Home Fires

by Barbara Delinsky

  “You sunbathe often?” she asked, but knew the answer already. She was familiar with every nuance of his body. When he casually dropped his towel to reveal an even expanse of tanned flesh she wasn’t surprised. Nonetheless, her own tingled.

  “Here? Yup.” Spreading the towel out, he eased himself down, then stretched straight out on his back and closed his eyes. “Actually, I’ve used the mattresses even more often at night”

  “At night? Not sunbathing.” She laughed, sinking to her knees on her own mattress.

  “Nope … sleeping.”

  “Here? Outside?”

  “Uh-huh. The summer nights are often beautiful. Cool. Clear. Peaceful.”

  “Sounds heavenly.”

  “It is.”

  She stretched out beside him, only then tugging open her towel and letting it fall to either side. “How about the winter. Do you come here then?” Closing her eyes, she was aware for the first time of the touch of the sun on her breasts and belly. The sensation was strange … and naughty … and she loved it

  “Not as often if the weather’s bad”—his velvet voice gave added allure to the atmosphere—“but I try to make it when I can. We’re pretty high up here and get our share of snow. A four-wheel-drive does wonders.”

  “Mmmmmm,” she purred contentedly. “Nice.” But her thoughts weren’t on the snow in the mountains. Instead her senses were tuning in to the delicious warmth slowly spreading through her limbs as the sun warmed them. The ensuing silence was a companionable one, as had been the others they’d shared that weekend. But she felt Mark’s gaze the instant it touched her and she opened a single eye to catch him in the act, propped up on an elbow and very near.

  She was the one who was caught, however, ensnared in his circle of enchantment when he smiled at her. In that instant the gentle tickle of the breeze on her skin evolved into something far different and erotic, as did that slow-seeping golden warmth in her body. Her pulse stirred dangerously when his eyes made a leisurely perusal of her bare and slender length.

  “Now, if I were the perfect hero,” he drawled more thickly, “I’d whip out my trusty bottle of suntan lotion, squeeze a shameless amount in the palm of my hand and begin to very slowly and sensuously spread it over every sweet inch of you.”

  Deanna sucked in her breath. “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh.” He raised a hand and began to touch. “I’d dot it here”—her throat—“and smooth it here”—her arms—“and swirl it in a figure eight like this”—each breast in turn. She bit her lip to restrain a cry of delight. But he was far from done, though his own chest had begun a quickened rise and fall.

  “Then I’d squirt more from the bottle and carefully coat your legs.” His hand slid down the skin of her thigh and over the calf of one leg before bridging the gap between her ankles and retracing the parallel route.

  “Mark!” she gasped, but he ignored her.

  “If I were the perfect hero,” he continued hoarsely, rolling her to her side to face him and acting out his words, “I’d cover your shoulders and your back, your bottom, then your legs, giving you a very skilled massage in the process.”

  The arm she’d instinctively draped over his shoulder when he’d turned her tightened. His body was close enough to reveal the state of his arousal and it enlivened hers all the more. Her gaze fused with his. She couldn’t have looked elsewhere had she tried.

  “Then what?” she whispered, her heart pounding loudly when he let her lie back and rolled over. Her legs accommodated him eagerly.

  “Then,” he murmured huskily, unable to control the faint tremor that shimmered through his supporting arms, “I’d turn onto my back in a grand show of self-control … if I were the perfect hero … .”

  She could barely keep from arching against him. “Well …?” Her breath came in shorter gasps as he moved above her.

  His answer was a firm thrust that found her more than ready. “I’m not,” he groaned, instants before he seized her lips and sought her fire.

  She gave it unconditionally, drawing out each heady sensation to its fullest as she gloried in her ability to match Mark’s passion spark for spark, flame for flame. She was without inhibition, freely crying out her pleasure as he’d taught her to do, demanding more and more from him. She was his equal on every plane and at times very much the guide, daring to show him her delights and demand his. Mark gave her his all, finally joining her in a blinding moment of rapture that each would treasure in memory through the long days to come.

  9

  True to his word, Mark returned her to Atlanta on Monday morning after awakening her with a melancholy kiss shortly after dawn. By nine o’clock she was on the fortieth floor of the Hunt International, soaking in a hot bath, wondering what she was going to do.

  Mark had been remarkable. He hadn’t pushed the issue of the future, perhaps knowing all too well that it was bound to close in on her without his help. At her request he had dropped her off at the front door of the hotel. He had made no fuss, been as quiet when they’d arrived as he’d been preoccupied during the drive. There were no kisses, no impassioned good-byes. Those had all been exchanged during the night Now there was only the visual exchange that said so much.

  “I’ll give you your time,” was all he said. “You call me when you’re up to it”

  Once more it was her choice. Hard as it was, that was one of the things she loved about Mark. He seemed to have the ultimate faith in her, and in turn, she believed herself worthy. She’d probably made more momentous decisions in the past month than she’d made in the past few years combined.

  Now, submerged in scented water, it was time to make at least part of her decision. Could Mark fit into even her immediate future? More to the point, could she design that future to accommodate Mark? There was still the matter of the future in the far-reaching sense. Should Mark want marriage and children from her, that would be something completely different. But that was a bridge she hadn’t come to yet and she refused to anticipate it The days ahead were all that was on her mind for now.

  Bob Warner had been perturbed, according to Irma’s wry accounting, when he’d been unable to reach her on Saturday and then again on Sunday. There had been something about “very important clients” arriving on the spur of the moment and Deanna not being there to greet them.

  “Too bad!” she fumed aloud, shifting position in the water. “He takes too much for granted.” In all fairness, though, it was largely her own fault. For years she’d always been there, at the beck and call of the Hunt Foundation. Bob would have to understand that she now had other interests.

  And she did. In essence, there was no decision to be made. She couldn’t possibly let Mark Birmingham slip from her life, loving him as she did. Even if she couldn’t give him everything he wanted, she’d discovered far too much about herself to ever go back to the insulated life she’d led. Being that much more of a person was worth every bit of the risk.

  But being who she was, there were certain ways to do things. It certainly wouldn’t do to invite an out-and-out confrontation with Bob any more than it would do to simply call Mark on the phone and announce that she’d decided that they could see each other publicly. Subtlety would be the preferable course.

  Armed with this resolve, she returned to the daily pattern of Mrs. Lawrence Hunt. Only those who knew her well and saw her often noticed the heightened color in her cheeks. They also knew that all the complimenting, all the fishing in the world, would not weasel its cause from her. Deanna was indeed a very private person.

  The week passed pleasantly enough for Deanna, with her glorious dreams of seeing Mark offsetting the loneliness of being without him. She was even pleased with her handling of Bob Warner, another feather in her cap of burgeoning self-confidence.

  “I was put on quite a spot,” he’d cautiously chastised her when they met in his office on Tuesday afternoon.

  She’d kept calm, controlling her instinctive anger. She was far from a child, yet this man talked to her
as though she were one, and a thoughtless one at that “I’m sure you covered for me nicely.”

  “Oh, I covered for you, but Tom and Myra were disappointed. It was an embarrassing situation.”

  “Embarrassing?” Her eyebrows arched. “My having spent a weekend in the mountains?”

  Bob’s gaze narrowed. “Your having spent a weekend in the mountains with our architect.”

  “How did you know that?” She managed to temper her surprise. “Irma would never have—”

  “Irma didn’t have to tell me anything.” He smiled smugly. “Hotel clerks see everything.”

  “Oh.” Pondering this, she grew resentful of the tawdry way he’d painted the weekend. “But I don’t see what difference it makes.” Her eyes glittered defiantly. “Paperhanger, gardener, architect or financier, Mark is a friend of mine. I knew him even before you accepted his designs for the hospital.”

  Bob rose from the desk; it was his turn for surprise. “You knew him? Then … that was nothing more than a well-acted scene in our conference room?”

  “That’s right.” She held his gaze unflinchingly. It was about time he realized that he wasn’t dealing with a simpleton.

  “I see.” He looked down at the straight line of buttons on his vest, then rocked back onto his heels. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Uh-huh.” She smiled more gently. “I think it would be a good idea for Mark to attend several of these dinner parties I’ve been conned into giving. If I’m to be a drawing card, he’d be an even stronger one.” She stood, and didn’t blink when she faced Bob. “The first party is a week from Thursday night. Would you please call him and extend the invitation on behalf of the foundation? Coming from you, it would be more official.” She had her own reasons for the method. “If he’s free, I’d very much like him to come. You can give me his answer whenever you get a chance.” She shrugged. Then she turned on her heel, chin held high, and left, knowing that Bob Warner had just had his first glimpse of a woman who would no longer be content to be a decorative corporate insignia.

  Despite her nonchalant show of confidence at the time, Deanna was on pins and needles as she waited to hear Mark’s response. She half wished she’d made the call herself and eliminated the suspense, but it was part of her plan to have the overture come from Bob. She wanted it to be perfectly clear to everyone involved that Mark was there out of dedication to the project, rather than dedication to her.

  But that was the stickler. Was he as dedicated to her as she wanted to believe? He hadn’t called her and she didn’t dare prod Bob on his success for fear he’d suspect her of having taken the easy way out. Had she? Had one small part of her been frightened—even after their loving weekend—that Mark would need the added incentive of a foundation affair to help him decide to come? Had Bob and the proposed hospital been her insurance?

  It wasn’t until she arrived at the office the following Tuesday, a full week later, that Bob let Mark’s acceptance slip into the conversation. He could never have known the extent of her relief, engrossed as she was in a stack of grant proposals, but it was significant. The weekend before had seemed endless; her thoughts had been constantly on Mark. She had nearly given up hope, assuming that he was otherwise occupied, when Bob passed on the word that he’d be driving in from Savannah after an afternoon appointment and would be at her suite as early as he could make it.

  Deanna was overjoyed. But instead of the next two days flying by, they were the longest she’d ever lived through. Everything had to be perfect for him—the table, the flowers; the wine and the menu. As in the past, the hotel kitchen catered the meal, the hotel florist provided the flowers and the hotel dining room provided one of its most skilled waiters for the evening. With Irma and Henry hard at work as well, there wasn’t all that much for Deanna to do. That was perhaps the most frustrating thing of all.

  Unwilling to feel helpless any longer, she made things for herself to do, small chores here and there to enhance the evening. Determined to make some sort of personal statement to Mark, she spent hours poring through Irma’s stack of cookbooks, followed by hours in the kitchen turning a glossy photograph into reality. It was exhausting but fun, and she gained satisfaction from having played even a small role in the preparations.

  Eight o‘clock Thursday evening found Deanna looking elegant and exuberant in floor-length aqua chiffon and talking with her guests. Wine and hors d’oeuvres were in abundance, helping to fill time and stomachs until the last guest arrived. No one waited with breath as baited as Deanna’s.

  He came shortly before eight-thirty, with apologies all around for the tardiness that he blamed on a delayed start from Savannah. When he greeted Deanna, however, his smile was special, the gleam in his eye as meaningful as that in hers. Wildly in love as she was, Deanna made no bones about spending extra time with Mark, seating him by her side at dinner, turning from the others to him at every possible opportunity. Through it all though she was poised and dignified, adept in the art of hostessing. Only Bob Warner suspected that her interest in Mark was anything beyond solicitude toward the one man there who knew none of the others. That was, in fact, an irrelevant issue. As she’d known he would be, Mark was relaxed and totally self-assured among her guests. She couldn’t help but admire him all the more for his polish.

  Unfortunately, there were few opportunities for them to talk privately. At one point Mark was talking with another man, both of them seated on the sofa, when the other man was summoned across the room by his wife. Deanna dared go to the back of the sofa and bend over, close by Mark’s ear.

  “Did you taste the caviar pie?” she whispered.

  “Delicious.” He grinned, turning his head just the slightest bit toward her. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “I thank you,” she rejoined with such pride that he couldn’t have mistaken it in a million years.

  “You made it?” he exclaimed. “That’s great! But Irma must not be too thrilled with me.”

  “For turning me loose in her kitchen? You’re right She was, shall we say, dumbfounded. I think, though, that she was pretty pleased to have me stolen away to the country for the weekend.” Even now Deanna recalled Irma’s pleasure that the weekend had been a good one.

  At her mention of that weekend, Mark grew more serious, his voice softer. “How are you?”

  “Fine … You smell good.” The faint scent of after-shave clung to his cheek.

  “And you look beautiful,” he returned, studying her keenly. “A little tired, I think.”

  “What do you expect?” She humored him. “I’ve spent the past two days planning and preparing one appetizer. You can bet that Bob was puzzled when I didn’t show up at the office this afternoon.” But Mark was right She did feel tired, no doubt an emotional fatigue resulting from her wondering, worrying and waiting. “I’m glad you decided to come. I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Of course I’d come,” he exclaimed. “Even on two days’ notice!”

  “Two days? That’s ridiculous! I asked Bob to call you early last week!” Her voice held more than a touch of bewilderment.

  Not so Mark’s expression. He was clearly annoyed. “It looks like your Mr. Warner took his time about calling. Hmph! A subtle message if I ever got one! Somehow, I didn’t peg him as the jealous type.”

  “Jealous? Of you?” She shot a glance at Bob, who was lingering in the dining room with his wife. “Bob’s a married man!”

  “That’s not what I mean, Deanna. When it comes to you and the Hunt Foundation, he seems to be very possessive.”

  “You’re right about that” She grimaced. “When he wanted me for something the other weekend and discovered that I wasn’t here, he was pretty upset”

  Mark grew concerned. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did he give you a hard time?”

  Deanna grinned mischievously. “You would’ve been proud of me. I stood up to him quite well. He was almost as amazed as I was! But come on.” Straightening, she held out her hand. “I think w
e’d better mingle.”

  Mingle they did, primarily discussing the hospital project and its needs until nearly midnight, when the last of the talk died away and the final couple, Bob and his wife, left Mark stayed behind with Deanna, partly out of defiance, partly out of concern.

  “You look pale,” he announced as soon as the front door was firmly shut. “You’re sure you feel all right?”

  “Just tired.” She smiled wanly as she tucked her arm through his and led him back toward the living room. “I’ll sleep in tomorrow.” She paused, then spoke more hesitantly. “Will you … will you stay?”

  “Here? Tonight?” he asked softly, finally beginning to understand how far she’d come. “God, Deanna, what a night to ask!”

  “You won’t?”

  “I can’t. I have a very early appointment that I wasn’t able to change on such short notice.”

  “In Atlanta?”

  “In Savannah.” Now Deanna finally began to understand how far he’d come. But he went on. “Besides, I don’t think you’d make it past the first couple of kisses. What you need far more than me is sleep.”

  Despite her disappointment, she had to agree with him. She’d been tired all week and needed the rest now that this first party was over and an unqualified success. Two of the men present had promised to send Bob substantial checks in the morning. As for Deanna, she was planning to spend her morning sleeping and had already told LeeAnn not to look for her at the club.

  “Then I won’t see you until next week?” she asked, feeling suddenly lonesome again.

  “Next week?” Mark eyed her blankly.

  “Oh, no! Didn’t Bob tell you about that?” When he shook his head she gritted her teeth. “He really must have a problem. The second party’s a week from tonight. I had hoped you’d come to that one too.” Her gaze held the invitation that was supposed to have been issued long since.

  Mark fell victim to the plea and took her in his arms, seeming to be temporarily satisfied to overlook Bob’s omission. “I think that you need a dinner partner”—he grinned—“and I’m the only one around.”