"What's that got to do with anything? There have been lots of times when we haven't talked for months."
"You know what I mean. It's a shock. You call me up out of nowhere and say you've had a baby and married your sister's ex. It's a lot to take in."
"Well, deal with it. I went through some big changes myself over this."
"No kidding."
"It's the right thing for me. Mira, I love the man."
"Are you working?"
Leave it to Mira, Lacey thought. Mira knew right where to slide in the knife. "I just had a baby, remember?"
"You're not working."
"I'm fixing up a room. For my studio."
"But you're not working."
"I will be. Soon."
Mira demanded, "What does Xavier have to say about this?"
Xavier Hockland was a professional artist, a well-known and highly respected one. His shows always sold out. He worked in oils, for the most part. Like Lacey. And he had been her teacher and mentor until several months before—when he had learned she was pregnant and told her she had to make a choice: her baby or her art.
"Xavier is out of the picture," Lacey said.
"Why?"
"He just is, that's all. I don't want to talk about him."
"Fine. What about Barnaby, then? And Adele?" Barnaby and Adele were also artists, and friends of Lacey's in L.A. Barnaby rented a huge loft downtown, where he was storing a number of Lacey's paintings for her.
"I called them both," Lacey told Mira defiantly, "a couple of days ago. They congratulated me and wished me well."
"They don't know Logan Severance."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Mira was silent, a silence that spoke volumes. After the quiet hummed through the line for several long seconds, she deigned to speak again. "I could become very worried about you, you know?"
Mentally, Lacey counted to ten. Then she suggested, "We'd better talk about you. How's the band doing?"
The band was the twins' passion and had been for over a decade. Mira played lead guitar and Maud played drums. They also had a bass player and a guy on keyboard. But the band really belonged to Mira and Maud. It had gone through a series of name changes over the years. The last Lacey had heard, they were calling it Mirror Image.
"You're switching subjects on me," Mira accused.
"You're right. I am. How's the band doing?"
Mira hesitated, but then let out a big sigh and answered Lacey's question. "We've been playing the Eureka Lounge Friday nights for a couple of months now."
"Hey. Way to go."
"But you know how it is. Maud has her job at the Giant-Value Mart, Sunday through Thursday, as always. Eight to four. And I'm still waiting tables four nights a week."
"What? Is that whining I hear?"
Mira chuckled. "Maybe what I need is a rich husband."
"Was that a dig?"
Mira laughed "Sure sounded like one, didn't it? Do you think I'm just jealous?"
"You? No way. You're not the jealous type."
"God, Lace. I can't believe you married him."
"Well, I did. Get used to it."
"I'm working on it."
They had talked for several minutes more. And when they hung up, it was on a reasonably cordial note. Lacey had called Maud right afterwards, figuring that she might as well get it over with.
Maud took the news in the same manner as her identical twin—only more so. She was shocked. Amazed. Blown away. And not the least bit pleased to learn that one of her best friends had "sold out" and married "Mr. Super-Straight Upwardly Mobile Big Shot M.D."
"He was fine for Jenna," Maud said. "And at least he always treated her with respect. But you know how he's been with you, Lace, all these years. How could you forget? Always after you, always telling you how to live your life, acting as if your career as an artist was just a big waste of time, some foolish, silly dream. How could you have…"
There was more in that vein. Finally, Lacey had been forced to lay down the law.
"He's my husband now, Maud. You are my friend and I'll always love you. But if you keep talking against him, I can't deal with you anymore."
Maud had hung up on her.
And then called back a week later to apologize. They'd talked a couple of times since then. And yesterday, on the spur of the moment, Lacey had invited Maud over for lunch, then called Mira right afterward and asked her to come, too.
As she put the pastrami and roast beef into the meat drawer of the refrigerator, she muttered to herself, "Please. Don't let this visit be a total disaster."
* * *
It wasn't.
There were a number of potentially rocky moments, but Lacey had made up her mind ahead of time not to let the twins get to her.
Of course, they couldn't resist making cracks about the house.
"Straight out of Better Homes and Gardens," Mira said. "Totally not you, Lace."
Lacey had only smiled. "I like it. Jenna did most of it and I love my sister's taste."
"Très weird," said Maud. "Shouldn't you be, like, bothered, just a little, that she was his ex and she did the decorating?"
"Maybe I should. But I'm not."
"And just what does your big sister think of all this, anyway?"
"All what?"
"Come on. You know. You and Dr. Do-Right. Married. With a baby."
"She's happy for us. In fact, she thought I should marry him."
"Too strange."
"And she sent a complete layette for Rosie." The layette had arrived two days after they'd returned to Meadow Valley. Lacey had called and thanked her sister.
Jenna had called twice since then. But Lacey had cut both calls short. Once, because Rosie had demanded attention. And the second time, because Lacey had heard Logan's car pulling up in the driveway. She'd told her sister, "Logan's home. Gotta go."
Jenna had said, "Call me."
And Lacey had promised she'd do just that.
They hadn't spoken since, though, and that had been over three weeks ago.
"Anybody in there?" It was Maud.
Lacey laughed. "Sorry. Just thinking."
Maud grunted. "This is all pretty strange and unusual, if you ask me."
Mira muttered, "Bizarre." Then she shrugged. "But then again, Dr. Do-Right is one good-lookin' dude. And I gotta admit, I can relate to that fridge and the stove. Only the best, huh?"
"Right," Lacey agreed easily. "Only the best."
They did admire her studio, which she had fixed up just as she'd planned, with bare floors and white walls and rice-paper blinds.
"Now, this is you," said Maud. Her full red lips turned down at the corners. "It looks awfully … perfect, though. No clutter, no globs of paint on the worktable, no brushes soaking in jars. Have you been using it?"
She hadn't. And it was starting to bother her just a little. "I'm getting there."
Maud and Mira exchanged a glance, but before they could start in on her, the baby monitor Lacey had carried with her as she gave the twins the tour, began emitting fussy little cries.
"She's awake." Mira's big dark eyes were gleaming. "I can't wait to meet her."
"And speaking of little darlings…" Lacey switched off the monitor and turned to Maud. "…I thought you'd bring Devon." Devon was Maud's two-year-old. "I haven't seen him since last September. He was barely walking then."
"He's into everything now," Maud said. "And talking? You can't shut that kid up."
"Where is he?"
"Deke's got him." Deke and Maud had married right out of high school. Everyone had predicted that it would never last, but they were still going strong. "Deke's got Fridays off now, and he actually volunteered to baby-sit. I didn't argue. My mama didn't raise no fool."
"Bring Devon next time?"
Maud shrugged. "Sure."
Lacey led them to the baby's room, which now contained everything the discerning infant could desire, including a crib with a music-playing mobile above it an
d a double bureau appliquéd with balloons and teddy bears. The changing table had open shelves above it, so the diapers and receiving blankets were right within reach. The curtains and bedding sported clouds and rainbows on a sky-blue background.
"Wow," said Mira. "This is way cool." She was looking up at the ceiling, which Lacey had painted deep blue and decorated with a whole universe of planets, bright stars and silvery moons.
"So you have been painting," Maud teased, as Lacey picked up the fussing baby.
"You bet."
Mira turned her attention to the baby. "This girl is gorgeous. Let me hold her."
"Me, too," said Maud.
The twins passed the baby between them, each cuddling and cooing to her and calling her adorable. Then Lacey sat in the rocker to feed her. Finally, after a quick diaper change, they went downstairs. The twins took turns holding Rosie as Lacey got out the deli meats and breads.
Then they all made their own sandwiches. The twins had two each, roast beef and pastrami. They'd always loved to eat. Their lush, size-twelve figures attested to that fact.
"Umm," groaned Mira, as she bit into a fat dill pickle. "Heaven." She frowned at Lacey. "What? The nursing mother is only having one sandwich? Is this wise?"
Lacey patted her stomach, which had endured an endless number of crunches in the last few weeks. "I've lost most of what I gained with Rosie. Five pounds to go and I'll be back to my starting weight."
Mira crunched her pickle. "You only live once is what I always say."
"Exactly." Lacey grinned to herself, thinking of the night to come. Friday the Thirteenth, her lucky night.
"Eeeuu," cried Maud. "I know that look."
Lacey widened her eyes. "What look?"
"Sex look. So weird. You and Dr. Perfect really have a thing, huh?"
Lacey only smiled.
Mira bit into her pastrami on rye and chewed with lusty enthusiasm. She swallowed. "The world never changes. Opposites go on attracting."
Maud waved her pickle. "Just paint," she commanded. "Get up there in that big white room and paint."
Lacey said, "I will," and told herself that she meant it.
* * *
Logan came home at a little after eight.
It was perfect timing, really. Lacey had dinner all ready: herbed roast chicken, bow-tie pasta with olive oil and basil, and a salad of romaine, watercress and radicchio. Rosie had been fed and changed and put to bed.
Lacey was just getting out of the shower, humming to herself, feeling schoolgirl giddy and a little bit foolish, sighing at the thought of what was going to happen in the next few hours—if Logan didn't get held up by some emergency, of course.
There was always that possibility. But oh, she did hope there'd be no emergencies tonight.
She finished drying herself and pulled on the white silk robe that Logan had bought her a few weeks before. She liked to think of him, stopping in at that lingerie shop over on Commercial Street
with the idea of buying some little wisp of nothing for her. She liked to picture him consulting with the saleswoman, describing her "She's blond, about this tall…" She liked to imagine him touching the satins and the laces with those fine big hands.
And she also liked the feel of the silk against her bare skin, that slinky, shivery, flowing feeling as it clung to her body, caressing each curve. She tied the sash around her waist and turned to the mirror over the black marble sink.
A big tortoiseshell clip held up her hair. She reached behind her and unsnapped it. Her hair spilled down her back. She shook her head, set the clip on the marble counter and reached up to comb her fingers through the heavy coiling strands.
That was when she caught sight of him.
He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, his tie hanging loose and the cuffs of his white dress shirt rolled to just below the elbows. He'd already gotten rid of his jacket, probably tossed it on the bed, or across a chair in the other room. He'd undone the top button of his shirt. She saw the shadow of his evening beard on his square jaw, and a hit of dark chest hair, in the V of his collar.
She met his eyes. Her heart caught, stuttered beneath her breastbone, then began beating slow and very hard, as if her blood had thickened somehow and it took a stronger, deeper beat to push it through her veins.
He raised a dark brow. "Well?"
She turned to face him, leaning back against the marble counter, gripping it with her hands, feeling that sweet loosening all through her, a warmth that pooled in her center and spread out from there. "I love it when you come home. Did I ever tell you that?"
Could those dark eyes of his get any darker? They seemed to, right then. "I thought maybe you'd call today, tell me how it went with Dr. Enright."
"I didn't want to bother you."
His mouth curled up on one side, a half smile, both ironic and tender. "You wanted me to wonder, to think about tonight."
"Well, maybe I did—a little, anyway. And I wanted to tell you in person."
"To tell me what?"
She slowly untied the sash of the robe. His eyes grew darker still.
She let the sash drop to the floor. The silk fell open. He leaned in the doorway, folding his arms over his broad chest.
She touched her fingers to her collarbone, then traced a path downward, following the open facings of the robe, her fingers gliding between her breasts, over her stomach, lower still. When she reached her thighs, she let her hands fall to her sides and whispered, "Dr. Enright says I'm fine."
"Fine?" His eyes were dark as midnight now. "That means fully recovered?"
"That's right. Ready for anything … for everything…"
He went on watching, his gaze a brand, as she lifted her hands again to grasp the facings of the robe.
He was already striding toward her when she let the robe drop to the floor.
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^ »
When he reached her, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She sighed, reveling in the feel of him, the heat of him, the strength in his hands splayed on her bare back. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, which she could never put words to, but which she would have known anywhere.
She closed her eyes as he bent his head and pressed his lips to her throat. He drew on the skin.
She moaned, and then grasped his arms enough to pull away from the suckling kiss. "Stop that. You know if you put a mark there, it'll show."
He laughed, a husky, hungry laugh that set all her nerves humming. Then he pulled her close again and breathed against the reddened spot. "You like it."
She sighed some more. "I do. But remember that party Fiona Connery's giving us…"
He swore. "Tomorrow night."
She whispered in his ear, "We want them all to know we're happy, but…"
He laughed again, and lightly nipped the forbidden spot. "But not that happy."
"Exactly. So watch it."
"All right." He nuzzled lower, latched onto her left breast just above the nipple. She pulled him closer, moaned without shame, giving into the kiss that marked her. Her milk flowed a little, wetting his shirt. Logan didn't mind.
He pulled back, studied his handiwork and then whispered gruffly, "There. No one will see. Now, come on."
She gave a glad cry as he scooped her up, one hand at her back and one under her knees, raising her high against his chest. He turned for their bedroom.
She clung to him, lifting her mouth to his. They kissed all the way to the bed.
He laid her down carefully, resting his hand on her belly for a moment, then sliding it down. He dipped a finger into the nest of dark gold curls at the juncture of her thighs. She closed her eyes, moaned deep in her throat and opened for him.
He stroked her, slowly, tenderly. She moved, unashamed, lifting herself toward his caress. After a moment, he slid that finger inside. She lifted herself higher still, and with an eager cry tried to reach for him.
But he st
epped back. With a moan of disappointment, she opened her eyes to find that he hadn't really left her. He was only pulling off his tie, tossing it on a chair, and then getting rid of his shoes and his socks.
Barefoot, he came to her again, to the edge of the bed. She rose to her knees and began working at the buttons of his shirt, her fingers quick and eager, pressing herself close to him, kissing a path down his chest as each button gave way.
She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, tossed it aside. He was already unhooking his belt. She took care of the hooks at the waistband of his slacks and then pulled the zipper down in one slow sizzle of sound. Together, they pushed the slacks away. He stepped out of them, and his briefs as well.
She took his arm. "Come here. Come here to me…"
They fell across the bed together, legs in a tangle, mouths fusing, tongues playing. She wrapped her legs around him and felt him at her entrance.
Right then, she remembered. She stiffened.
He pulled back, looked down at her. "What?"
She lifted up, kissed his beard-roughened jaw. "You know I want more babies…"
He kissed her in return, but on the mouth, biting her lip a little. "It's too soon, I know."
The kisses always felt so good, so right, so wonderful.
His mouth closed over hers. She let him have her tongue, tasted the inside of his mouth, so slick and wet and lovely. And then he did the same to her, his tongue entering, sweeping the moist surfaces, retreating only to enter again.
Sometimes, when he was kissing her, she wondered how she had lived without the taste of him. How she had gone all those years, knowing him, often irritated or even angry with him, and somehow managing never to realize that her anger and irritation only masked her own hunger. They were desire denied.
He touched her again, his hand finding her, parting her, stroking her, delving in.
She gasped. "I should … I have…"
His hand moved faster.
She gave herself up to it, her body gathering, rising. His kiss deepened. She cried into his mouth. He drank that cry as fulfillment shimmered through her.
* * *
Some time later, she rose from the bed. "I'll be right back," she promised.
THE M.D. SHE HAD TO MARRY Page 11
