She got up and walked away from Pat, but she felt his eyes watching her all the way out of the café.
* *
She avoided Simon for the rest of the day. At one point Lilah came to her room and modeled her new outfit. “Dad told me you helped him pick it, and all those great books,” Lilah said boisterously. “I really like them.”
Veronica felt near tears when the little girl hugged her. She’d been feeling very emotional, between her meeting with Simon and Pat’s story. “Would you like to read some of the books together?”
Lilah brightened. “Sure! Dad already picked one that he’s going to read me at bedtime, but I’ll get some of the others.” She dashed out of the room, and on her way back, Veronica heard her saying, “Yeah, Dad? Oh, I’m just going to read with Veronica. She said she wants to look at my new books with me. Okay. Six o’clock. Okay, I’ll tell her.” Then she burst into the room.
“Dad says you’re invited to have dinner with us at six o’clock. We’re eating on the patio outside Dad’s suite. It’s a little party.”
“Oh,” Veronica said. “I don’t know if I feel up to a party.” She’d planned to stay in her room, to go without dinner until ten o’clock, when she’d resolve this thing with Simon one way or the other.
“Oh, you have to come,” Lilah said, almost desperately. “It won’t be fun without you. Besides, we’re all in couples: Logan and Sally, Grandpa and me, Daddy and you. Otherwise Daddy would be lonely.” Lilah blinked at her, and Veronica laughed out loud.
“Suddenly I understand the meaning of ‘feminine wiles.’ You’re very persuasive, young lady.”
Lilah shrugged. “Good. I’ll tell Daddy you’re coming. Let’s read this one. Click Clack Moo: Cows That Type.” She bent her dark head over the book, and Veronica stroked her hair. She allowed herself to dream of a day when this girl could be her daughter.
Simon thanked Mrs. Peach profusely, and slipped her a bill in gratitude. She was the manager of his café, and not only had she provided the meal for this little picnic, but she’d set the table up in true Martha Stewart fashion: flickering candles, color-coordinated tablecloth and napkins, fresh cut flowers in a vase. Now that he saw the romantic nature of it, he wished it was just Veronica coming. To hell with ten o’clock; they could start right now.
No, no, he told himself. Don’t even get your hopes up. Girls changed their minds all the time; it was a woman’s prerogative, isn’t that what Elizabeth had always said? Though he could think of no better way to spend the evening than in the arms of a naked Veronica James, though in fact he could think of little else but Veronica James, naked or otherwise, he wasn’t going to allow himself to hope for it. Too many of his hopes had been dashed all his life. He’d hoped things would work out with Elizabeth. He’d hoped he would like his job at Fairchild, Inc. He’d hoped he would get to spend time with Lilah after the divorce. He’d hoped his mother wouldn’t die.
He rarely thought of his mother except in safe, distant memories. He still couldn’t look at those mental pictures of her grown frail and thin; of his final trip to Illinois to say goodbye, when she’d pulled him down toward her hospital bed and kissed his hair over and over, the way one kisses a beloved infant, and saying, “It’s all right, son, it’s all right.” He’d cried over her, made her sad, and he’d felt terrible about it. Now, in hindsight, he thought perhaps she’d appreciated his tears. They’d been honest, and full of love for her. The day after his visit, she died.
The last thought was too painful to pursue, and he shut a door on it.
He sat suddenly on the picnic table. It was true; he really did deserve something good in his life. Someone good. Someone sweet and soft, who couldn’t hold her alcohol, who had wide innocent eyes and large, comfy lips, whose voice turned his blood hot, whose touch sent lightning bolts through him. He deserved Veronica James. He had her on the hook, and by God, he was going to reel her in.
* *
They all arrived at six o’clock: Logan and Sally, looking shy and holding a bottle of wine; his Dad, grinning and holding Lilah in his strong arms; and Veronica, with a quiet smile, slipping into the group in a new green dress.
Again, considering that it was almost December, it was cool but not cold, and none of them wore coats. There was a pleasant smell of woodsmoke in the air, and Simon breathed it in gratefully as he took drink orders. Veronica asked, in that low and sexy voice, if she could help him. “Yes,” he said. You can help me carry out the food.”
She followed him into his room, where Mrs. Peach had placed everything on a table. He paused to kiss her. “You look very pretty in your new dress.”
“You’re sweet.” She met his gaze rather boldly, he was surprised to note, and reached up with one of her slender fingers to straighten his hair. “You make a very dashing host. Thank you for inviting me.”
“I wish I’d only invited you,” he murmured, as her lips came up to his again. The kiss had the melting effect of a good wine. His bones softened, his mind emptied, he was all sensation as she pressed her mouth against his. Then she stood back and smoothed her dress.
“Give me something to do,” she said.
There was a cold salad with chicken and pasta and grapes; there were sandwiches on hearty, crusty bread; there was an avocado dip with little salty crackers, and a fruit plate with beautifully scalloped edges. He handed some of it to Veronica, and she helped him carry it to the table. Simon was pleased with the effect, and with the exuberant response his company made to the food.
Logan raised his wine glass when everyone was seated: “Here’s to my partner and host. What a nice idea to take our minds off the daily grind. And here’s to the romance in the air at the White Pine Inn.”
Everyone laughed, for some reason, even Veronica. They raised their glasses; Sally blushed as she clinked hers with Logan’s. The two of them exchanged a kiss.
“Two can play at that game,” Simon said. He leaned forward and kissed his daughter, winking at Veronica. She smiled at him, almost gratefully, he thought.
And then they ate. And they talked. The mood at the table was hilarious, even festive. Simon found that Veronica was not only beautiful, but funny. She talked about her students, the silly things they said, the funny questions they had asked her. Once, in class, they had marched around to the song It’s a Long Way to Tipperary. “You know that part where he sings, ‘Farewell, Leicester Square?’ Well, my little Juan Cruz wanted to know ‘Who’s Lester Square?’”
Everyone laughed. “He’s the same boy who told me he’d like to marry me when he grew up,” Veronica added. “It was very sweet. The sweetest thing a man’s ever said to me. Almost.” She didn’t look at Simon, but he knew that had been for him. A tiny gift that no one noticed, but he had. He met her eyes as Logan began one of his long stories, and raised his glass to hers.
He didn’t notice his daughter watching him with a smug expression.
* *
When people started to leave, it was almost eight-thirty. He saw Veronica carrying some dishes back into his room, and he followed her.
“Simon, thank you so much, I had a lovely time,” she told him. “I’m going to go do a little reading.”
He put an arm around her; he kissed her ear. “And am I still to expect you this evening?” he said softly.
She met his green eyes with her chocolate brown ones. “I think you can assume that meeting is still on the agenda.”
She slipped out of the room, and he continued gathering plates. He picked up his phone, told Mrs. Peach she could send up a busboy, thanked her profusely.
He was walking in slow motion, saying his goodbyes to everyone without really hearing himself. When the last person left his room, when the busboy had finished clearing away, he fell onto his couch and laughed quietly, laughed until all the tension left his body. Then he fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve
When he heard the knock at his door, he jumped up. God, how could he have slept? This was so important, so important, and he wasn’t ready— “Just a minute,” he called, as he ran to his bathroom, splashed water on his face, grabbed some toothpaste and rubbed it rapidly on his teeth.
He ran to the door and opened it. She was there, wearing the same dress, the simple lines of which allowed her figure to dominate the impression, and what a figure it was, he thought. Her hair was neatly combed, and she smelled fresh, as though she were just out of the shower. She probably was, and he probably smelled like someone who’d just gotten out of bed.
“Veronica. Come in, please.”
She walked past him, her hands clasped behind her, looked at his rumpled couch and at him. She noted the dimness of the room. “Oh, God, you were sleeping. I woke you up.”
“No. Well, yes, I took a little nap, but only because I wanted—to be rested.”
She smiled uncertainly. “We could postpone this meeting. In fact, that might be a good
idea—.” She started back toward the door.
He was tired of begging. He didn’t touch her. He simply said, firmly, “Veronica. Please stay.”
Her brown eyes were wide on his. “Stay with me,” he repeated.
* *
Pat sat on his granddaughter’s bed. “Do you know,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever read you a book?”
Lilah shook her head. “I don’t think you have, Grandpa. I have some new ones.”
“Oh, so do I. Veronica bought me some, isn’t she thoughtful? And I have one here, that I’ve been practicing. Just this one, now, and then you go off to sleep.”
He took out the book that he’d been over several times. He’d mouthed each word, recognized it, practiced the story. It was a simple children’s tale, not many words, and Veronica had taken care that they were all small ones. It had delightful pictures that he could show to Lilah. He read it to her, slowly, and felt the joy building in him as he looked at his little granddaughter, then at the page in front of him, and realized with a pang what he’d never been able to do for his own children. He’d told them stories, woven them himself in his fertile imagination, and they’d never needed anything else. But this—this was magic.
He read a book to his granddaughter, and he watched her fall asleep. He put his hand on her hair, and sat there.
* *
Veronica hovered by the door. She didn’t know what she wanted, and she did know. She didn’t know what Simon thought of her, and there was one important secret she hadn’t shared with him, and now she didn’t know if she could—
“Veronica.” He turned her to face him.
“I should go to bed,” she whispered.
“So that you can lie there thinking about what we would have done in mine?” he asked. His face was gentle, but there was a spark of passion in those green eyes. “Let’s just find out now.” He kissed her hair. His arms tightened possessively around her.
“Find out what? If we’re sexually compatible? I’ve been acting like a silly girl, and I need to grow up. I can’t let this. . . intimacy between us confuse me!” She was near tears.
He raised his eyebrows. “What’s this about, Beauty? I can’t make love to my beautiful girl?” His mouth was on her face, and then her throat.
She pulled away, weakly. “I don’t know you. I don’t know if—I’m the only girl, or the fifth one this month. And since I don’t know, I shouldn’t be—I just shouldn’t be.”
He wanted to laugh, she could tell, but he didn’t. He pulled her toward the bed, sat down, and settled her on his lap.
“You want to know who there’s been, Veronica James? There’s been no one. There was my wife, when I was twenty-four, and by the end of our marriage ten years later we not only didn’t make love any more, but we didn’t feel love any more. Then I came here and worked my ass off on the Inn, and had no social life to speak of. After a year or so Logan set me up on a couple of blind dates. One of them, Brenda, I dated for a while. We had sex. But I wasn’t really interested, and neither was she.
“So here’s the truth: I’ve never been attracted to anyone the way I am to you. I never felt like lightning had hit me when I looked at a woman until the first time I looked at you. And I never met a woman so unaware of her own attractiveness. Didn’t your boyfriends tell you how beautiful you were? Didn’t your lover? The one you almost married?” He slid a finger down her throat to a point between her breasts.
She shivered. She wanted him to kiss her, to cover her body with his own. “Simon,” she whispered. “Please don’t laugh at me. I was so embarrassed when John O’Malley asked me today—there haven’t been any men. I dated in high school, but I was never in love, and Rick and I, we were friends first, and then when we got engaged, we agreed to wait—until we were married.”
“And he ran off with your sister.”
“Yes.”
“So—” Simon’s finger was still between her breasts. He traced a line from her sternum down to her belly button, making a visible mark in the silky material of her dress.
“So I’m a virgin,” she said, almost bitterly.
“And that’s supposed to make me think less of you? Why? Make me desire you less? It doesn’t. By God, I want to be the first man you’re with, I’m just that selfish. I want you, all for myself. Now. Here. Please.” He pulled at a zipper behind her back, then at the sleeves of her dress. With an inscrutable expression, he slid them off her shoulders. She was wearing no bra beneath. “Let me love you, Beauty.”
With a moan she leaned in and kissed him. She didn’t care any more, she had to be honest; she wanted him, and she wanted to learn what sex was like with him, and she thought she probably loved him.
With a growl against her mouth he pulled at her dress; she felt it fall to her waist, felt his hands move to her breasts. His fingers rubbed her nipples to aroused stiffness; she tried to speak, but his mouth still claimed hers. His tongue probed gently, then more deeply, and she pressed her own against his, tasting, feeling. She was all sensation, all emotion, and her body temperature seemed to have risen to an unbearable degree. Something like a giant bubble, ticklish and fluttery, floated from her breasts to her loins. With a cry muffled by his mouth she tore at his shirt, her fingers luxuriating in the hair on his chest.
He pulled his lips from hers and she gasped for air, then found herself breathless again when he latched onto her nipple, suckling and licking until she felt the painful pleasure of arousal. Butterflies danced in her abdomen and caused a damp feeling in her silk underwear.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. Simon moaned against her breast, his mouth still busy, but his right arm clamped firmly around her waist, as though he feared she’d run away. His left hand crept beneath the dress which had ridden up her thighs, found the silky material underneath, and he slipped his questing fingers beneath it.
Almost at once, Veronica was beside herself. She didn’t know what an orgasm felt like, even though she and Rick had indulged in petting and touching. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling, but it was almost unbearable, whether pleasure or pain. She squirmed as he touched her, chills bolting through her body. “Oh, God, Simon—please—”
He looked at her, his eyes blurry with desire, then kissed her cheek, her ear, gently. “Sshhh, Babe, it’s all right. It’s good with us, isn’t it, Beauty? Come and lie down with me.”
He lifted her to her feet, where she swayed unsteadily until her dress fell to the floor. He pulled her panties away, down, and she slipped out of her shoes.
She stood before him, and he looked at her, unashamedly studying her with a euphoric expression. “God, you’re beautiful. Veronica,” he said, reaching for her.
Naked, willing, she came to his arms, and he pulled her up toward the pillows. He laid her down, carefully as he would something breakable, kissed her nose, and said, “Let me j
ust slip this off.” He pulled his shirt away. She’d torn off some of the buttons. He looked perfect to her, this man who kissed her and stroked her skin in the blue light of the Vermont moon.
She reached out and pulled at his pants, fumbled with the zipper, pulled at the elastic of his underwear until she revealed his erection. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little ahead of myself.”
She smiled, touched him wonderingly. “You’re such a beautiful man,” she said.
Then, with a final kick to shed his clothing, he was on her, skin on skin, and she couldn’t believe the glory of his naked body on hers, the pure pleasure of it. His hands, his mouth were everywhere, and she clutched his hair and his smooth firm back as he explored her.
She felt his mouth move from her breasts, travel down her stomach, burning its way down until he reached her thighs. She opened her eyes and instinctively closed her legs. He looked up at her. “Let me in, Veronica,” he said softly.
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to relax, parting for him. He found a vulnerable place and rubbed it with a tender finger. “Veronica,” he whispered, and his mouth was on her, suckling, sending her into shock, making her see stars, shooting stars, over and over, in all the colors of the rainbow. She couldn’t hold still; she writhed and bucked and moaned until he crawled back up and said, “Shhh, Beauty, it’s okay, I don’t want to scare you. Are you all right?”
She clutched at him, kissed him hard, wiggled against him, against his hardness, felt it with eager hands. “Simon, I want you inside me. Now, now,” she said, spreading her legs, welcoming him.
He was getting harder. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she said. She was going insane, getting too hot. “Please, please love me. Now.”
“Jesus,” he said, and he slipped inside her, gently but steadily.
“Oh—Oh God!” she cried. There was a brief burst of pain, and then fullness, and more fullness. And then pleasure.
Love, Lust, and The Lassiters Page 9
