in his whisper, and she knew its cause. "Oh, yes, you want me. "

  "I want a baby. "

  "Right now you want me. " His hand left her to deal with his shorts. "The chemistry is right. You can't deny it. "

  "I didn't plan this. "

  "Some of the best things are unplanned. " Having freed himself, he tugged at her panties. "Lift up. "

  She lifted. "I'm not comfortable doing this here. "

  "You will be when you look back on it. " He tossed the panties aside and came down between her legs. Slipping his hands under her bottom, he pulled her to him. "When you have your baby, you'll think back to this and laugh. "

  "I'll think back and blush—Spencer!"

  "There we go. Deep inside. " He made a guttural sound that was halfway between a grunt and a hum. "Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, does that feel good. "

  "I don't believe this. "

  "Wrap your legs around me, honey. There, ohh, there, isn't that better?"

  "On the patio. "

  "I'm not sure how slow I can go. Tell me if I hurt you, okay, sweetheart?"

  Jenna didn't hear him at first. Her insides were aflame with a most intense pleasure. She held him tightly with her thighs, then with her arms when she felt she'd go up in smoke.

  "You with me?" he asked in a thick rumble that was made ragged by the rhythmic movement of his hips.

  Her voice was a wisp. "I shouldn't be. "

  "But you are. Jeez, what was that?"

  "What?"

  "You did something inside. "

  She clenched her muscles again. "This?"