She didn’t want to talk about what she had done. It was no more than what many others had done. “The radio station raised almost a million dollars in donations for the victims and the Red Cross,” she said, channeling the subject in a slightly different direction. “I’m proud of that.”
“You should be.”
They fell silent again, as they had been for so many miles. She turned her thoughts away from those bleak days. Life went on, and the city was moving forward. And she needed to move forward with it. Come Monday, she would begin negotiations on the syndication contract in earnest.
“Traffic’s not bad at all this evening,” she said as they neared the heart of the city. There was a steady stream of headlights outbound to the suburbs, though, as men and women headed home from work. “Are you hungry? Do you want to stop someplace for a bite to eat?”
He shook his head. “My housekeeper should have restocked the refrigerator when she cleaned yesterday. I’ll find something. Don’t worry.”
“Okay.” But she did worry. The doctor had been more than a little unhappy about Blake checking himself out of the hospital so early. But he hadn’t asked her to stay and help him, and she wasn’t going to volunteer.
He hadn’t said or done anything since he’d regained his senses that indicated he remembered saying he loved her up there on the mountain.
Or had she only thought she’d heard the words?
She gave up on keeping a conversation going and concentrated on her driving. Blake did the same, only breaking the silence to give her directions to his building. “You can just pull up out front and drop me off,” he told her. “The doorman can get my bag.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Where’s the entrance to your parking garage? I’ve got you this far. I’m going to make sure you get safely to your own bed.”
“That’s exactly where I want to be,” he said, and something in the tone of his voice set off little shock waves of awareness so deep inside her that they echoed in her chest and belly like heartbeats.
His building was an Art Deco masterpiece close enough to Central Park that the upper floors would have a good view. She bet the apartments had high ceilings and fireplaces and claw-footed bathtubs. It was the kind of building she’d love to call home.
If you married Blake it would be your home.
Love. Marriage. Only a week ago she’d connected Daryl’s name to those words.
Now she was linking them with Blake.
She felt as though she’d walked through the looking glass. Everything was moving much too fast. But regardless of the warning bells inside her head, her body still thrummed with desire for the man in the seat beside her.
Only desire, not love? How could she tell? Would she ever completely trust her feelings again? Would she always have these doubts? It was an unwelcome thought and it circled to her fears that it would carry over into her work. Then where would she be? Alone and out of a job.
Emma’s mind was still racing when she pulled into the entrance to the underground garage and then the empty parking space Blake indicated. Thankfully it was within a few yards of the elevator. She turned off the engine, and silence filled her little car. He unfolded his long legs from the cramped front seat and used the armrest, and then the roof of the car to lever himself upright.
“You couldn’t wait thirty seconds for me to help you,” she scolded as she hauled his duffel out of her trunk, letting her perfectly justified annoyance at his stubbornness push her uncertainties and sexual frustration into a tiny, dimly lit corner of her mind.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure,” she said. “You’re ready to run a marathon. Can you make it to the elevator or should I call nine-one-one here and now?”
When the elevator doors slid open on Blake’s floor, he motioned to the left, preceding her into the carpeted hallway. He had a corner apartment, it seemed. The view would be spectacular. When he dug in the pocket of his sweats for his key, Emma kept her eyes averted, but it did no good. Immediately she was transported to the lean-to, could feel again the heaviness of his sex along the edge of her hand as she searched for his penknife. The desire and longing she’d suppressed for an entire five minutes came surging back, and her pulse rate kicked up several beats. The key turned easily in the lock, and he swung the heavy, six-paneled door open into a wood-floored foyer. The room beyond glowed softly in the reflection of the lights of Central Park shining through two tall, sheer-covered windows.
Blake walked slowly into the living room. He rested both hands on the back of a huge leather couch and bowed his head. Emma let his bag slide off her shoulder, kicking the door closed. Blake never even flinched at the sound as it thudded shut behind her.
As Emma watched, uncertain what to do next, he moved around the couch and lowered himself stiffly onto it. The uncertainty of his movements released her from her hesitation. Before he could protest, she stooped to lift his feet onto the cushions and untied his shoes so he could toe them off. They landed on the soft woven carpeting with two substantial thuds. “Thanks,” he said with a rueful twist of his lips. “I never realized it was such a damned long walk up from the garage.”
“You ought to be in bed.”
The smile faded from his mouth. “This will do fine.”
She grabbed a throw pillow and positioned it behind his head. Glancing around for something to use as a blanket, she got her first good look at the room. It did have high, corniced ceilings and a fireplace along one wall. The colors were rich and warm, shades of brown and mellow ivory with touches of gold and copper. The furniture was substantial, supple leather and dark wood. A man’s room. If Heather had wanted to change things in Blake’s life, she hadn’t gotten as far as his living room. Heather again. She had to get the woman out of her mind.
“I’ll get you a blanket.” She stood, hesitating. Getting a blanket would mean going into his bedroom. She could feel heat creeping from her belly to her breasts. No, not his bedroom. Not yet. “Or a throw, maybe? Yes, a throw. Do you have one lying about?”
Blake grabbed her wrist. Regardless of lingering weakness and fatigue, his grip was strong and sure. “There’s one right here, at the end of the couch.”
“Oh.” She looked where he was pointing. The throw was mere inches from her hand. Cashmere, soft as down. “If it was a snake it would have bitten me.” The saying was one of Martha’s favorites, and she blurted it out without thinking. Emma felt the heat rise even higher, into her cheeks.
“It’s okay, Emma. I don’t need a blanket. I just need to catch my breath. You don’t have to stick around and wait on me hand and foot.”
“I’m not waiting on you hand and foot. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable before I leave.” His touch was making her anything but comfortable. She searched frantically for something to do that would remove her from his immediate vicinity before she threw herself on the couch beside him. “Are you hungry? Where’s the kitchen? You said the housekeeper would have stocked the refrigerator. I’ll make you something to eat.”
He didn’t loose his hold on her wrist. “I don’t want anything to eat.”
“Well, I do. It’s been hours since lunchtime.” She gave her hand a tug, and he released her. “Where—”
He pointed toward the wall where the fireplace stood flanked by two doorways. “Door to the right. Down the hall.” Emma fled.
The kitchen had been updated recently. The appliances were stainless steel, the granite countertops and tiled floor in the same shades of earth tones as the living room. There was a small alcove with a polished wood table and chairs whose bay window opened onto a balcony and another spectacular view of the park. She opened the restaurant-size refrigerator and found a number of covered plastic dishes. One of them contained a rich, aromatic vegetable soup, and Emma’s stomach rumbled when its scent reached her nostrils. Blake’s h
ousekeeper was obviously a treasure.
In five minutes she had the soup simmering on the stove and at least a little bit of her composure back. She couldn’t find tea bags, and it was too late for coffee, so she settled for glasses of bottled water. There was, however, a wonderful crusty loaf of multigrain bread and what looked like homemade jam in the refrigerator. She added spoons and napkins to the bowls of soup and loaded everything on a tray.
Emma stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, then swiped her damp palms down the legs of her slacks. She couldn’t hide out in Blake’s kitchen forever. He was hungry and needed nourishment. A quick mental image of cooking for him every night in this kitchen streaked through her mind. She’d never had fantasies like that before—except that day in the old McGillicuddy farm kitchen. It was almost as unsettling as the dreams of sex with him that tantalized her in the wee small hours of the night.
She returned to the living room and placed the tray on a table between the windows. “It’s soup,” she said, turning to find him asleep, his head resting on one hand propped on the back of the couch. The pain lines had smoothed out, but a slight frown between his brows told her he was still uncomfortable.
What should she do? Wake him? Leave him to rest? Go home before she found herself on her knees, brushing a stray, stubborn wave of dark hair off his forehead? Bending forward to kiss him? Lying beside him to keep him safe and warm, as she’d tried so hard to do those terrifying hours on the mountain?
No. She had to be honest with herself. This time she didn’t want to lie beside Blake to protect him, but to love him.
A lamp on a table beside the couch was shining directly on his face. He frowned a little harder in his sleep, as though annoyed by the glare. She had taken a step or two forward without realizing it. Her last thought, making love with Blake, set off warning bells. A ringing in her ears that would do justice to a four-alarm blaze. But she ignored the inner clamor and crossed the remaining expanse of carpet. She turned off the light, and soft shadows closed in around them. Then she did what her heart bid, not what her mind ordered, and sank to her knees beside the couch. She reached out and laid her hand gently on the side of his face. His skin was cool to the touch, a little rough. He probably needed to shave twice a day. Another intimate detail she wanted to become familiar with.
“Blake,” she whispered. She couldn’t have spoken louder if she wanted to. Her throat was constricted with nerves and longing, a paralyzing combination. “Blake.”
His eyes opened, more brown than green-gold in the half light. He stared through her for a long moment, then seemed to come to himself. He smiled. “You’re still here.”
A smile, nothing more. But Emma was grateful she was sitting down. Her knees would have been too weak to hold her upright otherwise. “I’m still here. I wouldn’t leave without telling you. I made you some soup.”
“I don’t want any soup,” he said.
“What do you want?” she asked, no more able to stop the words than she could fly away.
“You. Making love to you is all I’ve wanted to do since almost the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
Emma’s heart fluttered in her chest. But that had only been seven days ago. Too soon, too soon. The inner warnings screeched. Slow down. Wait. Don’t leap before you look, the way you did with Daryl.
“That’s what you want, too, isn’t it?”
Once more the words jumped unbidden to her lips. “God help me, yes.”
His hand closed on her upper arm. He urged her closer until she was sitting beside him on the couch. She braced her arm above him, settling her weight gingerly, careful not to cause him more pain. He continued to watch her, leaning against the pillows. His grip didn’t lessen. When he raised his head, she bent hers to meet him more than halfway, and her eyes closed reflexively. The siren shriek of warning was silenced as her brain shut down. She was nothing but a shivering mass of need and desire. She was lost and she didn’t care. All she could see were bright colored pinpoints of light, and then darkness, as his mouth found hers.
He tasted of the same need, the same desire she was experiencing. Her mouth opened to the urgency of that need, the inevitability of that mutual desire. Resting her palms lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him. Beneath her fingers she felt the beat of his heart, felt her own accelerate as blood rushed through her veins to pool in the very center of her. She bent forward until her breasts brushed the fabric of his shirt, longing to stretch out beside him and have him take her in his arms.
As though reading her mind, Blake shifted his weight, sliding his hands beneath her sweater, cupping her breasts. Her nipples hardened at his touch, and she sucked in her breath on a moan. Blake skimmed the sweater over her head and strung a chain of kisses along her neck and throat to the swell of her breasts above her bra. He lifted his head, leaving her aching for more. She wanted his mouth on her nipples, his hand between her thighs. Instinctively, she arched toward him.
He fumbled with the clasp behind her back but gave up with a frustrated growl. Emma reached behind her and undid it, letting the wisp of cotton and lace fall beside her sweater. He covered her breasts with his hands and once more lifted his head to claim her lips. After that there was no turning back. Emma unbuttoned his shirt without breaking the kiss. She let her fingers curl into the crisp hair on his chest, felt the rock solidness of bone and muscles beneath her palms.
Kneeling by the couch, she slipped her hands under the waistband of Blake’s sweatpants, uncovering the dressing over his wound. He lifted his hips, and she pushed the sweats down and off, then stood to kick off her shoes and wiggle out of her jeans. She stretched out beside him, feeling slightly decadent and wholly feminine. She had never done anything like this before, lie naked on a butter-soft leather couch with a man she loved. No, she wouldn’t try to analyze the rightness, the utter conviction of that thought. She would only feel.
She trailed her fingers over the flat plane of his stomach, mesmerized by the stark whiteness of the gauze bandage against the darkness of his skin. Then she let her fingers wander lower until she closed her hand around the solidness of his sex.
“Emma, damn it. I don’t have any way to protect you if we go any further.” His voice was a low, feral growl, and she turned toward him, her hand still wrapped tight around him.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m on the pill.” She didn’t want to think about birth control, or second thoughts, or even think at all. She only wanted to feel, to explore, but he was too impatient for that. He urged her upward until she straddled him, then he pulled her down, taking first one, then the other swollen nipple between his teeth, teasing, arousing until she splayed her hands along his head and brought his mouth to her lips.
His tongue invaded her without preamble, and the sensations he produced demanded repetition in an even more intimate manner. She slid down, letting her breasts brush against his chest, until she felt him at the most intimate of openings and took him deep inside.
He gasped and surged upward, completing the union. Emma met him thrust for thrust, taking the initiative, setting the pace, because she knew the movement must cause him as much pain as pleasure. Time ceased to have meaning for her. She was no longer herself, a being alone, apart, separate. She was a part of him, a melding of bodies and minds and hearts. Arching her back, she took all of him inside her. Then she lowered her head, sought his mouth once more with her own. That final joining sent a ripple of pleasure arcing through her. She climaxed around him. Her release gave him his own, and he shuddered within and without.
Emma laid her head on Blake’s shoulder, dazed and disoriented, retaining only enough sense to keep from resting her full weight on his injured side. She had never responded to lovemaking quite that way before. They were still joined, and she didn’t want to break the connection. She felt him lift his hand and smooth it over her hair, his breathing beginning to slow an
d even out.
Slowly she relaxed, coming back to herself. She was so tired, so sated, she could barely hold her eyes open. “Wow,” she mumbled against his throat.
“Wow, yourself,” he whispered in her ear with a chuckle.
“That was pretty spectacular.”
“Yeah, and I’m only operating on half my cylinders.”
She attempted to sit up, her hand going instinctively to touch the bandage on his left side. “I don’t think I could live through a full-scale demonstration.”
“Me, either.” He groaned, though she had barely touched him.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he said. “It was just a twinge. Lie down.”
“We can’t stay here all night.” She was beginning to regain her senses and her inhibitions. She couldn’t sleep naked on his couch. She needed to get dressed and go home. All her old doubts and fears came crowding back, released from the temporary prison her desire for Blake had exiled them to.
Blake held her still. “You don’t have to stay all night. But don’t go for a little while, please.”
She could no more refuse him than she could pull down the moon. “For a little while,” she said, stifling a yawn. She was so tired, not even her doubts about the wisdom of what she had just done could keep her awake. There would be plenty of time for regrets in the morning, but not now. Not with Blake holding her in his arms.
He pulled the cashmere throw over both of them and shifted his weight to find a more comfortable position. Emma snuggled into the curve of his body and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him very softly.
Blake turned his head to kiss her. “I love you, Emma,” he whispered against her hair, but she was already fast asleep.
* * *
DAMN HIS TIMING. Blake shifted position once more to relieve the incessant ache in his side. He needed a pain pill to get to sleep, and he needed to stretch out in his own bed. But he wasn’t about to move an inch from where he was. In the first place, his bedroom and bathroom were still filled with reminders of Heather. It didn’t make one damned bit of difference to him if he saw her toothbrush by the sink or her lingerie in the wardrobe, but it sure as hell would make a difference to Emma.
Strangers When We Meet Page 18
