by Laura Abbot
Before she could stop to think, Nell stood, smoothed her cotton-knit gown, wishing it were, instead, a wisp of lacy silk, and walked deliberately out of her room, across the living room, pale in the predawn light, and quietly turning the knob, opened the door to Brady’s room.
He lay on his back, one arm flung across the extra pillow. With a thudding heart, she studied his mussed hair and the shadow of his beard, then permitted her eyes to graze over his chest and downward where the flat of his stomach disappeared beneath the sheet and blanket.
She could turn back. Flee to the safety of her room. But a buzzing in her ears and a throbbing of her pulse robbed her of that decision.
Quietly, she drew back the cover and slipped into his bed, her gooseflesh warmed by his body heat. She lay on her side, facing him, listening to him breathe, watching his profile, smiling when he suddenly twitched in his sleep. She wanted him both to remain asleep and to wake up.
She feathered her fingers across his chest, watching with delight when his nipples puckered. Then, daringly, she blew.
Gradually she became aware of a hand on her head. She glanced up. Brady was looking at her with a wondering smile, one brow raised in question.
She nodded, then scooted nearer, raining kisses along his collarbone.
He pulled her close. “Nell, you’re sure?” he whispered.
And, amazingly, she was. “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured.
“I see.” His voice was teasing. “Did you come for a back rub?”
“Not exactly.” She moved her lips scant inches from his. “I had something more in mind.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said just before running a hand tantalizingly beneath her gown and pulling her even closer. When he kissed her, she forgot about second thoughts completely. But that was only the beginning.
By the time the sun rose, her gown was pooled on the floor and Brady was doing wonderful things to her—with her—things she’d only ever dreamed about. With his fingers. With his mouth. And with something else—a warm, hard something that filled her with wonder and drew from her a delighted cry that started in her womb and raced through her body, erupting at the same time she convulsed in release—total and blessed.
She hadn’t known it could be like this.
Hadn’t known there were lovers like him.
Brady braced himself above her, pausing to find her eyes. “I was right earlier.”
She smiled lazily. “What do you mean?”
“You are a giver.”
She surprised herself by laughing out loud. “If I’d known last night what I know now, I’d have given sooner.”
He rolled onto his side, taking her with him. “We have all day,” he said tracing her upper lip with a forefinger.
“And another whole night,” she murmured, snuggling against him.
It seemed an amazing prospect provided by generous, beneficent gods.
NOT UNTIL they were on the way home Sunday afternoon did Nell permit second thoughts to intrude. In some small corner of her brain she’d known their forty-eight hours together was not the real world, that satiation of the senses was not commitment and that their obligations extended far beyond the two of them. But for these idyllic hours with Brady she would make no apologies, nor harbor any expectations. Looking out the window, she reminded herself firmly, “He’s only passing through.” She would forever be grateful to him for making her feel beautiful and, even more important, desirable.
He hadn’t said much since they’d checked out, but then what was there to say that they hadn’t already expressed with their bodies? She couldn’t expect a vow of undying love. She told herself it had been a lovely weekend, a mere blip on the screen of her life, but nothing with a future. She chewed her lip. Besides, when she told him she was an alcoholic, what then? A frisson of panic stopped her breath. What if he rejected her? Oh, God, he was more than a blip on the screen. A lot more.
She studied his profile, the little nick of a scar beneath his left eye, the softness of his earlobe in contrast to his bearded cheek. He made her heart sing, her blood roar. And then it struck her. She’d already committed. She never would have gone to his bed if she hadn’t.
Suddenly she had so much more to lose and the prospect scared her.
“When does Abby get home?”
Brady’s question jolted her back to reality. Abby had been horrified enough that she was going with Brady this weekend. How much more critical would she be if she suspected the depth of her mother’s feelings for him? “Her flight arrives at 7:35.”
“Would you like me to go to the airport with you?”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure Abby’s ready for that.”
He nodded. Nell wondered what he was thinking, how he saw himself fitting into their lives. Even if only temporarily. He would surely have to return to his business in California soon. If he pursued the idea for the Beaver Lake resort, he’d have to raise money from backers on the West Coast and would probably have an on-site supervisor for the building project. Oh, he’d fly in and out. They’d see each other periodically.
But she wanted more. She looked out the passenger window, barely registering the trees passing in a blur. Like a miracle Brady had come into her life and there was no hiding from the truth—she was falling in love with him.
Even though—God, Abby’s question assaulted her again—she didn’t know all that much about him, except that he was tenderness and consideration personified.
She faced the road again, watching the narrow two-lane highway dip around the sharp curves and steep descents. Clasping her fingers tightly in her lap, she forced the question to her lips, praying it sounded casual. “Brady, you still haven’t told me much about your growing up, about your family.”
He put a reassuring hand on her leg. “Feel as if you’ve been in bed with a stranger?”
“Not exactly.”
“But women always want the complete story, right?”
She smiled. “Guilty, sir.”
“There’s not much to tell. Born in Colorado, left home right after high school, worked in California, married Brooke. That’s it in a nutshell.”
“You’ve told me all of that before. Would you mind filling in between the lines?”
“Like?”
“Your family. Tell me about your parents. Do you have any brothers or sisters? What are your favorite childhood memories? How often do you see them and…” She faltered. He’d removed his hand from her leg at the word family, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were steely, his body tense, like a cat sensing danger.
“That’s history,” he said in a flat tone.
“Your history,” she said encouragingly. “I’m interested.”
He ignored her, negotiating a junction of two highways. She’d obviously said something wrong. But what? Her questions had been innocent. Yet she sensed anything she said now would be a mistake.
After a long pause, he spoke. “I don’t mean to be rude, Nell. Let me put it this way. My first eighteen years are off-limits. I try not to think about them and I sure as hell don’t want to talk about them. Okay?”
“But surely your mother, your father—”
“Stop. My mother is dead, and if I never hear my father’s name again it will be too soon. Suffice it to say, as far as I’m concerned he’s dead, too. They’re all dead.”
Nell winced at the raw edge of pain slicing through his words. The gentle man with whom she’d made love was gone, replaced by an angry, unforgiving one whose hurt was palpable. And what did he mean “they’re all dead”? Were there others besides his mother and father? Abby had been right. There was more to know. Brady harbored secrets.
But who was she to talk? She had one, too.
After another few miles, Brady raked his fingers through his hair, then turned to her. “Hell, I apologize for that outburst.” He cleared his throat. “There are just some things I don’t talk about. Not with you, not with anybody.”
“Are the emotions that
painful?” She knew she risked a great deal with that question, but whatever the history was, he was expending enormous energy in denial.
His expression remained stoical. “Leave it, Nell.” His icy words allowed no argument. A slammed door couldn’t have reverberated more decisively in Nell’s head.
BRADY THREW the Escalade into gear and bolted away from Nell’s house. After her pointed questions, the remainder of the trip home had been strained. Of course she wanted to know about his background. Women always did. He’d been through it once for Brooke, who, like the nurturer she was, had urged him to face his past, until she’d eventually realized she might as well save her breath. He hadn’t been ready. Still wasn’t. And he sure didn’t need to go through the whole pathetic story again.
He shook his head, disgusted with himself. Nell deserved so much better. Hell, she even had a right to expect answers, especially after their weekend. He cared about her. He’d even felt, with her in his arms, that he might be beginning to heal.
But she was asking too much. He would not revisit Glenwood Springs, nor those agonizing months of watching his mother gasping for every breath. And certainly not his father’s betrayal of her memory. God damn him, anyway.
He swerved out of the path of an oncoming vehicle, cursing the driver, the narrow street, the stop-light that suddenly turned red and anyone, anything else he could think of.
Waiting for the light to change, he squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of his final fight with the almighty Dale Logan and the ultimatum that had made his father’s choice crystal-clear. And his. Brady had stormed out of the house, leaving behind his father, his younger brother, and the stepmother who was making a mockery of his mother’s memory.
The beep of a horn caused him to look up—straight at a green light. He moved forward slowly in a vain attempt to calm down. What had Nell asked? “Are the emotions too painful?”
Painful? They shredded his gut. That’s why he never looked back.
What must Nell have thought? Jeez, he couldn’t help himself. He’d reacted like the certified jackass he was. Great goin’, Logan. You oughta offer a class. How to ruin a romantic weekend in one easy lesson.
He’d have to make it up to her somehow. She had been so loving. He’d hardly ever had such a delightful surprise as waking up to find her nestled against him, arousing him even before he’d opened his eyes. She had held nothing back. The wonder on her face when she came spoke volumes. She’d never known, never understood what a passionate woman she was. He couldn’t hurt her.
And yet he already had.
Long shadows criss-crossed the parking lot at his condo and the smell of hamburgers on a grill caused his stomach to growl. He picked up his overnight bag and walked slowly toward the building. He had some deep thinking to do this evening. About his project, about exorcising the demons Nell’s questions had raised, and about Nell herself and his feelings for her, which were growing more and more powerful.
Reaching his building, he heard a car door slam behind him. He pulled out his pass key and was inserting it in the lock, when he heard footsteps behind him, and then a familiar voice.
“Brady, man, where you been? I about went to sleep in my rental car waiting for you.”
Brady whirled around. “Carl?”
His partner spread his arms in a none-other gesture. “I got tired of waiting for you to come home to California. I need to visit with you, boy.”
“Problems?”
Carl nodded. “You don’t know the half of it.” Then he studied Brady, his eyes shrewd, despite the pleasant expression on his face. “Invite me in. Let’s crack open a beer.” He placed a hand on Brady’s shoulder, then dropped his voice. “I’m here to talk some sense into you. What the hell are you still doin’ in this burg anyway? You need to come home. You’ve licked your wounds long enough.”
Brady stood aside to let Carl enter. No way was he looking forward to the next few hours. Carl was his oldest, best friend, but he would not like what Brady was going to tell him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CARL SAT on the arm of the sofa, upholstered in a worn Moroccan-inspired fabric, watching Brady unscrew the lids of the beers. “Who did your decorating? Winston Churchill’s mother?”
Brady crossed the thick Persian rug overlaying the institutional-tan carpet and handed Carl his brew. “Straight out of Thomas Hardy’s bleakest novel, huh?” He settled in the deep leather chair. “What can I tell you? The owner’s an English lit prof.”
Carl grinned. “Figures. Doing his best on his meager pay to recreate Victorian England, I guess.” He took a swig from his bottle, then stood and walked around the room studying the framed lithographs from old issues of Punch.
Drawing circles in the condensation on the glass of his bottle, Brady watched, waiting for Carl to get around to the purpose of his visit.
Finally Carl pulled a wooden desk chair closer to Brady and sat down. Leaning forward, he gestured with his beer. “Logan, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I got a good deal. Helped the old guy out.”
“Bull. You could’ve bought the whole complex. Why settle for this?”
“It was temporary.”
“Well, that’s a relief. So you’re coming home soon?”
“I didn’t say that.” Brady crossed one leg over his knee. “My plans are still up in the air. More to the point, what are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but you kinda sprung this visit on me, buddy.”
“I got tired of our one-sided phone conversations. I’ve been worried about you.” Carl stretched, crossing his feet at the ankles. “So cut the b.s. You’ve had time. We’ve been more than patient at the office, but we need you now. The new products division has a blockbuster idea that requires development approval and the contract with the Department of Defense is at the refinement stage. We can’t dick around much longer on either of these projects. And, partner, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I know you’ve been through hell, but work could be therapeutic, you know.”
Brady had known this day would come. He and Carl had started together in a windowless basement office with nothing but dreams and a couple of computers. Once, their “overnight” success had bred further creativity and satisfaction, but even before Brooke’s and Nicole’s deaths, he’d felt more and more tethered to beepers and cell phones. Even a pleasure boat in the Pacific Ocean had provided minimal escape.
Brady set his beer on the moisture-ringed surface of the wooden end table. “I’ll come back to California soon to help handle the responsibilities you mentioned, but I can’t stay.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh, may never be able to.”
His partner’s eyes clouded. “I guess I had to see for myself. You can’t come to grips with the accident, move on?”
“I’m better, Carl. Honest. But come to grips with it? No way. Could you? I’ll never understand how the trucking company could not know their driver was a drunk or how someone hauling flammable materials could be so reckless. Just my luck,” his mouth filled with acid, “that he waited for my family on a day I wasn’t driving them.”
“Jeez, Logan, you can’t blame yourself. Guilt will eat you up.”
Brady held up his bottle in a mock toast. “Tell me about it.” He stood then and moved to the window. “So, you ask what I’m doing here in Arkansas.” A college-age couple walked hand-in-hand along the bike path circling the complex. An older man living across the courtyard was filling his bird feeders and down the street three skinny teenagers were shooting hoops. He turned. “It’s Norman Rockwell, county fair, schmaltzy Americana, and I love it.”
Carl joined him as he turned again to the window. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you need to get this crazy notion out of your system before you move back.”
Brady faced his partner. “What if I never move back?”
“Get a grip, brother. You’re scaring me.”
“I’ve made a decision. I’m going ahead with the development project here. I’d like to s
how you around tomorrow, let you see what I have in mind.”
Carl looked dubious.
“Please. It’s the first project that’s captured my interest in a long time.”
Carl clapped an arm around his shoulder. “I guess I can spare a day. But there are a couple of stipulations.”
“What?”
“That you agree to come home with me for a week or so to get things straightened out.”
Brady felt a sigh rip open his chest cavity. “Okay. What else?”
Carl drained his beer, then grinned wolfishly. “You tell me about her.”
“Who?”
“I’ve known you too long, pal. A business deal might interest you, but it wouldn’t keep you in the backwoods this long. So I figure there must be a woman.”
Brady looked into the cocksure, laughing face of his friend and felt a sudden overwhelming need to confide in someone. He smiled, a culprit caught in the act. “I’ll grab you another brew. Then we’ll talk. I have met someone.”
Before he left the room, though, he paused. “Her name is Nell,” he said, letting the melody of the name fill the silence—and quicken his senses.
NELL LOOKED OUT her bedroom window Monday morning and groaned. Here came Lily and her mother, marching determinedly up her front walk. The two of them at once. Why was she off work today of all days? A visit from these two was more than she could handle. Especially after the restless night she’d spent second-guessing herself about Brady. What had she been thinking? Brazen hussy. With an epithet suitable for a nineteenth-century novel, she accused herself. Yet being with him had felt so good. So right.
Running a brush through her hair, she smoothed the sweatshirt over her jeans, drew a deep breath and opened the door. After exchanging greetings, she inquired after her nephew. “Where’s Chase?”
“At mother’s day out at the church,” Lily said, leading the way toward the family room, where she perched on the sofa. Stella sat in a blue-canvas director’s chair and Nell took the armchair.
