All That Glitters

by Diana Palmer

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CURRY WAS PROMPT. He called for Ivory at her apartment exactly at six. He hesitated in the doorway when she opened the door, stunned by the picture she made.

  “It’s the model I made for the new evening collection of suits,” she said breathlessly. “Do you mind? If you’d rather I wore something else...”

  “Wear it,” he said huskily. “You take my breath away!”

  She beamed. “Thank you.”

  “I won’t have to tell my mother why you were hired,” he added as he waited for her to get her purse and the new black silk jacket she’d splurged on at Saks Fifth Avenue. “She’ll see for herself.”

  “I’m glad you like it. It did make up well, didn’t it?” she asked, checking her seams.

  “The fit is perfect.”

  She locked the door and turned to him with her silk jacket on her arm. He took it from her and slowly, gently, draped it around her. His face was solemn as he looked down at her, his gaze lingering on the deep-neck of the jacket where the soft rise of her breasts was just visible.

  “What are you thinking?” she ventured. “Or should I ask?”

  His expression was complex as he looked into her eyes. His fingers stroked on the coat. “You’re very young.”

  She smiled. “Is that all?”

  “We’re almost a generation apart.”

  “And what a gorgeous old man you are,” she teased breathlessly, going on tiptoe to brush her lips against his chin. “Tall and sexy and beautiful to look at.”

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders over the coat. “I’m serious.”

  “I won’t let you be serious,” she countered. “I love you. Love doesn’t count gray hairs or wrinkles or imperfections. It doesn’t even see them!”

  “That isn’t realistic.”

  “Have you noticed that my nose is crooked and that one of my earlobes is lower than the other?” she challenged.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “No.”

  “See?” she replied, satisfied.

  “And what does that mean?”

  Her eyes adored him. “That you love me, of course.”

  “Ah, is that it!”

  She slid under one of his long arms and pressed close. “I’m nervous about meeting your mother. Maybe she won’t like me. You said she thought I might be a gold digger.”

  He held her closer as they walked toward the staircase. “I calmed her fears about that. She’ll adore you,” he promised.

  Mrs. Kells was lying in a hospital bed in her luxurious bedroom. She resembled Curry, but she was drawn and thin and pale, and her thin hair had gone almost completely gray from the devastation of her illness. A tube ran from her nostrils to an oxygen tank. It was a stark reminder of the reality of her condition.

  Her black eyes were alive in her face, though, when Curry presented Ivory to her. They were curious eyes, sharp and hard and perceptive. They didn’t miss a thing. Ivory felt her heart stop at their keen appraisal. But after Teresa Kells had given the younger woman a long, hard scrutiny, those dark eyes softened as if by magic.

  “No,” she said in a strong, if hoarse, voice. “No, you’re not what I thought.” She held out her hand, and Ivory took it, holding it firmly. “You’re Ivory, yes?”

  “Yes. And you’re Mama.”

  Teresa Kells laughed hoarsely, pausing to cough with a jerky, racking motion that manifested itself as pain in her drawn face. She waved away the nurse and lay back against her pillows, adjusting the oxygen back into place while still clutching Ivory’s hand in hers.

  “It’s part of the illness, this cough,” she said. “I don’t breathe so well these days. So we can’t talk long.”

  “I know,” Ivory said gently. She sat down on the bed beside the older woman. Probably the nurse wouldn’t like it, but she didn’t care. She knew about Mama Kells from Curry. This woman had given all she had, all she was, to the comfort of others. It inspired Ivory to know that such women existed. Her own mother had been nothing but a torment, a cross to bear, since Ivory’s earliest memories.

  “This suit, you designed it?” Teresa asked, touching the crepe material of the skirt lightly.

  “Yes. Do you like it?”

  “It’s lovely. I’d like one of my own.”

  “Done!” Ivory said, smiling. “When would you like it?”

  Mama Kells searched the young, kind face. “Oh, my dear,” she said gently, “if only I’d known you sooner.” She patted the hand resting on the cover. Her eyes closed. “So many things in life come too late.” There was a painful shallow breath and then another before her eyes opened again. “You love my son?”

  Ivory glanced at Curry. He wore the smile of a man who knows how deeply he is loved. “Oh, yes,” she said huskily. “With all my heart. And then some.”

  Teresa nodded. “Then explain to him that it’s not dangerous to make babies,” she whispered. “He’s afraid of it, because his first wife died in labor.”

  “I know. He told me. But he’s not afraid of it anymore,” she added with a smile.

  “He told you?” Teresa looked at her son and they exchanged quiet glances. “Then he must truly love you,” she said. “Because this he has never talked about.”

  “I like children,” Ivory told the older woman. “I was an only child.”

  “Curry told me,” Teresa said heavily. “And that you were a rich girl. You do not mind that we come from such poor stock?” she added with great pride.

  “Of course not!” Ivory felt ashamed. She wanted to blurt out the truth to Curry’s mother, to bare all her hurts and anguish to this loving woman. Teresa was the sort of person who would embrace a broken world without censure or complaint. Ivory was hungry for that kind of unconditional love. She’d never known it. Quick tears sprang to her eyes, and she ducked her head to hide them.

  “Ah, you feel sorry for us,” Teresa assumed, patting the slender hand again. “There is no need. See what my son has done with his Latin pride. And my daughter, another success. Poverty is not always a handicap, my girl. Sometimes it is the thorn that causes the foot to lift higher on the ladder.”

  “Why, what a unique way to put it,” Ivory said, impressed.

  “Mama is full of these expressions,” Curry teased. “She always has the last word.”

  “And with you, I needed to have it!” She waved a finger at him. “He was always impetuous, impulsive, mercurial. Jumping to conclusions, losing his temper and always regretting his outbursts when it was too late to recall them. You be careful,” she warned him. “That quick temper may be a liability to you one day.”

  “Who did I get it from, huh?” he tossed back at her.

  “No fighting,” Ivory said, looking from one to the other. “Time out.”

  “A peacemaker you bring me!” Mama groaned. Then she smiled. “I have what I wished for. Now I can see what she is. Take her away to someplace more cheerful than this and buy her a nice supper,” she told her son as she slid down to a more comfortable position amid the pillows that had propped her up. “I will sleep now.”

  The nurse came forward to check her vital signs.

  Curry frowned, but the nurse nodded. “She drifts off more easily now, because of the narcotic,” she explained. “It keeps her comfortable. There’s very little pain right now.”

  “But that will change,” Curry said flatly.

  The nurse grimaced. “It’s best not to think ahead.”

  “Has my sister been here yet?”

  “She couldn’t come right away because she and her husband had to attend a banquet. She said that she’d check on your mother after dinner, that she was sorry to have missed meeting Ivory and that she’ll see you Saturday night.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. You know how to reach me if you need to?”

  “Yes. Have a nice evening.”


  “You, too.”

  He took Ivory’s hand and led her through the luxurious penthouse apartment to the elevator. He was quiet all the way down, remote and thoughtful.

  “You could take me home, if you’d rather be alone,” she offered when they reached the bottom floor.

  He turned and looked at her, slowly and covetously. “She’s dying.”

  “Yes. I know. I’m sorry.”

  He moved a step closer. The doors were still closed and he pushed the button that held them that way. He didn’t touch her, but he came close enough that she could feel the warm threat of his body, catch the clean scent of it as she breathed quickly.

  “Stay with me tonight,” he said quietly. He held up a hand when she started to speak, and shook his head. “No. It isn’t sex I want.” He hesitated. “I want you in my arms all night.”

  She reached out and caught his lean hand in hers. “I think I can manage that.”

  He searched her soft eyes. “You liked my mama.”

  She smiled. “Yes. She’s one of those special people who give more than they take.” Her face tightened. “Do you know how very rare they are?” she added, thinking about her own background.

  His hand closed around hers. “I have some idea. You had everything, all the advantages—but I don’t think you had a lot of love, did you?”

  She grimaced. “Not a lot, no. But, then, you can’t miss what you’ve never had, can you?”

  He drew her closer. “You have it now, don’t you?”

  She breathed in the warm, clean scent of him and felt life surging through her. She nodded. “And so do you.”

  He smiled back. “And so do I.”

  They were both tired. The demands of the week had been powerful, and Curry had the added trauma of his mother’s deteriorating condition. They had one drink and then he undressed her lazily, tenderly, and put her to bed. He turned off the lights and joined her, drawing her into the curve of his body with no sexual message at all. She felt the sadness in him and wrapped him up tight in her arms.

  “I’m sorry,” she said against his hair-roughened chest. “I’m so sorry.”

  He drew a long breath. “Oh, querida, what a hard thing it is to have to let go of people we love.”

  She held him tighter. “I’ll be here. You won’t be alone.”

  He groaned softly and smoothed her hair. “Neither will you,” he said solemnly. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll love you.”

  The red satin of the sheets was soft against her bare skin as she awoke to unfamiliar sounds and smells. Her pale eyes opened and when she saw the satin she laughed.

  He saw her exploring glance and smiled wickedly. He was fully dressed, wearing a pin-striped suit and a tie. His glance slid over her body where her breasts and part of one long leg peered out from the lush red of the fabric.

  “I was going to have a bolt of that to drape you in,” he murmured sensuously. “But I thought the sheets would be better. Like them?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “But they’re wicked.”

  “So they are. White the first time, red the second,” he chuckled. “Next time, I’ll buy sapphire.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love the way you look nude against those colors,” he said quietly. “And I love the way satin feels next to your skin when I make love to you.”

  She stretched luxuriously, enjoying the way he watched her. She lifted one leg and eased the satin away. Her eyes made him a blatant invitation.

  “No,” he whispered, bending to kiss her parted lips gently. “Not this morning.”

  “Why?” she whispered back.

  He loosened her clinging arms. “Because I don’t have anything to use, and I don’t want to make you pregnant just yet.”

  She searched his face slowly. “It’s all right, you know. I’m on the pill.”

  He scowled. “Why?”

  She grinned. “You look jealous.”

  He hesitated. Then he laughed self-consciously. “Why?”

  “Because I kept hoping that you’d come back after that night,” she said honestly. “But you didn’t.” She drew the satin across her waist and looked up at him. “You were so adamant about not making me pregnant, and I didn’t want you to have to use something,” she murmured.

  He sat down beside her on the bed, propping his weight on his hand beside her head. “Why?”

  She looked up into his dark eye and blushed.

  “So,” he mused, reading the look accurately. “You wanted to get closer to me than you could that night, yes?”

  “Yes,” she whispered huskily. “So close that you could feel me in every cell...!”

  His mouth ground into hers. He groaned hoarsely as she lifted to him. His hands clamped onto her hips and he rolled with her, so that she was under him, feeling an arousal that was sudden enough to take his breath away.

  He nibbled ardently at her mouth while he fought buttons and zippers, cursing until he managed to free himself enough to join his body to hers.

  She whimpered at the unexpected intimacy, but she welcomed it ardently, hungry for him, oblivious to everything except the quick, hard thrust of his body.

  She cried out even as he did, frantic minutes later, feeling his powerful body ripple convulsively over her.

  They clung to each other as they waited for the madness to drain out of them. He was still wearing his suit and shoes, having only rearranged his clothing instead of removing it.

  “Why, you lecher,” she whispered into his mouth. “You ravished me!”

  “It was mutual,” he whispered back. “No, you don’t,” he protested when she started to move. “Stay right there.”

  “But we’re...” she began.

  “Umm. Yes. Aren’t we?” He lifted his head and looked into her eyes and deliberately shifted his hips. She shivered. He did it again. She felt the slow, sweet change of his body with fascination that was reflected in her eyes.

  “You can’t do that,” she said. “I read it in a book.”

  “Change authors.” He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. “Now,” he said huskily. “You do it this time.”

  She flushed. “I don’t know how,” she faltered.

  “It’s easy. Here. Like this.” He taught her, laughing at her first attempts until she was able to master her inhibitions and the awkwardness of her own body. “You still make love like a virgin,” he teased.

  “Well, I don’t feel like one,” she said, amazed that they could talk with such intimacy, that they could laugh and play like this.

  He smiled sensuously. His hands moved her hips against his and he groaned. “Like that, querida. Yes. That’s it.”

  “You aren’t even undressed,” she said unsteadily. It was even more erotic because he wasn’t. He was almost fully dressed, and she was nude. The feel of the fabric of his suit against her skin was arousing.

  His gaze went from her belly to her high, firm breasts with their hard pink tips, to the frantic pulse in her throat and farther up, to her swollen lips and flushed face and passion-glazed eyes. Against the soft flesh of her hips, his lean, dark hands looked exotic as he helped her achieve the necessary rhythm for satisfaction.

  He whispered something rough as his body lifted under her. He was breathing like a distance runner, his powerful hands gripping her bruisingly. “Oh...God...do it...now! Now!” he groaned in anguish. “Querida, help me...!” Through taut lips, he told her how, told her when.

  She obeyed him and then hung on the edge of ecstasy watching his proud head go back and his neck arch as he cried out. She laughed with delight at his momentary submission to her, but before she could enjoy it entirely, the culmination bit into her own body and she cried out.

  “You laughed,” he accused as he whipped her onto her back and increased the waves of pleasure almost to unconscio
usness. “Laugh now,” he dared through his own satisfaction. “Laugh. Are you laughing? Can you laugh?” He moved like a sorcerer, draining the last tiny breath of pleasure from her in minutes that seemed unending. She felt his gaze on her, but she was as helpless now as he had been, powerless, his object, his toy. She arched her body to him in submission, accepting his invasion of it, his conquest, his mastery with little gasps that took her last strength and left her exhausted.

  When her eyes opened again, she was trembling faintly from the exertion and he was standing over her, fully dressed again, with an expression on his dark face that made her heart almost burst with feeling.

  “Arrogant beast!” she managed.

  He smiled with pure satanic pleasure. “You’d make a stone statue arrogant. God, I love to watch you! You make me feel like a conqueror, as if you could die of the pleasure I give you.”

  She swallowed with difficulty. Her body felt like one long ache. “I thought I had, for a minute. It wasn’t like that before.”

  “For me, either,” he confessed solemnly, letting his eye search over her. There were faint marks on her breasts and her belly, even on her thighs, and his chin lifted with a pride he couldn’t help feeling. Badges of honor. She’d gone with him every step of the way. He knew that if he’d been as nude as she, there would have been matching marks on his back, on his hips and thighs. They were violent together in passion. She was more than his match.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered huskily.

  He frowned. “For what?”

  “That I’m taking the pill,” she said, meeting his gaze. “You would have made me pregnant if I hadn’t been.”

  His jaw grew firm. “I know.”

  Her lips parted. “I want a baby,” she whispered.

  “I do, too, with you—never with anyone else, not since the first one that cost me my wife.” He traced her with quiet possession. “I’m not afraid of it anymore. But you want a career first, remember?” he said, disoriented by the way she looked at him, even by his own response to her. Their first loving had been nothing like this maelstrom of emotion and satiation.