“It doesn’t exactly help, but it does make me feel less pathetic.”
“Morgan,” he complained before pulling her into his arms. “I’m the damaged one, here, not you. How do I make you understand?”
She would have liked to have asked him what he meant by being damaged but a movement by the French doors caught her eye. She squinted through the gloaming and saw an outline. It was undoubtedly Philip. As if to confirm her suspicion, the figure disappeared into the interior of the house. Morgan braced her palms against Dylan’s chest pushing back from him.
“We’ll have to try harder. I will, I promise,” she blurted. “But I think you should probably go now.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine. It’s only…I didn’t realize how late it has gotten. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbe will be home any time now.”
“Of course. Let’s get inside.”
Dylan indicated she should precede him and then turned to gather up their things. Although she was anxious to see where Philip was and figure out if he had, indeed, seen her with Dylan, she stopped to watch. His muscles moved hypnotically beneath his bronzed skin as he grabbed the pieces of her bathing suit, her towel and his jacket and shoes. When he stood, she couldn’t help thinking how beautiful he was and how it would very likely be her one and only opportunity to see him. Her heart constricted at the thought.
Walking up to her, he placed his hand in the small of her back and guided her indoors.
“I’ll wait for you in the library,” he explained when they’d reached the base of the stairs. He pressed her things into her hands.
“The library?” she questioned before realizing he would need his shirt back. “Oh, yes. I’ll just be a minute.”
Trotting up the stairs, Morgan prayed Philip had gone to his room. Frantically, she scanned the hallway for any sign of him, but saw nothing. She burst into her room tossing what she held onto the chair next to her bed before hurriedly replacing Dylan’s shirt with a sundress and sweater then dashing back downstairs.
She took a moment to compose herself before walking into the library. Dylan stood in the middle of the room, shoes on and pants done up properly but as bare-chested as she’d left him. Her mouth went dry at the sight and she approached him warily suddenly conscious of her own lack of discipline around him. Taking his Oxford from the end of her outstretched arm, he considered her with a puzzled expression before shrugging and slipping on his shirt. She dropped her gaze feeling positively lewd standing there watching him dress.
“This room has always been my favorite,” she offered by way of a distraction.
“Is it the books?”
“Partially, I guess. There’s something comforting about being in here. Maybe it reminds me of my parents. There was a room like this in our apartment. Aaron and I spent a lot of time in here. Plus…” She hazarded a glance and saw he had finished buttoning. “I love the smell of leather.”
Dylan paused, looking up at her with his hands behind his back as he smoothed his shirt into his waistband. He laughed then straightened, taking a step toward her.
“That’s a rather provocative statement.” He smiled, his fingers running along her hairline before trailing behind her ear.
“Oh.” She smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean it to be.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” He cupped her cheek and looked deeply into her eyes. “We’ll work through this.”
“Yes,” Morgan whispered. “But you should go now.”
“And I should not kiss you, Morgan Shore.”
“No, you should not kiss me ever again, Dylan Drumlin.”
He trailed his thumb along her lower lip, a caress so light and swift she would have doubted it had happened if it hadn’t made her catch her breath and close her eyes.
When she opened them again, he was gone.
* * * *
Dylan’s inner demon was doing a goddamn happy dance as he made his way through the foyer. Morgan had been perfection in his arms. Receptive to his will and responsive to his touch, it had felt as if she was meant for him. And her unpracticed efforts had been acutely erotic. His id was deeply satisfied.
His ego, on the other hand, was desperately searching for some way to mitigate what was nothing less than a full-blown catastrophe. It was done and could not be undone, but there had to be a way to get past it. There has to be, he assured himself. But he already felt a rending like he’d left half of himself back in the library. How could he go back to denying himself, denying her?
Letting himself out the front door, he was thankful she had shooed him away before the Tibbes or Philip came home. He was in no condition for small talk.
“Evening, Drumlin.”
The disembodied voice halted Dylan midway down the front stairs. Looking toward his car, he could just make out Philip leaning against the front hood, his arms over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles.
“Philip.” He slowly descended the rest of the granite steps, warily sizing up the other man. “What are you doing out here?”
“Well, I saw your car, and I didn’t want to walk in on anything.”
“Walk in on what? I came by to give Morgan some paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” Philip drawled, pushing himself to his feet and coming to stand in front of Dylan. “Must have been pretty important for you to drive all the way out here.”
“There’s a board meeting first thing in the morning.” Dylan knew the most effective lies were the ones with a grain of truth in them. He was glad he had kept himself up-to-date with her schedule. “She came home early with a headache, and I thought she might need to review the information before the meeting.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Philip snarled, obviously unconvinced. “Not that you need to explain yourself to me. I mean, what would it matter to me if you were fucking Morgan?”
Dylan felt every muscle in his body clench.
“Goodnight, Philip,” he ground out through gritted jaws.
“Seriously, Drumlin, why would I care?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he insisted though Dylan thought he heard a tremor beneath the bluster. “But I wonder what my father would think. You know, about you with his little princess? Do you think he would have approved?”
“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t approve. There is nothing going on between me and Morgan except Foundation work and budgeting for Seascape. Are we done here?” he snapped, pointedly looking at his car and back at Philip.
“Oh, yeah, sure.” He smirked before stepping out of the way. “Like I said, doesn’t matter to me one way or another. Just two guys talking, right?”
“Sure,” Dylan agreed as he rounded the hood of the Jaguar.
He grabbed for the driver’s side door handle eager to be inside and powering away from the place. But before getting behind the wheel, he paused to watch Philip move up the stairs toward the front door Dylan had so recently exited. A strange sense of foreboding made him call out.
“Philip!”
The younger man turned back, his face half-lit by the lights of the driveway, the other half lost in shadow.
“There’s nothing going on between us.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time. ‘Night, Drumlin.”
“Goodnight, Philip.”
Tamping down the swell of unease that had made him hesitate in the first place, Dylan got into his car and started the engine. He made a U-turn in the expansive driveway and headed away from the house. For a moment, he saw a rectangle of light in the rearview mirror, then a man’s silhouette as Philip walked inside and then there was only darkness.
Chapter 12
The house was silent and shrouded by slanted, late-day shadows. Morgan shut the front door behind her and leaned back against its solid reassurance. She closed her eyes. Finally, she was home.
She hadn’t slept the night before, despite having gone to bed right a
fter Dylan had left her. She hadn’t even waited up for the Tibbes. But it wasn’t long before she realized being in bed was not the same as sleeping.
For hours, she’d anxiously reviewed every moment with Dylan. Each caress, kiss and sigh replayed in her increasingly fevered mind. She’d eventually turned her attention to the equally unsettling exercise of struggling to find some explanation she could offer Philip for what he might have witnessed. She hadn’t been able to come up with anything more reasonable than the truth. She and Dylan had been overcome with passion and had had an ill-advised encounter which would not be repeated. In the end, she’d wondered if the justification was more for her benefit than Philip’s. It hadn’t mattered. He had left for work before she’d come downstairs in the morning. She’d never had the opportunity to ask him what, if anything, he had seen.
She’d gone to work in a befuddled fog which had hung over her the entire day. The morning’s board meeting had passed in an indecipherable drone of presentations. Budget items and procedural manuals blurred to unfathomable. The only thing Morgan seemed able to focus on was getting back to Seascape.
She opened her eyes. Now what? She should probably go lie down, but the thought of repeating the torturous experiences of the night before gave her no comfort. Better to do something to occupy her mind. Watch a movie? Read a book?
Then, like a missive from beyond, Morgan heard Aaron’s voice, firm but cheerful. Join me for an aperitif, my dear?
Fairly early on, Aaron had tried to share his appreciation for wine with Morgan. In the beginning, she had been a less than enthusiastic pupil, complaining alcohol tasted like cough syrup. Aaron had laughed at her whining and her wrinkled nose and her helpless shudders, the unpleasant results of their early tastings.
But Aaron, being Aaron, had persisted. He’d been certain they simply needed to discover the right variety for her palate. So it came to be the two of them would venture into the wine cellar for fairly frequent before-dinner tastings.
“You always knew I couldn’t say no to time alone with you. Didn’t you?” Her words echoed off the tile floor and soaring walls, sending a shiver through her.
Funny thing was, over the years she found she could tolerate some of the sweeter varieties and even discovered an appreciation for a select few. As in so many things, Aaron had been right.
She went through to the kitchen. Sliding a piece of stemware out of the rack over the center island, she turned to the door leading downstairs.
It was the one part of Seascape Aaron and Mary had not conceived of in the years they had contemplated the design of their dream home. It had been the architect who had suggested it when ledge had been discovered under the property. Along with the massive foundation hole, a ten by twelve foot room with a ten foot ceiling was blasted out of the underground rock.
Aaron’s first descent into the manmade cave lined with oak-stained wine racks waiting to be filled had been all the impetus he’d needed. He’d delved into the world of grapes and vintages, vineyards and corks with the same vigor he applied to every aspect of his life. He soon had an enviable collection. A collection Morgan had largely ignored since her return. It was the perfect opportunity to get reacquainted.
As she descended the stairs Morgan remembered the many summer afternoons she’d escaped with a good book into the room’s cool interior. Now she wished she had a sweater to put over the sleeveless summer dress she was wearing. She considered running upstairs for one when it occurred to her she didn’t have to be down here long. She’d select a bottle quickly and enjoy it in the solarium.
Morgan put her glass down on the mahogany table in the center of the room, picked up a dusting cloth from the back of one of the four red-leather club chairs circling it and slung the towel over her shoulder. She chose a corkscrew from the half dozen hanging off pegs on the end of one of the wine racks, absently swinging it back and forth on her finger as she meandered among the shelves, searching for a familiar label.
She selected a bottle of red she thought she’d had with Aaron when he’d surprised her at school and taken her to dinner in Boston about six months ago. Could that really be? She wondered as she wiped the bottle and held it to the light. Six months ago she had been laughing and drinking wine with Aaron. Six months ago she had been a graduate student, looking forward to her future and the possibilities it held. Never had Morgan imagined this life. In many ways it exceeded her wildest dreams. But in others it was a crushing torment. She took a deep breath, letting the air out through her lips.
“Wishing you had someone to share with?”
Morgan jumped, nearly dropping the bottle she held. She spun around to find Philip standing at the base of the stairs.
“Oh, Philip.” She laughed, bringing her free hand to rest over her wildly beating heart. “It’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me,” he spoke quietly, walking toward her. “Why the heavy sigh?”
“The wine.” She looked down at the bottle in her hand. “It makes me think of Aaron.”
Lifting her head, she saw he continued to advance. She also noticed his eyes were heavy-lidded and his gait was unbalanced. She took a couple of hesitant steps backward, but was brought up short by the jab of bottle necks. When he was a half-step in front of her he reached out a finger and ran it slowly down her arm.
“What are you doing?”
He slipped the wine bottle from her fingers and placed it on the table behind them.
“I’ve been thinking about you, and about us.”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“I mean I think we should try that little experiment again.” He gripped her by the shoulders. “Something tells me you’ve gotten over your inhibitions.”
She tried to break his hold by pushing her forearms against his, but he simply pulled her closer capturing her arms between their bodies. And then she smelled it, confirming her suspicions.
“You’re drunk.”
He looked down at her, his mouth set in a hard line. Then he pulled her toward him. As his lips were about to come down on hers, Morgan turned her head.
“You bitch,” he whispered into her hair.
He thrust her backward setting off an ominous rumbling. Instinctively, she stepped into him for shelter. He put his arms up blocking the bottles falling from the upper shelves. But she felt them raining down around her body before hearing them shatter against the unyielding stone floor. A shower of stinging shards and cold liquid spattered up her bare legs. The shock of it caused her knees to give way, but he held her in place, crushing himself against her. Then, one hand at her jaw, forced her to face him.
“I saw you with him. All this time I’ve been walking on eggshells around you, trying to give you time, trying to thaw you out. And you give it all to him. What would my father have thought to see you out there naked with Drumlin draped over you? He wanted us to be together, that’s why he left you half. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m his son. I’m his son!”
Morgan fought the urge to whimper as Philip pressed his mouth to hers. She struggled to check the panic threatening to overwhelm her. She had to think, come up with some way to reason with him or get away.
She was so engrossed in formulating a plan, it took a moment for her to realize he had pulled away. His forehead rested on hers. But instead of relief, cold terror gripped her heart as she saw tears tracking down his cheeks. He hadn’t cried since Aaron’s death, not when his father’s body was taken from the house, nor at the memorial service, nor any time between or since. But he was weeping now and muttering some phrase over and over.
“It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.” She finally understood.
“It’s not, Philip. It’s not. I think of you as my brother. I can’t help it. I love you like a brother.”
“Shut-up!” he suddenly exploded, his face twisted with rage. “I’m telling you he wanted us to be together. He gave you everything, and you’re going to do this for him!”
He p
ulled her head forward and she braced herself for the inevitable feel of his mouth on hers. She was stunned when, instead, he brutally slammed her skull against the wood crossbar of the wine rack as if trying to crack open a coconut.
There was a droning in her ears, like the sound of the surf. He pulled her head forward again. She knew instinctually a second blow would render her unconscious. With a strength born from self-preservation, Morgan moved her head the quarter inch necessary to bring her lips into contact with Philip’s.
He relinquished his hold in order to pull her to him in a suffocating embrace. She pressed her palms to his shoulders, but hadn’t the angle or strength to have an effect. He deepened the kiss, sliding his hands up her back and neck and then beneath the fall of her hair, cupping her head. His touch against the bruised flesh made Morgan see stars. She moaned.
“See, you only had to try,” he crooned.
Her cry of pain had been horrifyingly misinterpreted. Morgan opened her mouth to explain. But before she could speak, Philip reached up under the hem of her dress and, hooking a finger under the waistband of her panties, ripped the silk from her body. She barely had time to register what he’d done before he dragged her down to the floor.
When she felt his hand between them, fumbling to unsnap and unzip his pants, she lost her battle for self-control. She began to scream and beg in turn while trying to kick out and hit at any part of him she could reach in her largely defenseless position. For a time he continued to move on top of her, trying to restrain her flailing limbs. Then suddenly, his weight was gone from her upper body.
“Morgan,” he called to her.
She looked up at him. He was straddling her and she pushed at his thighs and bucked beneath him in a futile attempt to get him off her. Every frantic move reminded Morgan she was laying on a bed of broken glass.
But when she saw him bring his left hand to his right shoulder, she stilled. She watched with morbid fascination as the back of his hand fell toward her in a graceful arc. Its downward momentum was abruptly interrupted by the side of her face. There was a burst of blinding light behind her eyes followed by a searing pain in her temples which gave way to a cushioning haze.
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