Sharing Sunrise

by Judy Griffith Gill

  Tango over, Rolph knew he should have taken her back to the table, but with another slow, sweet melody wrapping itself around their senses, he knew he couldn’t deny himself just a few more minutes of this forbidden bliss. As they moved together, he became more and more aware of her, of the satin skin of her back beneath his right hand, the delicacy of her fingers nestled in his left, the scent of her rising up, the way her breasts and thighs brushed against his body. He wanted to go on touching the warm, living flesh of her, seeking out more of it, but forced his hand to stay where it was until he could stand it no longer. Then, wrapping his arms around her waist, he put his hands on his own jacket sleeves, hoping to cool himself down that way.

  He recognized his error at once.

  With a soft sigh he felt rather than heard, Marian melted against him and rested her head on his shoulder. He nearly groaned at the sensations caused by her heat, the weight of her against his chest, her sweetly scented smooth skin and perfumed hair.

  Enough! Enough! he wanted to plead, but knew it was nowhere near enough. With a sigh, he succumbed to the intense delight that washed over him. “Heaven help me,” he murmured. “I’m going down for the third time.”

  Then he drew her hard against him, resting his cheek atop her head. He would hold her like this for just a moment more, or …

  A moment or a month or maybe, unless she told him to stop, a lifetime. And since she said nothing, just snuggled closer, he wrapped her into the sensual world he’d entered, wondering if she were feeling it too. She had to be. She must. It was too potent to be the product of one set of hormones, too deep to be the residual passion from one shared Tango, too tempting to be refused.

  His hands, far from staying safely on the fabric of his jacket, encircled her waist, his fingers meeting at the slight depression of her spine, and he couldn’t prevent their exploring that shallow trail all the way up to the nape of her neck, then slowly, all the way back down to where her dress stopped them, then all the way back up …

  As his hand came to her nape again, and circled around to stroke the skin behind her ear, Marian tilted her head back and smiled at him, a slow, exquisite smile that took up residence inside his heart, making it glow. God, holding her like this, breathing in the scent of her perfume, looking into her shining eyes, did things to him that shouldn’t be done but there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it although within another twelve seconds, she would know beyond any doubt that he saw her as all woman. Quickly, he shifted his grip on her, turning just enough aside so she wouldn’t be frightened by his response. This, after all, was Marian, and he was responsible for her …

  It was heaven. If she died now, Marian thought, she would die happy. She had felt like this twice before, and both times had been at weddings, both times while dancing with Rolph.

  Those other times, she’d tried to tell herself she was just reacting to the romance of the occasion, that weddings did that to people. And Jeanie’s had been a particularly romantic wedding with the muted colored lights and decorations, the scent of the Christmas tree, the sweet, flowing music from Sharon Leslie’s harp, and the soft-spoken vows exchanged by Jeanie and Max, vows they must have thought they would never make before their friends and families, when they fell in love trapped deep in a cavern, believing themselves doomed, but willing to love in spite of that.

  For the first time, hearing another couple’s wedding vows had choked her up with tender emotions. Tears had welled up in her eyes. She had sniffed them back, blinked hard, but with little effect. Beyond her control, they had spilled over, splashed on her linked hands and Rolph had seen. From his position in the front of the room, he had grinned wickedly at her and winked then later, he’d teased her about it.

  “All women cry at weddings,” she’d said and he’d raised his brows.

  “But not you, surely!” he’d scoffed with the affectionate sarcasm permitted a long-time friend. “What made you cry? Thinking about Jeanie’s lost freedom, I suppose?”

  She’d shrugged, still not sure in her own mind exactly why she’d found the ceremony so touching, so poignant, why it had made her throat ache. Ordinarily, since her own fiasco of a marriage, weddings had been something to be avoided and when they could not be, she’d often found herself thinking scathing, bitter thoughts as the promises were made. Only this wedding had been different. “Could be that, I guess.”

  He’d held her firmly that night, as he always had when dancing, so that she’d know what he intended almost as soon as he knew himself. That was what made them such a good couple on the floor. Only that night, for her, it was different. His hands had never felt so large nor so warm. The scent of his after-shave had never affected her as it did that magical Christmas Eve. And the play of his powerful muscles as his thighs brushed against hers set up such a clamor in her blood she’d felt the first stirrings of fear liberally mixed with desire.

  The fear was because since her marriage she had avoided men who might have that kind of power over her. The desire came out of nowhere and refused to leave her. She felt stunned by its breadth and its depth, almost horrified because she knew if she gave Rolph even the slightest indication of what she was feeling, he’d laugh at her.

  When it came time to catch the bridal bouquet, she saw it coming her way and in that instant, caught the mocking, laughing gaze Rolph had turned on her, and she’d ducked, letting Jeanie’s flowers—and the lovely tradition that went with them—sail on by, right into the hands of Sharon, Jeanie’s sister.

  And then, less than a year later, Sharon had married that gorgeous Jean-Marc Duval, just as tradition dictated and Marian had to wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t ducked.

  But here she was, in his arms again, feeling distinctly romantic again and without a wedding to blame. Nestling close, she rested her head against his chest, twined her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the beauty of the moment. His hair was crisp and curly under her fingers. The skin of his nape was soft and faintly moist. She lifted her face and pressed her lips gently to his throat, parting them, slipping the tip of her tongue out to sample the salty flavor of his skin. His arms tightened, his body hardened, and she heard him take in a harsh breath. For just a moment, she thought he might push her away from him, but though he went stiff, after a second or two he relaxed and slid his hand up into her hair. She felt a pin give way, felt it slither down her back, thought she heard it hit the floor with a faint “ping” but knew that as finely tuned as her sense were, it was her imagination that her hearing could be so acute. She shivered as his fingers delved deeper into her hair and another pin went flying. Lifting her head, she looked up at him, smiled, and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, wanting to speak to him, but finding no words available. All she could do was convey what she felt by the movements of her body and the expression in her eyes.

  He met her gaze, but only for a moment. Then, with a shuddering intake of breath, he closed his eyes and pressed her head down onto his chest, holding her there with one large, warm palm against her cheek.

  Marian’s breath came in sharply, then trailed out slowly as she leaned into his embrace.

  Just when Rolph thought he might explode, the band played the tune to its end, added a flourish of trumpet and drum, then laid down their instruments for a break.

  The Mastersons were still on a joyous high, demanding more and more details about their beloved Catriona while another bottle of champagne sparkled into glasses around the table. When, after a few more dances, the older couple said their goodnights, insisting on taking a cab back to their hotel so Marian and Rolph could stay and dance, Rolph suggested that they, too, should call a taxi.

  “My head’s buzzing from the champagne,” he said, brushing a strand of hair back from her flushed cheek. “I don’t think I should drive.”

  Marian’s head was buzzing too. “I don’t want to go home yet. Couldn’t we have just one more dance, Rolph?”

  He drew in a deep, unsteady breath. Again, something
inside warned him that enough was enough. “No,” he said.

  She put one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. Gently, she brushed her thumb over his bottom lip.

  “Please?”

  She heard his breath whistle slightly as he sucked it in, saw his eyes darken, his mouth twitch, and then he reached up and caught her hand, she thought, to fling it away, but instead, he flattened it onto his throat, holding it there. “One more dance,” he conceded softly, drawing her into his arms, his grin crooked and self-deprecating. “I must be out of my mind.”

  The lights were low, the crowd thinning, and “one more dance” turned into several, then half a dozen, and Marian lost count. Between sets, they wandered back to their table, sipped wine, talked softly, or simply sat and said nothing, just looked at each other, or around the room, but always, when the music started again, there was no question that they would dance, and dance, and dance …

  “We should go,” Rolph said presently, lifting his cheek from where it had been resting on top of her head. “Look, they’re stacking up the chairs.”

  Reluctantly, Marian looked, then glanced at the stage, blinking. “Where’s the band?”

  “They left an hour ago.”

  She tilted her head back and smiled at him, continuing to move slowly with him, against him, feeling the response he tried to deny by turning partly away from her. His thigh was hot against hers.

  “Funny,” she said with a slow smile, “I can still hear music.” But it was the kind of music that sang in the heart as much as in the ears.

  “Tapes,” he murmured, drawing his fingers from her temple to the soft skin under her chin.

  “Oh. I hope they have … lots.”

  “We have to leave,” he said, hearing the reluctance in his tone. He didn’t want this night to end any more than she did. But he knew what would happen if he didn’t end it.

  She felt the heat of his gaze, felt his arms tighten, felt his heat rise. He moistened his lips. She moistened hers. He bent his head. She lifted her face. And waited.

  Then: “Marian … don’t look at me like that.”

  Disappointment stung her like acid. “Like what?”

  “Like you want … to be kissed.”

  She wet her lips with her tongue again. “I do,” she said, and held her breath. “I do want to be kissed.”

  His eyes glittered like green glass, gaze pinned to her mouth. She could feel it like a caress. It was almost as good as a kiss. Almost. She saw his throat work as he swallowed. “But … not by me.” His voice was hoarse. In his words she thought she head a plea.

  He sounded almost as scared as she felt. Oh, God, was that it? Was he afraid to make a move? Was he as fearful of rejection as she was? Gathering up her courage, she murmured, “Oh, yes, Rolph. By you.” Her voice was soft and breathless. Her heart was in her throat. She moistened her lips once more, and watched his eyes flicker, his mouth harden. His hands moved restlessly on her back, then encircled her waist, lightly, as he set her back from him.

  He swallowed hard again and smiled, spoke, also lightly. “Honey, it’s the music, the atmosphere, the dancing. Anyone would do.”

  “Rolph …” She moved in closer again, slipped one hand behind his neck, filtered her fingers into the soft, tightly curled hair there and sighed. “Do you really believe that?”

  He drew in a deep, unsteady breath. “Baby, I have to believe that.”

  “Why?”

  God! The soft question was enough to stop him in his tracks. Good question, that one. He’d thought he knew the answer, but looking at her, he found the substance of it slipping away. Her eyes were deep pools of rich green. Tendrils of her golden hair hung loose because he’d toyed with it once too often, flicked one too many pin onto the floor. One thin strap of her green dress hung down over her shoulder. Her scent enfolded him with a heady haze of desire that was rapidly becoming rampant need, and that need would be obvious to her if he couldn’t find a way to move apart from her. But those lips were plump, full, tempting, moist and ready. Her eyes were wide and expectant. Her fingers tightened in his hair. Her round breasts moved against his chest as she breathed. Why not kiss her? Why not taste her? Why not accept what she offered so sweetly, so innocently? Why—

  “Why?” she said again, hardly more than a whisper, but her breath was warm and sweet and tinged with wine as it came, carrying the word. It fanned across his face and he suppressed a groan as he firmly set her back from him.

  “Because you’ve had too much wine. We both have. It would be wrong. And I like you. I … respect you. I don’t want to do the wrong thing with you. To you. We’ve been friends for a long time. We work together. And I’m older than you are, more experienced. I know what … ambience can do to create a mood, elicit feelings. And I know how false those feelings can be.”

  As false as the color of those eyes I’m staring into. As false as the shade of the soft hair that persists in drawing my fingers into it. He made himself notice those things, made himself remember, though it was hard. Across the room, he saw the Englishman, Robin Ames, heading toward the exit door. Robin, a man she’d met in Hong Kong. How many men would come tapping her on the shoulder over the years, reminding her of times past, of places visited? Far away places with strange-sounding names …

  “What makes you so sure those feelings are false?”

  He didn’t know, he just knew they had to be. False and transient. As transient as everything else in her life. “False feelings, a created mood, a brief, bright light that would flicker and die, however beautiful it might be while it burned,” he said. “That’s not what I’m looking for, Marian. That’s not what I want out of life. I want reality. Stability.”

  Hurt welled up inside her but she’d had years of practice hiding things like that. She arched her brows and smiled. “And I’m not real?” She inched closer. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “What I’m saying is that you’re wasting your time flirting with me, little girl, because I have no intention of wasting my time playing your kind of games.”

  “What if I weren’t playing games? What if I could be as serious as you?”

  He laughed. “What if the moon really was made of green cheese? The astronauts would have come back covered with mold.”

  “My,” she said. “That’s serious.”

  He had to smile at the tone of her voice. “And so am I,” he said gravely, grazing her cheekbone with one bent knuckle. “So let’s get out of this ambience that seems to be giving you such outrageous ideas.”

  She didn’t move away from him. “Wanting to be kissed is outrageous?” she asked, eyes wide and long lashes fluttering.

  “Not under ordinary circumstances.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “What’s so extraordinary about these circumstances?”

  “I’ve always thought of you as a somewhat tiresome, troublesome little sister, Marian, and I have no intention of changing. Now, I’m even more tired than I was before, and that was nearly three hours ago, so I’m taking you home.” But also because what I’m feeling has very little to do with slow, sweet music or ambience or your scent or your big green eyes that I know for a fact are supposed to be blue, and your soft golden hair that was as red as autumn leaves when you were born! I don’t want false. I don’t want fake. I don’t want phony. But dammit, I want you!”

  As he took her elbow in one hand and steered her back to their table, where their two chairs were the only ones still standing square on the floor, he wondered who was the fake one, who was the phony, her with her frequently recolored hair and her seemingly unending supply of tinted contact lenses, her butterfly existence, or him, with his insistence that what she offered was not what he wanted out of life. Because, even if her feelings were false, even if they had been engendered by the romantic music and the seductive atmosphere, the wine, even if they were as temporary as everything else in her life had been, if they were directed at him, he wanted them, dammit. He wanted them far too much.


  For that reason, after he unlocked her door for her, he let her go with a chaste, brotherly kiss on her forehead and an admonition not to forget to go to Southland Marina first thing Monday morning to see those two boats that were coming on the market.

  “That’s it?” Marian stared at the door after Rolph closed it. She heard his feet walking away down the corridor, heard the elevator doors hiss shut. She knew he was gone.

  “That’s it?” she said again moments later as she stared at her image in the mirror, then glanced at the framed photograph on her dresser. Normally, it resided deep in a drawer, but she’d taken it out tonight to make a comparison. Robin Ames’ words echoed in her mind repeatedly. That blonde hair and those green eyes, I thought you were brother and sister … And Rolph’s, at the end of the evening, Because I’ve always thought of you as a somewhat tiresome, troublesome little sister. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Rolph’s attitude had changed immediately after they’d both seen Robin leaving the club. It bothered him, didn’t it, that they looked alike enough to be mistake for brother and sister? Did he care so much what strangers thought?

  Obviously, he did.

  Again, she looked from her own image to the photograph of Rolph that she’d had ever since Max and Jeanie’s wedding. Dammit, they did look alike. Why had she never seen it before?

  There was no answer to that, but one thing she could ensure was that neither she or Rolph nor anybody else would ever see such a resemblance again.

  With a nod to her own reflection, Marian came to a swift decision. Luckily, she was in good with her hairdresser and fairly confident of getting a Saturday morning appointment if she declared an emergency.

  Come Monday, no one would mistake Marian Crane for Rolph McKenzie’s little sister.

  Rolph lay on his bed wondering why he was there instead of in … He refused to permit the thought to form. His head still buzzed lightly from the champagne, his mind was unready for sleep. Marian’s bed. The thought formed anyway. Oh, God! It was partly Slim Masterson’s fault, all that talk about making love in a gimbaled berth.