Can't Stop Loving You

by Peggy Webb

  More. He wanted more.

  He skimmed the neckline of her gown with his fingertips. The satin was cool to the touch, the skin underneath lush and warm.

  She drew a sharp breath. Her back arched slightly off the mattress as she leaned toward his hands.

  Helen. My love.

  With one finger he drew a line from her throat, around the curve of her left breast, across her flat belly to the warm juncture of her thighs.

  Her sigh was softer than a whisper, so soft, he barely heard it.

  Joy surged through him. His touch made Helen sigh.

  She arched toward him again. He traced her legs upward, from the curve of her foot to the inside of her knee. She bent her left leg, lifted her foot. The gown fell away.

  In the moonlight she looked like a fallen flower, a creamy gardenia. He was filled with her, drunk with her. His senses reeled.

  She spread her hands across his chest, fingers wide. Then in one slow, sensuous move, she dipped a fingertip inside his shirt and drew erotic circles on his chest.

  It was too much to bear. He would soon be totally out of control.

  Tell me you want me, Helen. Tell me to stay.

  He knew she would not ask, knew he could not stay. People who had been badly burned knew how to avoid the fire.

  He drew a deep, steadying breath, then smoothed her gown down over her legs. Taking a light quilt from the end of the bed, he covered her.

  Their eyes locked, held. Hers questioned. His begged.

  The silence between them was deafening. His entire body pulsed with it.

  There was only one thing to do. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek.

  Tenderly.

  She sighed, then closed her eyes.

  He took one last glance, memorizing the way her lashes fanned across her porcelain cheeks, the way the moonlight illuminated the pulse that beat against her creamy skin like butterfly wings.

  Go. While you still can.

  He left her softly, his footfalls swallowed up by the deep carpet.

  The door closed behind him with a finality that sounded like doom.

  SEVEN

  In the bedroom next to Helen's, Marsha lay under the covers wide awake and tense. She had heard Helen leave just as she had heard Brick's door open earlier.

  She might be getting old, but she didn't miss a trick.

  Her guess was that Helen was headed to the kitchen. For a woman as skinny as she was, she had the appetite of a stevedore.

  Brick did, too, of course. But he was a man. Healthy men were supposed to eat heartily. And he was a handsome, healthy specimen of a man.

  No wonder Helen had been fit to be tied after rehearsals.

  Lord, would they get back together? Marsha half hoped they did, half prayed they didn't.

  She knew Helen would never survive another parting. And until they straightened things out, a reunion would surely lead to disaster.

  Her bedroom door creaked on its hinges and swung inward, leaving a small crack. That made twice since she'd been here, and she thought she'd shut it good before she went to bed. The way old houses shifted and settled, she was going to have to prop a chair against her door.

  Marsha got up to shut her door and saw them —Brick and Helen. Together. Helen in his arms. His face tender, hers enraptured.

  Marsha didn't mean to be spying, but she couldn't help herself. Lord, if ever two people belonged together, it was the two of them.

  Brick carried his ex-wife into her bedroom and shut the door. Marsha dabbed a tear out of her eye and settled back into bed.

  Was it wrong of her to hope?

  Down the hall another door opened. Barb peered through the crack in the bedroom door, then scuttled back inside.

  "Shoot," she said.

  "What's wrong, honey?"

  Matt Rider leaned against the headboard of his bed, the sheet drawn up around his waist.

  "I can't leave yet. Brick and Helen are in the hallway."

  "Brick and Helen?" Grinning, Matt wrapped the sheet around his waist and hurried to the door to peek over her shoulder. "Well, I'll be…"

  "What does that mean?"

  "It's about time."

  He peered over her shoulder until Brick had disappeared into his ex-wife's bedroom, carrying his ex-wife with him.

  "I guess this means I won't have to put my plan into action after all," Barb said.

  "What plan is that, darlin'?"

  "I was going to pick a public fight with Brick and return his engagement ring. Shoot, I was kinda looking forward to it."

  Matt hooted with laughter. "You'd have done it, wouldn't you?"

  "It was the only way I could think of to let Helen know I was out of the picture without betraying Brick."

  Matt cupped her neck and threaded his fingers in her hair.

  "Do you have to go yet?"

  She melted against him. "I could stay. It's a few more hours till morning."

  Matt took her hand and led her back to the bed.

  From the moment Clifford had called act 2, scene 1 he'd been nervous as a bird in a pet shop full of cats. Much to his relief Brick and Helen Sullivan were breezing through the rehearsal without any signs of the personal upheaval that had marred yesterday's rehearsal—though they both looked a little peaked, as if they hadn't slept a wink. He guessed even actors were human.

  In spite of their appearances, both Brick and Helen were in fine form. Brick strutted around like a turkey-cock, spouting Petruchio's lines as if he were the only actor alive who could do them justice.

  Clifford thought that perhaps he was.

  " 'We will have rings, and things, and fine array'," he said.

  Bravo, Clifford thought. This reunion of the great Sullivans was going to be a smashing success, and he was going to get his share of the credit.

  " 'And, kiss me, Kate'," Brick said. " 'We will be married o' Sunday'."

  Clifford leaned forward in his seat for the kiss. Onstage the Sullivans had always been magic together.

  The moment Helen had been dreading finally came. She braced herself for the torrid kiss she knew was coming. She'd seen it in Brick's eyes. From the moment he'd walked onstage, his eyes had been burning with passion.

  It was the very reason she had not gone down to breakfast, the reason she had been as late as possible at rehearsals… so she wouldn't have to have any personal contact with Brick, so all their interaction would take place onstage.

  Brick's arm came around her waist. She stiffened, expecting to be yanked so close, she could feel each of his individual ribs.

  "Loosen up, Helen," Brick said. "I don't bite."

  "You'd better not. I have a lethal knee."

  Brick turned to Clifford. "Sorry, Cliff. Let's take that from the top."

  "Fine. From the top."

  Helen mentally smoothed her ruffled emotions. Just that mere touch had been enough to set off fireworks underneath her skin. What was she to do? She had fallen in love with her husband again… and he belonged to another woman.

  " 'We will have rings, and things…' " Brick's magnificent voice washed over her.

  Helen barely heard a word he said. She was readying herself for the kiss.

  His arm snaked out. She prepared to melt into him and instead found herself a good two inches away from his chest, not even touching.

  His eyes were full of wicked glee as he leaned close.

  Brick Sullivan was up to something.

  Helen didn't dare close her eyes. Instead she kept them wide open.

  His pucker was the most exaggerated thing she'd ever seen. He looked as if he were preparing to kiss a frog.

  She braced herself… and felt a breeze stir her cheek as he kissed the air half an inch from her lips.

  She jerked back as if she'd been stung. Hands on hips, she faced the front row where Clifford sat with his jaw hanging open.

  "That's the most cowardly kiss in the history of theater." Helen brushed her hair off her flushed face. "Even amateurs can do better
than that."

  "What's the matter, Helen?" Brick asked. "Feeling deprived?"

  She wanted to claw the smirk off his face.

  Deprived, indeed. She'd show him how she was feeling.

  "You may be God's gift to women offstage, Brick Sullivan, but onstage with me you are nothing but a leading man. I expect you to act the part."

  "And just how much acting would you have the leading man do?" His mouth turned up in devilish mirth.

  "Enough so the audience thinks Petruchio at least means it when he kisses Kate."

  "Ah, it's the kiss we're talking about."

  "Well, what did you think? The weather?"

  Clifford had resorted to groaning and was close to tearing out his hair. Offstage, Barb and Matt were laughing so hard, they had to hold their sides, and Marsha was trying to figure out what in the world was going on.

  "Lordy, Lordy," she said. "Cozying up one minute and fighting like cats and dogs the next. I'm going to quit this job before it kills me."

  "Okay." Clifford left his front row seat and propped his elbow on the stage. "Let's do the kiss again."

  Helen took her place. Brick winked at her.

  So… he wanted to play games, did he? He'd better watch out, or she might give him a dose of his own medicine.

  " 'Kiss me, Kate . . '." Brick said, reaching for her.

  Helen sidestepped. "I'd as soon kiss a frog."

  "That's not in the script."

  "What's the matter? You're an actor. Don't you know how to ad-lib?"

  "Ad-lib Shakespeare?"

  "Why not? Even Shakespeare could use a little improving after four hundred years."

  Incoherent sounds came from the front row. Laughter from the wings.

  "You're afraid of the kiss," Brick said.

  "You're the one who's afraid."

  "I'm afraid, am I?"

  Brick stalked her. Her chin came up defiantly, and she stood her ground.

  "Yes," she taunted.

  " 'Kiss me, Kate..'."

  "Never!"

  His laughter boomed around the stage.

  "A wicked wench does nothing but enhance a man's appetite."

  He reached for her. She jumped away, laughing.

  "Settle your appetite with a docile pussycat. I'll have none of you."

  "You'll have all of me, or my name's not Petruchio."

  Like a high-bred filly teasing her stallion, Helen danced around the stage, always just beyond Brick's reach.

  Shaking his head, Clifford threw his script away.

  "Is that Shakespeare?" Barb whispered to Matt.

  "It's Helen and Brick… at their best."

  Onstage Helen's Kate taunted Brick's Petruchio.

  "What shall I call you then? A worm? A dog?"

  "Best beware, my fiery Kate. Worms do turn, and even dogs will have their day."

  "Not while I have breath."

  "Then it's best to steal your breath away."

  Brick lunged, trapping her against the garden wall. Helen felt the flimsy set piece give under her weight. It was either fall backward into an ignoble heap or lean toward Brick.

  She took the lesser of two evils. His eyes lit with pure delight as she pressed close. She could have counted each individual hair shaft on his face if she had wanted to.

  But she had other things on her mind… such as trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to tamp down the indescribable joy she felt at being in his arms once more.

  " 'Kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday'."

  Brick's declaration of Petruchio's intentions sent shivers across her spine. He sounded as if he meant it.

  His lips came down on hers, and all logical thought flew out of her mind. There was no stage kiss for them this time. Together they set off fireworks.

  Clifford clutched the edge of his seat so hard, his knuckles turned white. The onlookers in the wings fell into awed silence.

  The two onstage kissed as if they never meant to let go. Their exit was postponed indefinitely.

  Helen wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He snagged her hips with one hand and her shoulders with the other. They swayed under the impact of the kiss.

  His tongue found hers and locked with it in a delicious duel. She wound her right leg around him, and he broadened his stance to accommodate her weight.

  "Break time, everybody," Clifford said.

  But the two onstage didn't hear. Nor did they hear the exeunt of Marsha, Barb, Matt, all the animals, and all the stagehands.

  Alone in the playhouse, they continued their single-minded exploration of each other.

  Helen had lain awake all night waiting for this moment, knowing it would come. She was powerless to stop it and reluctant to try.

  Brick was magic. Always had been, always would be.

  Was she foolish to steal this bit of magic in New Hampshire? Foolish to kiss her husband with such abandon, knowing he belonged to another?

  Funny. She'd never stopped thinking of Brick Sullivan as her husband.

  Her mouth, already bruised from his kisses in the kitchen, ached under his assault. It was a beautiful ache, a glorious pain.

  What was she going to do when the play was over? How would she survive when the curtain went down and the lights went out?

  Don't think. Just feel.

  He pressed her against the wall, and it tilted dangerously under their weight. Steadying them, he propelled them to the center of the stage, still joined mouth to mouth and hip to hip.

  Trapped by their passion, they stood in the spotlight so long that sweat began to inch down the sides of their faces. They couldn't get enough of each other. Brick pulled her close, molding her hips. She arched into him. He slid his hands under her skirt, shoved it aside, and fitted her closer.

  Soon there would be no turning back. Both of them understood that, knew that there was only so much control that should be asked of any human being.

  It was Helen who wrenched free. She ran a shaking hand across her lips as if she could wipe away all evidence of what she had done. But her lips kept the pouty, bruised look of a woman well kissed.

  Brick shoved his hands into his pockets.

  Did he do that to keep from touching her? She hoped so. She hoped she made him as crazy as he was making her.

  "Is that what you wanted, Helen?"

  Too late now for lies.

  "Yes."

  He stepped away from her so that no part of them was touching.

  "So did I… God help me, so did I."

  Real agony twisted his face. Shocked, Helen stood in the glare of the spotlight, silent.

  He turned his back to her, rammed his hands deeper into his pockets. She thought he would leave. Brick Sullivan had never stood around to witness the aftermath of anything. They'd had fights in their five-year marriage. Didn't everybody? But the fights had never ended with any resolutions of the problems. Both of them were explosive. If one of them had the last word, the other always made the best exit.

  The storm clouds never lasted long. He'd come smiling to her thirty minutes later with a handful of gifts, chocolate bars he'd bought at the corner store, a bouquet of wilted daisies he'd picked in the backyard, a perfectly shaped red leaf that had fallen from the maple tree beside the driveway.

  She always forgave him. Who wouldn't? He had that special smile, that special touch.

  Making up meant a torrid session in the bed or in front of the hearth or wherever they happened to be. They had camouflaged every problem with passion.

  Now they were trapped on the stage, stripped of the one solution they'd always depended upon.

  Helen's heart hurt so much that she pressed her hands over it to keep it from breaking and falling to the floor in a million pieces.

  "I wanted your child," she said.

  Brick stiffened as if he'd taken a hard punch in the stomach, then whirled toward her, his eyes blazing.

  "Don't!"

  "I want to tell you the truth."

  "It's too late.
The truth will change nothing."

  "It will change this…" Helen spread her hands wide in a hopeless gesture. "… this horrible warfare that's going on between us."

  "Warfare is preferable to hell."

  Their eyes locked. For a small eternity they held the fierce stare. Helen was the first to turn away.

  "All right, then." She wheeled around to leave. Her footsteps sounded hollow on the stage floor. She had almost gained the wings when his voice roared out.

  "Wait!"

  What was the point in staying? He was right. It was far too late to change things. She was making a life of her own, and he had Barb.

  She kept walking.

  "Helen." He caught her shoulders from behind, gently turned her around.

  His face. She'd never seen a man's face so filled with emotion.

  "What is the truth, Helen? Tell me. I want to hear it. I need to hear it."

  "What good will it do? What has happened, happened. Nothing can change that."

  "No, nothing can change that. But maybe the truth will take away some of the pain."

  "I never meant to hurt you, Brick."

  "I didn't know that then, Helen." His thumbs circled her shoulders. "Maybe I know it now, but I didn't then."

  She absorbed the feel of his hands on her. No matter what happened between them, no matter where she was, no matter what she was doing, she would always remember the feel of Brick's hands on her skin, remember and cherish.

  "I wanted your child more than anything in the world, Brick. I used to dream about having a daughter with your smile and your eyes. I'd dream about dressing her in frilly clothes and taking her to the park to watch the ducks on the pond."

  Brick's eyes were moist. He cleared his throat.

  "You don't put frilly clothes on kids when you take them to the park, Helen."

  "Why not? I'd like to know."

  "Because… you take kids to the park so they can get dirty."

  "Why can't you get a frilly dress dirty?"

  "You get frilly dresses dirty in Sunday school. When my daughter goes to the park, she goes in tomboy clothes so the other kids won't make fun of her."

  "My daughter will not be a tomboy."

  "She'll be a Sullivan."

  Helen put her hands on her hips.