Wintergreen

by Jennifer Greene

  Her lips pressed fierce kisses on his throat, down into the furred mat on his bare chest. Her leg curled between both of his, firing his arousal. In some other world she felt his hands smoothing back her silky hair, his feather-light kisses trying to soothe. She didn’t want to be soothed. She kneaded the flesh of his back, willing every other thought to fade in her head, willing that drumbeat of desire to flood her ears, block out everything but Matthew. It could happen; she knew it could. She felt his body respond to her, his muscles tightening in promise, his skin taking on warmth, his breath shortening. Yet when her hands reached for his belt buckle, she found her fingers stolen by his, her arms placed around his neck.

  His mouth reached for hers, in a single dominating kiss meant to stop her frantic movements. It did. He cradled her head in his palms to touch her lips again, his dark eyes gentle on hers. “Stop crying,” he whispered. His thumbs lightly brushed away the moisture beneath her eyes that she hadn’t even known was there.

  “I want you to make love to me,” she whispered back fiercely.

  “Do you?” He pulled her close, once more raining kisses on her closed eyes, on her cheeks, on her temples. For no reason at all, she was suddenly trembling all over, gasping to keep from crying. “Dammit. Tell me, Misha.”

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me,” he insisted beseechingly.

  She closed her eyes painfully, feeling more vulnerable than spun glass. “I’m sorry. I…”

  “Just tell me.”

  With her head still cradled in the crook of his shoulder, Matthew shifted both of them, so that by the time she’d brushed away those few mortifying tears she was cradled on his lap and held in a protective cocoon. Or were those arms steel bars? Because he was not letting her get away.

  “He wasn’t in any way…unkind, Matthew,” she said miserably, needing to reassure him immediately of that. There was no reason for either of them to say Mr. Whitaker’s name out loud; they both knew what was wrong. “I never expected him to believe me about Johnny, anyway. I never even expected he would be as…civil as he was. It was just…”

  “It was just that you wanted him to acknowledge his grandson,” Matthew said softly. “Or did you, very badly, want to hear from him that he just might have been very wrong about you, Misha? Can you dare acknowledge such feelings?”

  “I…” She took a breath, then another, her whole body still violently shaking. “You just don’t know…what it was like. Being condemned without a trial. Without even a hearing. Feeling judged, feeling guilty and ashamed when it wasn’t like that… I went to see him back then, to ask him for help, and he treated me with such contempt…”

  The words spilled out, one after another. Words she had never spoken out loud before, feelings she had never expressed. What Ron Stone had really been like, her inability to cope with the situation at the time, that awful afternoon, Richard’s reaction, then his father not even making the attempt to listen…

  “But I would have listened, Misha,” Matthew scolded fiercely. “I tried to talk with you. You shut me out. Why couldn’t you let me help you?”

  “Because…” But she didn’t know why. She had been ashamed at the time, embarrassed, mortified, proud. Because Matthew had controlled a strange little corner of her life, even then. His respect had always mattered. All of it. None of it. She didn’t know why.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he murmured, and held her close until the need to cry eased and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. “There’s more, I think, Misha. There’s more that you have to let go of. But not now. Not now,” he repeated, brushing his fingers through her hair over and over. “Just let it be with my father,” he murmured gently. “It will happen, sweet, about Johnny. If you want to know the truth, I think my father knows already that Johnny is Richard’s son. I watched him when he first set eyes on the boy… I see the Whitaker in Johnny more and more, and my father isn’t obtuse, either. He simply finds it hard to admit that he could conceivably make a mistake. My brother never could admit such a thing.”

  She heard the slight trace of bitterness in his voice. Lorna looked up at him, wanting to respond, but he gave her no chance. Kissing her gently on the forehead, he stood up and set her on her feet, pausing long enough to hug her close yet again. “I don’t want you worrying about it anymore. You, Misha,” he whispered, “you matter. When you’re troubled, tell me about it. You had to bridge that silence with my father alone, but that’s done now. The rest we can handle together. Make no mistake about one thing-you’re not going to elude me, love. I want you, all of you… I love you, more than those three words can express…”

  She looked up into his eyes. He was so sure, so absolutely sure; she saw love, strong and determined, and possession. A love so deep it almost frightened her. He wanted her; he loved her. She was the one who had erected barriers, which he seemed to understand more than she did herself. And if she wasn’t going to work on pulling down those fences herself, he would force her into action, so he could have what he wanted.

  Had she ever really thought he might only want an affair? This man wanted to possess, body and soul.

  When she awoke in the morning, she sensed that something was different. Before Lorna even opened her eyes, she tested out that feeling. Early-morning brightness came in the appropriate window; she recognized the faint, familiar scent of Johnny’s gift cologne, and the kind of silence that existed only in the morning before her son was awake. The room was on the cold side, exactly the way she liked to sleep, the comforter tucked around her just so. Absently frowning, she readjusted her pillow and closed her eyes again for one more tiny catnap.

  Something hard and small brushed her cheek. She was thinking of Matthew. He’d put her to bed last night because she was exhausted, only by then she hadn’t been exhausted. Nor had she wanted to be separated from him. He was a bewilderingly complex man. He’d stopped her from making love so they could talk, but they’d stopped talking just as abruptly so he could make love to her…a slow, lazy seduction that began on the way to the bedroom. His caresses had been deliberately arousing, leaving her sleepy and wanting him and loving him. It had slipped out then, so naturally. “I adore you, Matthew. I never thought I could love as I love you…”

  Those beautiful brooding eyes had captured hers. “That’s all I’ve been waiting for, Misha…”

  But they hadn’t made love. He had left. It made no sense… She stirred again, and felt an odd, sharp little scrape on her cheek. Grudgingly opening her eyes, she squinted down at the offending object, and her heart stilled as she stared at her finger.

  There was something different this morning. A ring. She wore no rings to commemorate her commitment to Richard. Certainly not a single brilliant marquise diamond, set exquisitely in antique gold. Certainly not on that finger. But she wore it now…

  “Let’s see it once more,” Freda insisted.

  The mall was packed with throngs of tired people returning presents and hustling toward the after-Christmas sales. It just wasn’t that easy to stop every five minutes, readjust all the packages and find enough space so they could both stare at the ring again.

  “It’s probably the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen in my life,” Lorna said absently.

  “I’m not sure we need to go that far,” Freda began.

  “Should have such taste.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  They picked up next year’s wrapping paper and bows, exchanged Johnny’s sweater for a larger size, Brian’s boots for a smaller size; both bought nightgowns on sale and debated whether to risk looking into the dress sales even though neither of them wanted to spend any more money. Useless friend that Freda was, she talked Lorna into buying a lavender sweater and a lavender and pale blue plaid skirt, then didn’t buy a thing herself.

  “That burnt orange would have been perfectly beautiful on you,” Lorna scolded, as they stood in line for a seat in the coffee shop.

  “Not my style.” Finally, they w
ere ushered to a booth and piled their packages next to them with mutual weary sighs.

  “It was, too. Freda, you have a very nice figure. And the color would have been special on you,” Lorna told her as their waitress brought coffee.

  “I need to lose weight.” Freda pushed off her coat and crossed her arms on the table. Lorna grinned at her friend’s navy sweatshirt. There Are Only Two Things Wrong With Men, it said, Everything They Say and Everything They Do.

  “Let’s see it again.”

  Lorna obligingly put her hand on the table.

  “Offhand, I’d certainly say he made up for forgetting to give you a present yesterday,” Freda remarked dryly, and then gave Lorna a basilisk stare. “I don’t know what’s brighter. That stone, or your eyes. You have no idea how annoying it is to sit across from someone in love.”

  “Will it help if I pay for the coffee?” Lorna asked.

  “A little.” Freda shook her head ruefully as she stirred her brew. “I could see it coming. You were either higher than a kite or moping around like a dead sponge. Washing your floor three times last week…” She leaned back, bringing her coffee cup to her lips. “I could have sworn the last I heard you weren’t even thinking about getting married again.”

  “I wasn’t,” Lorna said absently.

  “You’re being awfully closemouthed about how he staged the whole romantic scene. When did he ask you to marry him?”

  “I adore him, Freda.” Lorna’s tone was grave as she changed the subject and abruptly put an end to Freda’s affectionate teasing.

  They talked about clothes, bills, jobs and cats. They were still talking as they drove home, stopping to pick up the boys from a playmate’s house along the way. The roads were a potpourri of slush and traffic; Freda kept chattering, and the boys in the back were bickering at high speed.

  Lorna had her hands on the steering wheel at ten and four, a position where the ring could continually wink brilliantly at her. Like a silent beacon, the diamond on her left hand gave her messages only she could hear. Matthew loved her.

  Pausing at a red light, Lorna touched the marquise diamond, well aware that in fact there had been no proposal; the candlelight seduction Freda had assumed had never happened. He had simply left the ring on the appropriate finger for her to find, and he had left her in silence to think on it, because Matthew was unforgivably, cruelly, disgustingly fair.

  The light turned green, and she put her foot on the accelerator. He had hedged his bet, more than a little, by arousing her until the only thing on her mind when she went to sleep was her greedy, aching soul, avid for the kind of fulfilment only he could give her.

  He was very good at setting up all the stakes on his side, she thought ruefully, a small, dreamy smile playing on her mouth. He hadn’t just promised her trust; he’d given it, freely, in teasing her about Stan, in believing in her when she’d needed to be believed. He’d respected her feelings for her son; he had put her feelings ahead of those of his father; Lorna knew well he had told Mr. Whitaker straight-out that she came first in Matthew’s life. He was a man she could trust, a man of compassion and strength and sensitivity. A man of the sort she’d never believed had existed. And when he touched her…

  Such love… All that morning she’d been exhilarated, restless, giddy, laughing at nothing, not able to think a single coherent thought. She adored him; she needed him; she wanted him…

  So why, she thought idly, did she feel so scared?

  The ring winked at her again as she made a left turn. She knew why he’d given it to her exactly the way he had. No soft lights and intoxicating seduction. He’d wanted a commitment from the soul, a clear-cut, honest decision that came from love. We’ve tackled Johnny and my father and your feelings about the past, Misha. You were wary when we first met. I don’t want the shadows. I want it to be you and me alone, and I want you to be damned sure.

  It was amazing, what an inanimate ring could say.

  “Mom,” Johnny said patiently, “how many times are you going to keep circling the block?”

  She glanced at her son in the rearview mirror. “One more time. Anything wrong with that?” She couldn’t afford to believe there was a jinx on a second time around.

  Chapter 13

  “Flight three-oh-three to Toronto and Montreal now boarding at gate three-oh-seven. All passengers…”

  “Misha?”

  Lorna’s head jerked up as Matthew touched her arm, her hand nearly knocking over the coffee cup as she hurriedly stood up. Her nervous clumsiness embarrassed her; she flushed as she said brightly, “Finally! I was beginning to think they were going to ground the plane because of snow.”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  Lorna raised teasing eyebrows as she snatched up her purse. “You mean you wouldn’t let them. I know exactly what’s on your mind, Mr. Whitaker.”

  “So do I.” He linked a protective arm through hers after dropping a bill on the table, and they worked their way through the crowded airport. “And I would like to tell you in exact detail what else I have on my mind when I have you completely alone.” The low, husky drawl was whispered in her ear, just as if there weren’t a thousand people all around them.

  Lorna shivered, a response she could no more have controlled than she could control her breathing. They had waited more than an hour for their flight to Quebec. Metropolitan International Airport was filled with people who had waited hours for flights delayed because of the blizzard outside.

  The walk to their boarding gate would have been lengthy on roller skates. As it was, no one seemed inclined to move willingly to get out of their way. Fractious children with hot red faces were tired of wearing heavy coats and holding their belongings and sitting still. Their mothers, once dressed and coiffed and made up for travel, had wilted. Businessmen swung briefcases like lethal weapons, and the confusion of noise was incredible. The airport loudspeaker was paging particular individuals to remove themselves from the list of lost persons, to pick up their tickets, to answer a summons to speak to someone. Trolleys were clattering through the terminal, laden with luggage; adults were chattering at fevered pitches and babies were crying.

  Lorna felt like a pincushion with too many pins piercing her all at once, which was undoubtedly why her pulse kept beating in this strange, fluttery rhythm. Her hands were atypically clammy. For a short time, in the quiet of the small coffee shop, she even wondered if she was coming down with a fever. Her stomach was churning; her legs felt shaky…

  She knew none of it showed. Matthew’s eyes would have picked it up if she hadn’t looked well, and when she’d looked in the mirror at home before leaving for the airport, it had told her that for some strange reason, she almost looked beautiful. Bone-colored pumps complemented good-looking legs. Her traveling suit was burnt orange, a favorite color, the wool skirt clinging very nicely to her slim hips; she’d eaten cottage-cheese lunches for a week so that she could afford to buy the cream-colored silk blouse that was so flattering. Her chestnut hair had a gloss like sun glow; her eyes had been subtly, alluringly made up… A healthy, lovely woman had stared at her from the mirror that morning. A woman who loved, a woman who looked loved.

  Don’t hurt him, Mr. Whitaker had warned her.

  “Misha-” Matthew clutched her shoulder, weaving her out of the way of a man in an airport uniform racing down the corridor. She hadn’t even seen him.

  There was something wrong with her. Adrenaline was speeding through her veins; her stomach was cramping; she felt the strangest feeling of dread hammering in her temples. She was reminded of her college days, waiting for the test to be passed out in Chemistry 101; it was like the day she had taken Johnny to the emergency room with a bump on his head and they had insisted she stay out in the waiting room. She didn’t even notice the man in the red sports coat eye her up and down suggestively, nor did she see Matthew icily outstare him until the stranger flushed and turned away. A child raced past her; she barely felt the jolt.

  Finally, they rea
ched the last turn of the long corridor. A few hundred feet ahead was the small cubbyhole where a stewardess was checking tickets. After this automatic procedure, they would be in Quebec in a few hours, just the two of them at the Château Frontenac. Fourteen days of sheer luxury vacation. A honeymoon ahead of time? she had joked to Matthew. He informed her that they needed at least that much time anyway. One week in a cold climate, one week in a hot. To see which they liked best. And if they needed to test out any other temperatures that suited her fancy…

  “Wait here, Misha. You don’t have to join that madhouse yet…”

  She watched the man she loved more than life detach himself from her and join the rest of the throng of humanity trying to bully the stewardess into letting them go first. Matthew was different. She wasn’t in the least biased. He was simply without question the most handsome man there, but it wasn’t just that. It was that shock of dark hair on his forehead, and those grave dark eyes. His quietness, a total control and assurance that set him apart. The character lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders fit a suit.

  A brown-eyed blonde kept looking at him. Lorna stepped ahead just a little, blocking the woman’s view. He was handing the tickets to the stewardess. She said something. He chuckled in return, his heart-stopping mouth slashing in a smile, and the stewardess’s eyes lit up. He had relaxed her in the frazzle of confusion; that was his way. Almost instantly, he was looking up again, searching the crowd for Lorna.

  She saw the grave look in his eyes when he didn’t immediately spot her, though she had only moved a few feet. She saw that special light immediately go out of his eyes, and her hands started trembling. Just be very sure that you do nothing to hurt my son. Why couldn’t she get the damn sentence out of her mind?