Love Lies

by MaryJanice Davidson

  But it wasn’t just his looks, he was intense, intelligent, had a marvelous sense of humor (though he claimed only she and Derik could make him laugh—surely that couldn’t be the strict truth), and cared about her. He had shown in dozens of ways that he cared. She was very glad for this, because she had the lovely suspicion she had fallen in love with him. Suspicion, nothing—she’d known, from the moment Derik struck him into unconsciousness. She wouldn’t have been so afraid if she didn’t love him.

  That was all right, though. A little scary, sure, but he seemed to like her well enough, weirdo that she was. He claimed to enjoy her idiosyncrasies, and that was a definite first. She hoped in time, when the hurt from the Crys-dull years faded a bit more, that he could love her back. She hoped, yes, but she was fairly confident, too, and wasn’t that something to be happy about?

  Yes.

  She crossed the room and pulled the sheet over his lower body. She didn’t know if he was tremendously modest or not—if he was it was too bad, because she’d just drunk the sight of him in like a good wine—but this might make him a little more comfortable. Then she shook his arm.

  He came awake fairly quickly, which surprised her. Maybe he’d just been dozing. “What is it now?” he snapped.

  “This is the concierge with your 2:30 a.m. wake-up call,” she said in a too-smooth operator’s voice.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, peering at her in the gloom. “Come down here.”

  She bent over him, thinking he was going to ask for another glass of water—and squeaked in surprise when he hauled her down beside him. She was suddenly aware that the only thing separating them was one of Victor’s T-shirts, which he had kindly loaned her.

  “What are you up to?” she asked as he rolled her over onto her back.

  “That’s got to be one of the all-time stupid questions,” he remarked.

  “What, were you lying in wait for me?” she teased. He seemed quite lucid, and she’d get around to the questions in a minute. It was actually kind of fun, so far. At least he wasn’t growling at her. “Like a hungry wolf?”

  “Of course I was waiting for you,” he said reasonably. His hand slipped beneath her T-shirt and rested on her stomach, then moved up and caressed the tender undersides of her breasts. She sucked in breath, previously unaware that the skin there was so deliciously sensitive.

  “I love that sound,” he sighed when she gasped again. He slowly pushed her shirt up, past her breasts, and then she could feel the warmth of his mouth where his fingers had just been.

  She arched beneath his touch, thinking frantically. Decide, she told herself, before he gets you too hot to care.

  “Victor…”

  “Yes, sweet?” His voice was muffled against her flesh.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “Quite sure.” He paused in his delicious ministrations and looked at her. “Are you?”

  “Yes. I’ve wanted this for so long…since we met, it seems.”

  “It has been a long time,” he agreed. She puzzled that one over for a moment, and then his mouth was on her, kissing and licking, and she put it out of her mind, assuming he meant it had been a long time for him. Since his divorce.

  “You are beyond divine,” he said, his voice muffled against her nipple. His hand was cupped around one breast, rubbing, stroking, while he lavished attention on the other one. She noticed for the first time how warm he was. It should have been a pleasing, sleepy-warmth, but it worried her for some reason.

  He left her breasts and settled on top of her, holding her face in his (warm, too warm, he’s too warm) hands and kissing her. She opened her mouth to ask him if he was sure he was all right, and his tongue thrust inside her mouth, startling her and overwhelming her at the same time.

  “Get rid of this thing,” he growled, tugging at her T-shirt.

  “Yes,” she panted, fairly ripping it off in her desire to press her flesh against his.

  His hands were everywhere, and everywhere was delicious warmth, heat…one of his hands slipped between her knees, and then he was caressing her inner petals with gentle fingers. Now he was kissing her chin, her neck, nuzzling her collarbone, and meanwhile his fingers were busy, busy between her legs, and she moaned and bucked against him, wanting more of him, wanting all of him.

  He bent to her and she felt his hot lips close over her nipple, felt his tongue rasp against the swollen peak, and squirmed beneath him. She wasn't the most experienced woman in the world, but she knew a maestro when she heard one. Or, in this case, felt one. She would have done anything he asked. She'd die if he stopped.

  “Now? Yes?” he whispered in her ear, and she nodded frantically and gasped an affirmative. He eased over her, she could feel his hands beneath her buttocks, lifting her toward him, and then that hot, hard, thick part of him was nudging, nuzzling, entering her with delicious slowness.

  “Oh, God, Victor…”

  “Crystal,” he breathed, and she froze beneath him. “You’ve locked me out for so long…but this proves…this…”

  “No! It’s Ashley, Ashley!”

  “Don’t go cold on me again,” he groaned. “I can’t bear it. We can be a true husband and wife…have a family…this proves it…”

  Suddenly, his warmth made sense. He was feverish. He thought she was someone else. He thought she was Crystal, goddammit! In his mind, he was making love to his ex-wife. And suddenly his size, his strength, where before they had comforted her, now terrified her.

  “Victor, no! I’m not—”

  His tongue thrust past her teeth, stifling her protests, and pleasure swamped her; her body was slow in catching up with her brain, it seemed. She tried to twist away, but it was like a tree trying to pull free of the ground. And he wasn’t hearing her, his mind was too fogged with fever. She couldn’t reach him and certainly couldn’t fight him. There was nothing to do but endure. Wait it out. It would be over soon.

  The hell with that.

  He broke the kiss and she slapped him with all her strength, then grabbed his nose and twisted, Three Stooges style. He groaned and said, “Please don’t, Crystal, none of your games tonight, let’s just love each other…please…”

  Now he was thrusting, surging back and forth, and he was so hot, so big, she was too full, invaded, penetrated, and the heat of him was intense, she wondered distractedly how high his fever was, and to her horror she could feel her body’s response. God, no! It was sick, it was depraved…she might have started out a willing, even eager, participant, but now she was being forced, and gaining any pleasure from this was wrong, terribly wrong.

  “Please get out,” she gasped. “You’re invading my personal space, dammit! And it hurts!” But that was a lie, it didn’t hurt at all. Her traitorous body, which always reacted to his, was loosening, allowing him to do as he liked, she was easing his way, and her mouth felt swollen; her breasts ached for his touch. This betrayal hurt worse than Victor’s invasion—at least he was out of his head. She had no excuse, except that she loved him and wanted him to love her.

  Wimp. Worthless wimp. Your mother should have drowned you instead of dumping you.

  Now he was kissing her, murmuring endearments, stroking her hair, easing out of her a bit, then gently settling back in, then out a little more, and his tongue slipped into her mouth just as he entered again, slowly, sweetly. She was still begging him to stop but now she was arching against him. His hands were in her hair, fondling the rich curls, and he was soothing her: “Shhhh, it’s all right, shhh, Crystal…” and his mouth was on hers, and he thrust, thrust, thrust, his body against hers was hot, hard, infinitely pleasurable—even in her distress, she noticed they fit perfectly.

  “Crystal,” he breathed again.

  “Stop calling me that!” she shrieked, even as she bucked against him, even as, incredibly, horribly, she felt her orgasm near.

  “Crystal, sweet, I’m so close. I’ll pleasure you any way you like in a few minutes, but for now…” He stiffened against
her, flung his head back and shouted his release at the ceiling, then collapsed over her with a sigh.

  She freed a hand and smacked his shoulder, hard enough to make her fingers hurt. “Get off me,” she hissed. “You’re in a lot of trouble, buster. Just wait until I find something heavy to hit you with. Repeatedly!” She shook with sexual frustration and rage, and clung to one thought: at least he didn’t make me come. That would have been too humiliating. She hit him again. “Vic? You got yours, now get off. Victor?”

  Well, that’s just perfect, she thought, trying to wriggle out from beneath him. The perfect end to a perfect day. Pretty soon I’ll smell smoke and know the building is burning down on top of us.

  It took a while, but she finally freed herself. It was a little like being born, she figured, all that wriggling and squirming to escape the confines of her snoring lover.

  Attempts to rouse the man proved futile, and she began to get really scared when she peeled back his eyelids and saw his pupils were different sizes.

  She called an ambulance, dressed while the paramedics were on the way, and held his hand all the way to the hospital. He was unconscious and a dreadful grayish-pale color, and from the terse words of the EMT’s she knew he was very sick indeed. She held his hand on the way to the Emergency Room and wondered why she bothered. One, he didn’t know she was there, and two, it was pretty damned pathetic, considering what he had just done to her.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to leave him, unconscious and alone, without family, wife, nor friends to be with him and worry about him. So she held his hand and tried to pray for him, despising herself as she did so, but unable to stop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Derik Mann stepped inside Victor’s hospital room just in time to see his friend pulling up his jeans.

  “Leaving so soon?” he asked wryly, shutting the door behind him.

  “Soon my ass,” Victor growled, bending over to put his socks on.

  “This is going to be a civilized conversation, so let’s try to leave your ass out of it. And could you stop wagging it in my face? I just ate.”

  Victor ignored all the attempts at humor, though he usually found Derik hilarious—as funny as Ashley. “I’ve been here almost a week. A week! Jesus, they don’t let women who have babies stay in the hospital this long.”

  “Your contribution to Carlson-Musch made the papers,” Derik pointed out, “and these guys weren’t too cool on letting you go once you fell into their clutches. I’m sure they’ve got tours lined up for you.”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “You’ll have to sign out AMAM.”

  “What?”

  “Against Medical Advice, Moron. That means when you leave against their wishes and you drop dead in the elevator, they’re not liable.”

  “Whatever,” Victor grunted, standing on one foot to slip a loafer on. “I’ve got to get out of here. I have to find Ashley. I haven’t seen her since the night I got sick.”

  “She hasn’t been here to visit?” Derik was honestly surprised. He thought that stunning honey had been big-time gone on his pal. And he was usually right about people. For instance, he’d despised Crystal from the moment they’d met. The feeling—once she’d discovered he had been the one who had spiked her Chardonnay with liquid soap—had been mutual.

  “The doctor downstairs, the one who admitted me, said she came with me in the ambulance, and handed a bunch of my clothes to one of the nurses, and as soon as they told her I was out of danger she left. And that’s the last I—”

  “Wait a minute,” Derik interrupted. “She offered to spend the night with you, keep an eye on you in case you got sick—”

  “Which I did! Christ, Derik, do you realize the woman saved my life?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll give her one of my trophies. Listen, something’s weird. She offered to spend the night with you, woke you up every couple hours to make sure you were okay, called the ambulance when she saw you weren’t okay, packed you a bag while she waited for the paramedics, went to the hospital with you, and when the docs told her you were going to be cool, poof! Houdini. And she didn’t visit you once?”

  “When you put it like that,” he admitted, stepping into his other loafer, “it sounds extremely weird. I’ve got to see her right away. I’ve left about a hundred messages on her machine but she hasn’t—”

  Derik was getting an idea, which made his eyes widen, then narrow to speculative slits. Victor had a healthy respect for the man’s thinking process; Derik, 4.0 at Harvard Business School, was no dummy. “What exactly was wrong with you again?”

  “Dr. Hautenan—she’s the attending—said I had a mild concussion, but I came in with a temperature of 104o, raving and totally out of my head. That’s how she—Ashley, not Dr. Hautenan—saved my ass, Derik.”

  “Oh, here we are on your ass again.”

  Victor pretended to punch the smaller man, and Derik obligingly fell onto the bed, groaning in feigned agony. “Ashley saved me by getting me to the hospital before my brains fried in my head, or whatever the medical term is.”

  “Well, there’s your answer, Vic,” Derik said reasonably.

  “Huh?” Victor was shrugging into his jacket now, barely listening. He was mad to get to Ashley. Maybe she’d caught something from him and was too sick to leave her apartment. Sure, that sounded ridiculous when you thought about it, concussions weren’t contagious, but something had to be wrong. She could be in big trouble right now, and he was dicking around in a hospital room when he should be going to her. “What?”

  “Victor Lawrence, self-made-millionaire and all-around hotshot, is not quite with it today. I said there’s your answer. If you were delirious and irrational—more so than usual, I mean—you could have thought she was anybody. What if you thought she was La Cold Fish and picked a fight? Or Dan Gott from Harvard B.S.?”

  Victor grimaced.

  “To your sizzling, feverish brain, she could have been anyone—the baby-sitter you hated or the girl in third grade you had a crush on. You probably said some really horrible things, maybe chased her around the apartment until you passed out. Probably rattled her, big-time. That’s why she’s keeping her distance.”

  “For someone with the reflexes of a tree sloth, you’re pretty sharp,” Victor said, inwardly relieved at such a simple, logical explanation. “I’ll bet that’s exactly it.”

  “So let’s go find her. You can apologize, promise you’re back to yourself, buy her a really gaudy ring, something that looks like those candy rings we used to get when we were kids. Remember the big gross purple ones?”

  “I’ll never understand how your mind works,” Victor said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “You can explain it to me on the way to Ashley’s place.”

  “I’ll use small words. Brought your car, by the way. You can return the favor by chauffeuring me around in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed.”

  * * * * *

  “This isn’t so good,” Derik admitted half an hour later. Their arrival coincided with the mailman’s, who was trying unsuccessfully to jam more mail into Ashley’s already overflowing box. “She hasn’t been around for a while.”

  “Clearly.” Victor was starting to get a bad feeling. What could he have said to her? What if he had confused her with Crystal and roared at her in a rage? He had never struck a woman in his life, but if he was out of his head with a fever, might he have tried to hurt her? The thought was beyond appalling; big, brawny stupid him bruising adorable, funny, sweet Ashley. “Let’s head to my place. Maybe she left me a note or something.”

  “Or maybe she’s there,” Derik said hopefully. “You never know, maybe her place is being fumigated or painted or something. She can get in, remember—you told the doorman to let her in anytime, whether or not you were home.”

  “Maybe.” Victor allowed himself to feel hopeful. Without further discussion, the two men left the building and walked back to the car.

  “Jeez, I hate this car,” Derik comp
lained, climbing in. “You’ve got the bucks, why don’t you get a stretch limo?”

  “That’s convenient when I need to run to the store for milk,” Vic said dryly.

  “For God’s sake,” Derik grumbled, trying to move the seat back and merely lowering it so he was practically prone. “You’re the richest person I know, but you live like a college student.”

  “I just like driving and shopping for myself, that’s all. Having money doesn’t necessarily mean you have to, or want to, give up living like a real person.”

  “At least get a Porsche, or a ‘Vette.”

  “I like Saturns,” he said defensively. “And if you didn’t have legs like tree trunks, you wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”

  “Tree trunks! You’ve got nerve—what are you, six foot ten?”

  A familiar argument commenced, which wound down by the time Victor unlocked his door and stepped inside, Derik right on his heels.

  “Place looks okay,” Derik said.

  “Worse than that. It looks like no one’s been here.” A quick walk-through confirmed what he already knew; no one had been here for days. “Dammit! Now what?”

  “Now,” Derik said, carefully un-taping the envelope on the fridge, “you read her letter. Observant, you are not. You can be Watson, I guess…I’ll be Holmes.”

  Victor practically sprinted across the living room and snatched it out of his friend’s hand. He fished the letter out and started reading, turning so Derik could read over his shoulder.

  Victor,

  By the time you get this, you’ll be out of the hospital and, presumably, well. That’s terrific, because I was pretty worried about you.

  “Awww,” Derik said affectionately. “She’s so nice.”

  “Quiet. Let me read.”

  Anyway, that’s the good news…you being better. The bad news is, I never want to see you again.

  “Maybe she’s kidding around,” Derik said doubtfully.

  This is no joke, Victor, I’ve never meant anything more. We were getting to be pretty good friends, which I liked a lot, and maybe it was going to develop into something else…