The hell with control. She pressed her hands to the small of his back and arched. “Please,” she moaned.
He fell on her, driving himself in to the hilt, pressing her into the ground with his weight. He pulled out and then plunged in again, deep.
“Yes,” she breathed, rising to meet the slow, penetrating thrusts that were as maddening, in their own way, as his teasing touch. So close… She heard him murmur her name, tell her she was beautiful, and that he wanted to feel her come.
He took her hands in his and held them near her shoulders as she threw her head back. Nearly insensible, she thrashed beneath him as he pumped faster, in an urgent rhythm, straining with her toward release.
Just as she reached the precipice and teetered off, he covered her mouth with his and captured the animal cry that rose within her. The explosive pleasure detonated where their bodies were joined, then coursed through her like rolling thunder, rocking her with its power. He clenched her hands in a painful grip and groaned into her mouth, shuddering violently as his own pleasure overtook him. Together they rode out the aftershocks, moaning as the spasms subsided, then holding each other in a limp, breathless embrace.
He stroked her hair with a shaking hand. Her ears rang.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“That’s my line, remember?” he whispered back. He lifted his face to look at her, and a drop of sweat fell from his forehead onto her cheek.
She said, “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think Brian was an idiot.” He laughed, and she felt him throb within her. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I had no idea it would be… like that.”
“It’s not,” he said. “I mean, it’s not usually. It’s never been like that for me. Never.” He enclosed her in his arms, buried his face in the crook of her neck, and kissed her throat. “I don’t guess it ever will be again.”
Chapter 13
TUCKER SAW HARLEY in the window of the study, watching him toss his modest possessions into the trunk of the Jag. She was talking to someone on the phone, but her eyes followed his every move.
It was noon already, but it felt later. The night before, by unspoken agreement, he and Harley had retired to their own rooms. To share their bodies was one kind of intimacy, to share a bed, another. Tucker couldn’t imagine waking up next to her, all warm and soft and sleepy, and then having the courage to leave. So he had slept in his own little bed in the maid’s room, although he’d actually done a lot more tossing and turning than sleeping. He’d awakened exhausted, then spent a long morning trying to avoid Harley as much as possible. To be with her, knowing he had to leave, filled him with a pain more severe in its own way than anything he had suffered after cracking up the Skywagon.
R.H. had made it clear, through Liz, that he would prefer Harley to stay on until September, as originally planned. The maid wouldn’t be returning until then, and he needed someone to look after things, especially given his precarious health. Liz had confided to Tucker that she had offered to stay there herself, but R.H. had declined, preferring not to inconvenience her. Tucker had sensed Liz’s disappointment.
Liz had stressed that Harley would not be expected to wait on R.H. hand and foot. She would be regarded, not as a domestic servant, but more as a guest who’d agreed to help out.
Unsurprisingly, no such offer of hospitality had been extended to Tucker, although Liz had told R.H. that he was there.
The job of packing and loading his things took less than ten minutes. He sat in the driver’s seat and pondered whether this was a good thing or not. Harley disappeared from the window and reappeared a few minutes later in the passenger seat next to him. So much for trying to avoid her.
She said, “That was Phil. He said to tell you you’re not so dumb, after all.”
Trying to match her studied nonchalance, Tucker said, “What does he know?”
“He said he was calling from the… It sounded like the castle?”
“That’s Kitty’s parents’ house,” Tucker explained, suddenly interested. “It’s about a quarter mile from here.”
“He said he wishes you could see it. All twenty-two rooms are literally filled with multicolored balloons saying, I Love You, Kitty.’ Every ceiling is covered with them. Kitty’s parents are not amused, but the boys are thrilled. Kitty, too. She’s calling off the lawyers and going back to him. He said it was like she was just looking for an excuse.”
“It worked!” he said. “Wow.”
“That was your idea? I guess you’re not so dumb.”
He couldn’t stop the grimace. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
There was an uncomfortable moment. Pressing on in her attempt to make normal conversation, Harley said, “I asked Phil if this means the trade is off now—your Jag for his house? And he laughed and said, ‘You didn’t really think I meant that, did you? Can’t you take a joke?’ And I said I’d never been able to, but I was working on it.” Tucker couldn’t help smiling. “His sons are begging him to let them release the balloons over the Sound. He’s making them wait all day in order to annoy ‘Lord and Lady Acton-Kemp’ as much as possible. I’m to tell you to watch the sky around sundown.”
He couldn’t look her in the face. “I’m afraid I won’t be here then.”
There was only a brief pause. “You’re going to leave right after your father gets home? ‘Hi, Dad, bye, Dad’?”
“No. Probably before.”
A longer pause this time. “Before? They’ll be here within the hour.”
He inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, Harley. It’s time to cut my losses.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s what you said that first night, when you walked away in the rain. That you knew how to cut your losses. If you had followed your instincts then and bolted, you’d still be in Alaska.”
“And I’d still walk with a cane and I’d still be smoking and I’d still be in constant pain. I know. I’m glad I stayed and I’ll always feel indebted to you for what you’ve done for me. I’ll always love you.” He spoke the words without intending to,
but there they were. She stared at him. “I love you, Harley. I do. You’re the first woman I ever loved, and the first one I ever waited for, ever struggled for, ever tried to become a better person for. I wanted things to work out between us, but when push came to shove, we just fell apart. Maybe we’re just too different to make a relationship work.”
“Phil and Kitty are different, and their relationship works. They weathered a crisis and overcame it because Phil followed your advice. He didn’t give up. That’s what you do when you’re in it for the long haul. You make it work. You fix it. You don’t bolt. I know you don’t know any other way, and I know you’re afraid—”
“Afraid?”
“Of commitment. But you can’t just walk away and pretend nothing happened. Not this time, Tucker. It’s not fair. You can’t make me fall in love with you and then…” Her chin trembled, her eyes were filled with sudden tears. Tucker took her hand. Seeming angry with herself, she rubbed the tears from her eyes. “And then just leave!”
Tucker sat wordlessly for a moment, awed by her teary declaration of love. So this is what it’s like when two people are in love, he thought. This is pretty scary stuff.
Softly he said, “I’d drive you crazy. Just like I drove my father crazy. You’re a lot like him. You like things just so. I like them pretty much however they fall.”
“Don’t underestimate your influence,” she said. “I don’t iron my blue jeans anymore.”
Tucker smiled. “Gee, and I was kind of getting used to those creases.”
She said, “Well, they’re history. And if I can change, your father can, too. At least stay till he gets here. He’ll be expecting you. Liz will have told him you’re here.”
“He’ll consider himself lucky not to have to confront me.”
“Confront you? You’re his son.”
Tucker rubbed the back of his neck. She just didn’t get it. “H
e thinks I just got out of prison, Harley. He thinks I made my living selling dope. He’s undoubtedly ashamed of me and horrified that I’ve spent the past six weeks living in his home.”
“So this is your opportunity to set him straight. Try telling him what really happened. There’s no reason to think he’ll be as dense about it as I was. Give him the benefit of the—”
“I’m telling you, it won’t work. We’re two personalities that just don’t mix. And now that I’ve done time, justified or not, there’s that stigma on top of everything else. He hated me then, and he’ll hate me even more now.”
“Hated you? Did you ever stop to wonder why he kept your room the same for twenty-one years? Why he’s got two pictures of you on his desk?” Tucker had no instant answer for that. She curled around in the passenger seat to face him. “Obviously he missed you. He probably regretted having made the mistakes that forced you to leave.”
“It would have helped if he hadn’t made them in the first place.”
“Look, I wasn’t there, and I don’t know what really happened, but I can’t help but draw certain conclusions based on what I do know. I know that your mother took her own life, and I know that your father was at least partially responsible. It’s doubtful that he ever acknowledged that responsibility to himself. People tend to protect themselves by denying that they caused something terrible to happen—in your father’s case, the suicide of a woman he seems to have truly loved. So he convinced himself that the fault lay not with him, but with Anjelica—in other words, that she was unstable. Given her impulsive, creative nature, so different from his own, that was an easy mental leap for him.”
“And an unfair one.”
“Possibly. Then there was you. He worried about you while you were growing up. You were creative, like her. You were also angry, once you found her death certificate. He didn’t understand any of it, and it scared him to think how you might turn out. You could destroy your life, too, unless he did something to stop it. He had to discipline you, to correct you, for your own good. Because he loved you. Not because he hated you. I think you know in your heart that he loves you, despite everything. Why else would you have thought about him like that after your plane went down, worrying that you’d die and he’d never know? Why else would you have come all the way back here? You wanted to patch things up with him.”
He said, “Well… I wanted to see him. It would be great to patch things up, but I never really thought that was possible.”
“It’s not, if you leave before he even gets here.” After a moment of silence, she withdrew her hand from his and pulled something from the pocket of her shorts: the little velvet bag. “I can’t keep these now.”
“Like I said before, I’m not taking them back.”
“Tucker—”
“Can’t I make just this one small gesture to thank you for everything you’ve done for me? Don’t deprive me of that right. Accept them. Please.” He could see the hesitation in her eyes, and then the small nod. “I’d like to see them on you. Would you mind?”
Shaking the little bag into the palm of her hand, she inserted the earrings and looked at him. He had to tuck her loose hair behind her ears in order to see them. He’d been right; she was meant to wear gold and rubies next to her skin. She looked like a beautiful statue cast in bronze, with sparkling green jewels for eyes.
He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Her arms wrapped around him and her mouth found his. She kissed him with a sense of urgency and passion that overwhelmed him. He returned the kiss unthinkingly, his senses rioting.
Releasing her mouth from his, she held him tightly. He felt the hot tears on her face. “I want you to be more to me than just a summer romance, just a beautiful memory. I want you to be a beautiful future. Nothing I say or do can force you to stay. Leave if you have to,” she said in a faltering voice, “but I can’t stand here and watch you drive away. I don’t think I could take that.”
She pulled back and looked up at him, her image wavering through the glaze of Tucker’s own unshed tears. He brushed the wetness from her cheeks with trembling fingertips.
“I’m going down to the beach,” she said. “I’m going to run.” He nodded, swallowing hard, not knowing what to say. She stroked his face with her hand, and he leaned into her palm, his eyes dosed, not wanting her touch to end. “I hope you’re here when I get back.”
Hearing the car door open, he rubbed his eyes, struggling to maintain his composure. When he opened them, she was sprinting away, toward the beach.
***
Harley climbed the boulder stairway and went directly to the front of the house. Her heart pounded wildly, not from exertion—a half-hour run was little more than a warm-up to her—but from anticipation. Would Tucker’s black Jag be sitting in the driveway when she got there?
It wasn’t.
“No,” she whispered, the word catching on the sob that convulsed her chest. No. No. She sank to the grass and buried her face in her hands, giving herself over to despair. Her whole body shook as she cried; she was beyond self-control.
You blew it. You blew it. You stupid idiot. How could you have let him leave? Why did you make him leave? You blew it.
The sound of a car on the road made her look up. A blue Volvo—Liz’s Volvo—pulled into the driveway. Harley jumped to her feet and darted into the house. Hurriedly she dried her face with a dish towel and located her seldom-worn sunglasses. It wouldn’t do to let them see she’d been crying. Walking out the front door, she met them on the porch.
It was hard to believe R.H. had cut his trip short for health reasons. He looked remarkably fit for a man pushing seventy, but that was probably just the tan. His resemblance to his son struck Harley immediately. His white hair was as short as Tucker’s, and he was nearly as tall. Against the tan, his silver-blue eyes glared like two tiny hundred-watt light bulbs. He was not happy.
Liz, tall and slender with a regal bearing, looked like R.H.’s twin sister, albeit in a better mood. She wore a linen pants outfit, and her short gray hair was concealed beneath a straw hat. The pants surprised Harley; she had never seen her former professor in anything but Chanel suits. Retirement seemed to have taken the starch out of her wardrobe.
Liz kissed her on both cheeks. R.H. shook her hand and looked around.
Harley cleared her throat. “How was your flight, Mr. Hale?”
“They’re all the same.”
“Have you eaten? I can make you some—”
“Don’t bother,” said Liz. “We stopped on the way.” She looked around, too. They were looking for Tucker.
“Iced tea?” offered Harley. “Or lemonade. I have some fresh lemons, I can make you some—”
Liz touched her arm. “We’re fine, my dear. Tell me, where’s Tucker?”
They both looked at her. Summoning a steady tone, she said, “Tucker’s gone.” The exact same words R.H. had used when she had asked him about Tucker, shortly after he hired her. Tucker’s gone. A statement both accurate and vague.
Liz hesitated. “Gone. Do you mean he just stepped out for a moment, or—”
Gravel crunched at the end of the driveway, and all three heads turned to watch the vehicle that pulled up and parked behind Liz’s blue Volvo.
It was Tucker’s black Jag.
Harley stared, wide-eyed, as Tucker emerged, his own gaze riveted on his father.
“Here he is!” Liz crowed, descending the porch steps to kiss his cheeks. “Look at you! You look wonderful! Where have you been? I began to worry you’d gotten cold feet.”
Tucker’s eyes met Harley’s for a fleeting second. “I had an errand to run. I had to go to the bank in the village.”
His words extinguished the tiny flicker of hope that had sparked within her breast at his reappearance. He had gone to the bank, obviously to empty out his safe-deposit box. He would be leaving, after all, although apparently he had taken her advice and decided to see R.H. first.
R.H. studied his son from the p
orch. “Tucker.”
“Sir.”
No one spoke for a moment, and Harley swore she could hear the electric crackle of tension in the air.
Finally, nodding toward Tucker’s car, R.H. said, “Is that the XJR-S?” Slowly he walked down the steps and over to the car.
Tucker met him there. “That’s right.”
R.H. ran a respectful hand over the front fender. “What’s she got inside?”
“Six-liter overhead-cam V-12.”
R.H. nodded thoughtfully. “Horsepower?”
“Three-eighteen.”
“Pop the hood.” Both men spent a minute admiring the gleaming new engine. Their resemblance was enhanced by their identical attire: chinos and dark, weathered polo shirts. “How does she ride?”
Tucker took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to the older man. With R.H. behind the wheel and Tucker in the passenger seat, the Jag tore out of the driveway and disappeared.
Rejoining Harley on the porch, Liz said, “Men have this absolutely amazing capacity for superficial communication in even the most emotion-charged circumstances.” She used the same measured tone with which she used to deliver her statistics, lectures. “They do it because they’re frightened, poor things, and they generally use sports or toys as props to facilitate the process. With R.H. and Tucker, vehicles are the toys of choice. Let’s have a drink.”
“Iced tea or—”
“Have you got any single-malt Scotch?”
The liquor cabinet was in the study, so that’s where Harley led Liz, then excused herself to shower and change into a sundress before joining her. For an hour or so they made preoccupied conversation while they waited for the men to return. Liz nursed two single-malts straight up; Harley, two iced teas. They spoke briefly about R.H.’s aborted trip. Liz told of R.H.’s anguish at feeling compelled to put the Anjelica up for sale, since the strain of sailing her appeared to be more than his heart could stand.
When they finally heard the Jag slowly pull up, they each took a window, shamelessly peeking through the closed curtains. R.H. turned the engine off and sat quietly for a moment, listening to his son talk. Nodding thoughtfully, he responded. This went on for some time, none of it audible to the two women.
Hale's Point Page 19
