Summer Reads Box Set, Books 4-6

by Freethy, Barbara

  "It will be safer away from the windows."

  She wasn't afraid of the glass breaking. She wasn't even afraid of the storm anymore. She was afraid of herself, terrified of what she wanted to happen next.

  Sam moved her backward as if they were in a dance and he was steering her around a ballroom. Only they weren't waltzing past other couples, they were moving in between the aisles of her shop. Her shop, she tried to remind herself, her business, her new focus. She'd poured so much energy into her marriage, and it had all been a waste of time. Now it was going into the shop.

  But as Sam turned her around, as he shuffled them toward the office door, all she could think about was the man who was holding her, whose hands and eyes and lips promised her the world. The next thing she knew they were in the office, and the couch was hitting her in the back of her legs.

  Sam stood in front of her, holding her hips against his, and she could feel his body hardening just as hers was beginning to soften. He swayed against her. She moved with him, her thighs pressing against his, her breasts tingling from contact with his chest, her lips seeking his mouth as he sought hers.

  How she loved the way he ran his hands through her hair, trapping her head with his fingers so he could kiss her the way he wanted to, the way she wanted him to. It was a hot, carnal kiss between two people who knew each other inside and out.

  Their bodies moved in perfect accord, as if to music playing somewhere in their heads, in their dreams, in their memories. They had made love a thousand times, but while tonight felt the same, it also felt different, as if they'd never been together, as if they didn't know each other's bodies by heart. Maybe it was the intense darkness, the shadows that kept reality safely hidden away. Maybe it was the storm, the drumming rain on the ceiling that made their other life seem so very far away.

  Maybe it was that she wanted one last time with him.

  Sam pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it in the direction of the couch. She stared at him for one long questioning moment, then slipped her hands under the hem of his shirt and helped him off with it. They stood silently then, their breath rising like the steam from a sauna. There was a chance to change her mind. She knew she should take it.

  But Sam was looking at her breasts, worshiping them with his eyes, as his hands slowly crept up from her waist until his thumbs caressed the skin above her bra. She wanted it off—and quickly, but Sam was toying with her bra, running his fingers along the top and then down through the valley of her breasts, playing with the tiny clip that would set her free.

  She took in a breath and let it out. He heard her and smiled. His finger flipped the snap and the material came apart. The air hit her breasts like an air conditioner until Sam's hands covered them with his heat, with his desire, with his need. His hands weren't enough. She wanted his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

  And then he was there the way she remembered, better than she remembered, drawing her nipple between his teeth until she felt an ache that went straight to the heart of her. Her legs started trembling, and she thought she might fall, but Sam held her steady as he lifted his head from her breasts and looked at her.

  He put his hand on the snap of her jeans and opened it. He pushed down the zipper and her pants quickly followed, leaving her standing in a pair of emerald-green silk panties. His hand swept across the silk, caressing her heat, feeling the dampness that told him how much she wanted him.

  "I think you should take these off," he said.

  She swallowed hard. "And you should take these off." She repeated his motion, opening his jeans, sliding her hands down to the top of his thighs as he kicked them off.

  And they stood there again, a second pause, a moment to stop. But how could she stop? How could he?

  "Alli," he said huskily, his face barely visible in the shadows, only the light of desire in his eyes showing her the way home.

  "Yes," she said, the simple word cut off by the descent of Sam's mouth on hers, the sudden slide of her panties down the back of her legs, Sam's hands cupping her buttocks, rubbing them, kneading them, each movement getting more frantic. When he moved away from her, she wanted to cry out to him to come back. But he'd dropped to his knees, pulling her panties down to the floor, as he pressed his lips to her belly button, her abdomen, the tight copper curls that graced the apex of her thighs.

  She shuddered, reaching for him, but only managing to latch her fingers on to his hair as he began to kiss her there, forcing her thighs apart with his shoulders as he loved her with his mouth until her knees began to tremble and she gasped his name.

  The next thing she knew she was lying on the couch while Sam was wrestling with his jeans.

  "What are you doing?"

  He pulled out a foil packet and quickly ripped it open, sliding the condom on before she could say a word. The familiar action registered like a harsh note in their love song, for even now in the heat of the storm, he couldn't forget about protection. But she couldn't summon up enough strength to protest, not when her body was already on fire, not when he was pressing her back against the cushions and entering her with an aching slowness and completeness that made her heart ache all the while her body sang in joy.

  She closed her eyes, feeling him with every fiber of her being, knowing that she would love this man forever, no matter what she told herself or what she told him. With Sam inside her, on top of her, surrounding her, she soared as high as a kite, as free as the breeze, as powerful as the sea. She felt each and every emotion as she matched his rhythm with her own, for in this moment they were in perfect accord, peaking at exactly the same time, collapsing together breathlessly as they came down the other side of the wave.

  Tears blurred her eyes, and she wondered if this would be the last time she would hold him, the last time she would feel his body inside hers. She didn't want to let him go now, her hands clasped tightly behind his back.

  "I'm too heavy," he said.

  "Sh-sh," she said. "Not yet."

  He stayed with her for another minute, then rolled off her, the air between them covering her with an icy chill. She sat up on the couch as Sam handed her her clothes. She didn't put them on right away, just watched him get dressed from the dark shadows of the couch.

  "It's cold," he said, turning to her. "You should put something on."

  "It wasn't cold a minute ago."

  Sam sat down on the couch next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her to his chest, which was now covered by his T-shirt, she thought with disappointment. But still she rested her face against his shoulder and took a deep breath of him, evoking the scent to memory. She never wanted to forget the way he smelled, the way he tasted, the way he felt.

  Sam kissed the top of her head. "You're beautiful, Alli."

  His compliment brought another tear to her eye, another ache to her heart. "You're beautiful, too," she said huskily.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, a silence that gradually began to turn tense as they struggled to find something to say to each other. This had always been the hard part, the moments after they made love, moments when they should have felt closer than ever, yet somehow didn't.

  Finally, she raised her body away from him and put on her clothes, fumbling with the hooks and zippers. When she was done, she stood up. "We better go home. I think the rain has lessened." In fact, she could barely hear the wind that had sounded like a freight train only a few minutes earlier.

  "Home," he said heavily as he stood up. "Where is that exactly, Alli?"

  "What do you mean?" she countered somewhat warily, hearing a note in his voice she didn't like.

  "Our home or your home?"

  She hesitated. "Do you think things have changed?"

  "Do you?"

  "We've made love before. Making love has never been our problem, Sam. It's the one thing we do really, really well together."

  "But--”

  "But you still used a—a condom," she said. "And you still can't say you love me. And I'm not
sure you can even say you really wanted this, that if we hadn't come out in the storm we would have even made love."

  "I used a condom because the last thing we need to do right now is make a baby."

  She turned away, but he put a hand on her shoulder and swung her back to face him.

  "You're my wife, Alli. Of course I love you," he said somewhat awkwardly. "Didn't I just make love to you?"

  "So you care about me because I share your name and your bank account? Is that what you mean by 'You're my wife'? That's not the same as 'I love you. I don't think I can go on breathing without you, because without you I'm only half a man, and if you leave me I would probably die from a broken heart.'"

  He sighed.

  "Oh, forget it," she said. "I'm not scripting it for you."

  "That's exactly what you're doing."

  "Actually, what I'm doing is going home." She moved out of the office and into the shop. She picked her slicker off the floor and handed him his. Then she opened the door and saw that the rain was still coming down, although not with as much ferocity as before. "Can you help me push a couple of sandbags up against the door?" she asked as they stepped out onto the porch.

  The task took only a few moments and they were ready to leave.

  "I wonder what would really be enough for you," Sam said somewhat cryptically as they got into the car.

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "I mean, would you even believe me if I told you exactly what you wanted to hear? Because I don't think you would, Alli. I think you believe deep down that no one can love you that way, especially me, because I'll always love Tessa."

  Her heart thudded against her chest at his words.

  "Is that the truth, Sam? That you'll always love Tessa?"

  "You think it's the truth."

  "Can you deny it?"

  He shrugged. "If I say yes, will you believe me?”

  She hesitated for a split second too long.

  "That's what I thought," he said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The morning after the storm dawned bright and sunny, as crisp as a new dollar, as fresh as an ocean breeze, but filled with more regrets than Sam would ever have imagined. Besides the regrets, he had a bear of a headache, the result of downing half a bottle of Scotch in the early hours of the morning when sleep had eluded him.

  He sat in his car and stared at his house, at Alli's house, he reminded himself, where his wife—make that his almost-ex-wife—had retreated the night before. He could still see the glimpse of light, of warmth in the house, teasing him just before she'd shut the door in his face—because he didn't love her and he never would.

  Damn, he was sick of those words that she wanted so desperately to hear. He didn't remember his father telling his mother he loved her, although everyone had known that was the case. He didn't remember his mother making a big deal out of things like anniversaries and birthdays. There had been a few cakes over the years, a present here and there, but no one had called for a divorce because of a forgotten holiday or a pile of photographs. No one but Alli.

  He knew that she was insecure, that she didn't believe in herself. But he couldn't fix what was wrong with her. She had to do that on her own. And maybe he needed to do some fixing within himself.

  He would have liked a little time to regroup, but low tide waited for no man, and they needed to be down at the tidal flats by eleven A.M. so they could retrieve the oysters and find the pearl for Phoebe's necklace. He forced himself out of the truck and across the wet grass to Alli's front door.

  There was nothing about the day that overtly spelled disaster. The powerful storm had swerved away from the coast just before midnight, returning them to beautiful summer weather. The flowers glistened with lingering raindrops and the wind chimes on the porch played a melody in the soft breeze, but still Sam felt a wave of uneasiness as he applied his finger to the doorbell.

  Fortunately, Megan opened the door after the obligatory "Who is it?" She leaped into his arms and planted a big kiss on his forehead. Thank God for small innocent children who loved unconditionally and without restraint.

  "Hi, Daddy," she said in her sweet voice.

  He smiled into her baby blues. "Hi, honey."

  "You didn't come back last night to make the kite," she said somewhat accusingly. "Mommy and I had to sew the fabric by ourselves."

  Of course he hadn't come back; he'd been sent home after daring to make love to his wife. Still, he was surprised that Alli could have concentrated on kite building when he'd spent the better part of the evening in turmoil.

  "We painted a picture, and now we just have to attach the material to the sticks," Megan continued.

  Sam started, realizing he'd missed some of what she'd said. "What?"

  "Aren't you listening, Daddy?"

  "Of course I am. I'm glad you and Mommy worked on the kite."

  "Can we finish it today after we get back from pearl hunting?"

  "We'll see."

  "That means no," she said with a sigh.

  "That means we'll see." He set her down and followed her into the house.

  Alli was in the kitchen, standing at the stove and stirring what could only be her favorite apple cinnamon oatmeal. She wore faded blue jeans that clung to her hips, and a short cropped lime-green T-shirt that allowed a glimpse of skin. Her feet were bare and her hair was still damp from a shower. Sam had to make himself keep breathing. He'd seen her like this a thousand times, but he didn't think she'd ever looked sexier. He just wished she'd turn around so he could see her face, assess her mood, but she seemed intent on stirring, determined to ignore him.

  "Morning," he said shortly.

  "Morning," she mumbled.

  Megan sent him a funny look, then sat down at the table to finish her cereal. "Are you having oatmeal, Daddy?"

  "If there's enough," he said, his gaze fixed on Alli's back.

  She turned her head slightly at that, still not giving him a look into her eyes. "There's enough.”

  "Great."

  She moved over to the cabinet and pulled out two bowls. After filling one with oatmeal, she held it out to him. He didn't take it. He wanted her to look at him, dammit, to show that she remembered every kiss, every touch, every second of their being together.

  Finally, she did look at him, and for a split second there was that same sense of awareness, intimacy, desire—then her brown eyes turned defiant, belligerent. Her armor was back on.

  "Take it," she said, pushing the bowl at him.

  "Thanks"

  So they were back to being angry, distant strangers. He should have figured. He sat down at the table and began to eat, listening to Megan talk about her evening at the neighbor's house, about the brownie she'd saved him, and how many oysters they were going to get and what were the odds that they'd find a pearl. And all the while she talked, he barely listened, instead watching Alli take her oatmeal to the kitchen sink, eating while she cleaned up, anything to avoid sitting down at the table with him.

  Finally, Megan finished her cereal and at Alli's request took it to the sink. Then she disappeared upstairs to finish getting dressed. Taking his own empty bowl over to the counter, he set it down while Alli busied herself with loading the dishwasher.

  He leaned against the counter and watched her. It was all so normal, the way they ate breakfast, the dishwashing soap Alli poured into the machine, the way she loaded each plate, each glass. He remembered when they'd first married, how they'd argued about how to load the dishwasher.

  So many fights... they'd had so many arguments about nothing—who was going to pay the bills, who would clean the toilet, who would refill the paper towel dispenser. They'd fought over his drinking milk out of the carton, over Alli's forgetting to get the oil in the car checked, over who got control of the remote, over whether or not they would buy a new washing machine or keep the old one for one more year—all the little things in their lives. But the big stuff, most of the big stuff, they'd agreed on—how to raise
Megan, how to build their businesses, how to support their community. They'd never fought over those things.

  "What are you looking at?" she asked in exasperation, tossing the dish towel down on the sink. "You're staring at me like you've never seen me before."

  Maybe he hadn't. He'd seen her, sure, but looked at her, really looked at her—maybe not.

  "I'm going to put my shoes on," she said when he didn't reply. "Did you confirm with Tessa what time we'll meet?"

  Tessa. Bring up Tessa, it was the last line of defense between them.

  "She'll meet us at the parking lot about a half hour from now. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

  "Are you trying to pick a fight?" she challenged.

  "Are you?"

  "Can we just forget what happened last night? Chalk it up to one more bad decision we made.”

  "So, you think you can forget it?"

  "I don't want to do this right now, Sam. Megan is upstairs. She doesn't need to hear us fighting or see us throwing pots and pans at each other."

  "She'd probably rather see us kissing."

  "And that would confuse her even more."

  "We're all confused. She can join the club."

  "You don't mean that."

  He slammed his fist down on the counter. "No, I don't mean that. I don't want to hurt Megan, but don't you see, Alli, this is hurting Megan."

  "But you've been hurting for nine years, Sam. And I've been hurting, too. And that doesn't make for a happy home for our daughter. Please, let's leave this alone for now. There's too much going on now. I can't think straight."

  "Neither can I, especially when you're around.”

  "You've been living with me for so many years. How can you suddenly be this..."

  "This what?" he asked, moving closer to her.

  "This interested. Is it because you don't have me anymore? That now you suddenly want me? Is it to prove that you can make me love you even after everything?"

  "That is not it at all. Is it so hard to believe that I am attracted to you? Have I ever pretended otherwise?"

  "Fine, you're attracted to me. It doesn't mean anything."