by Nora Roberts
you grinning at?"
"You look cute, sitting there all mussed up from sex and lecturing me on relationship ethics."
"I wasn't lecturing." She took a small, cool sip from her glass. "I was simply stating. Don't you believe in relationship ethics?"
"Yep." His hand wandered up her thigh. "But I figure like in any partnership, sometimes one end makes a decision on its own, and ethics get bent a little. I like this little birthmark way up here." His fingers skimmed high on her thigh over a small crescent shape. "Looks like a moon. Sexier than a tattoo."
"You're trying to distract me."
"Doesn't take much effort." But he trailed his finger back down to her knee. "I don't want to see the guy get popped by his wife. He fell for the horse, and maybe I gave him a little push." He moved his shoulders. "If Kate has a problem, we can lose the deal."
Laura tilted her head. "And then, in your opinion, Kate would be a shrew, and Byron a Milquetoast."
"I was thinking wuss actually." Amused, he straightened her leg so that he could lift her knee and kiss it. "Did you always talk everything over, nice and civilized with Ridgeway?"
"No, that was part of the problem. I did what I was told and behaved like a proper, dutiful, and spineless wife."
"Sorry." Annoyed with himself for the need to pry open that door to her life, he gave her knee a quick squeeze. "Bad question."
"No, it wasn't." She shifted a little, leaning back on the pillows propped on the iron headboard. "I learned from it. I learned I won't ever be spineless again, or ineffectual, or quietly desperate."
She tapped her fingers against the glass as she put into words what had been in her heart. "What he did, I let him do, which makes it as much my fault as his. I'm only sorry it took finding him in bed with another woman to force me to fix my life."
"You're happy now?"
"Yes, and grateful." She smiled again. "Grateful to you, too."
His thumb skimmed around to rub the back of her knee. "For?"
"For helping me realize I have a sex drive."
Appreciating her, he leaned up, nipping her lips with his as he set his glass on the table beside the bed. "You had problems with that?"
"I'm not having them now."
"Maybe I should check, just to be sure." But before she could circle him into her arms, he slipped back. "I think I'll start down here," he murmured, and lifted her foot.
"You're not going to… Oh." Her head fell back as his teeth and tongue went to work. "They do reflexology in the spa at the resort," she murmured as he bombarded all manner of tiny, sensitive nerves. "It never felt like this."
"You're not going to start fantasizing that I'm Viktor the massage boy, are you?"
She laughed, moaned, shuddered. "No. The reality's just—Jesus!" She dropped her glass, splattering wine over herself and the sheets. "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me—"
"No, you don't." He gave her a gentle shove that sent her weakly back onto the pillows. "Just stay where you are until I finish." He scraped his teeth over her ankle. "Things were a little rushed before. I think I skimmed over some of the finer points."
He pressed the heel of his hand lightly against her, had her hips rising. "I suggest you hang on, sugar. I'm going to take you for a long, hard ride."
It was like being assaulted on all sides. Inside and out, mind and body. She could do nothing but absorb, react, experience. He worked his way up, as if she were a meal to be savored, course by course.
The lights he left burning blazed too bright, burned her eyes even when she closed them. The air, breezy through the open windows, was suddenly too thick, so that each breath she took was a gasp. Her skin, no longer cool, pulsed with the beat of blood beneath and with the skim of hands and mouth.
The long muscles in her thighs quivered as he cruised over them, and the sheets rustled at the bunch and flex of her hands.
She'd never been tasted this way, touched this way, as if she were everything, and all things.
And his mouth closed over her, suddenly greedy, rough and focused on that core of wet heat until she flew up like an arrow with the sharp edge of her own pleasure stabbing her.
He was mad for her now, wild to see her pinned on the jagged peak of her own ecstasy. Her head was flung back, her eyes blind, her hands wrapped around the iron posts of the bed as if only that desperate grip kept her anchored.
And he was mad to drive her farther.
He used his hands until she bucked against him in frantic, pleading rhythm. Watched her, watched her, until his name sobbed out of her, until her hands lost their grip, until her body went pliant as pooled wax.
She lay still, wrecked, unable to do more than moan when he lifted her enough to slip the shirt away from her shoulders.
"You're beautiful, Ms. Templeton. Gold." He touched his hand to her hair. "Rose." And her breast. She trembled under his touch.
"Michael." She opened heavy eyes, saw the room spin. "I can't."
"Can't you?" Gently now, he lowered his head, flicked his tongue over her nipple. "I wonder."
"I know you didn't—you haven't—" She reached for him, knowing she would find him hard and ready. "Let me."
"Some other time." He smiled, though his blood had leaped when her fingers closed around him. "I'll take a rain check. Let's just see if we can finish this the old-fashioned way."
This time he closed his mouth over her breast and sent the ache echoing down.
"You do things inside me." Her breath began to hitch again. That curl of new need began to spread and ache and throb. "You have no idea what you do inside me."
It was building again, impossibly strong. She could have wept. He feasted on her breasts, teeth and tongue hungry for the flavor of her, that fragile and floral taste he'd come to crave. He took her hands, wrapping them around the posts again, keeping his clamped over hers.
The thought ran through her reeling head that they were both trapped, both locked in, both prisoners of this.
Accepting, she lifted her mouth to his, linking there as well, and met his fast, desperate thrust.
Then it was only blind speed, blazing heat, gasps and the animal's song of flesh against flesh. Harder, deeper, until he was buried in her. Until, still linked, hands, mouths, sex, they plunged.
Later, when blood had cooled and the air was quiet again, she shifted. His arm curled around her, held.
"I thought you were asleep," she murmured.
"Was."
"I have to go. I can't sneak in the house at dawn every morning carrying my shoes."
"Little while more." He was still half asleep, and his voice was thick with it. "I wanna hold you."
Her heart melted. Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. Wild, untamed hair, she thought. Devil's hair, dark and seductive. "Only a little while."
She rested her head on his shoulder, her hand on his heart. But he was already asleep again. So she lay there, for a little while, feeling his heart beat.
Mrs. Williamson slid a stack of pancakes under Michael's nose. It seemed the least he could do was eat them. She watched him take the first bite, her arms folded over her breasts.
"The best," he said. "When I get my place back together, I'm going to miss sneaking over here and having you feed me. Sure you don't want to marry me and come along?"
"You keep asking, you might get surprised." She topped off his coffee. The boy had always had a raging appetite, she reflected. For all manner of things. "Did you finish up that casserole I sent down?"
"I ate it, bowl and all." Absently, he reached down to scratch the kitten that wound hopefully through his legs. "And the pie, and those cookies." He grabbed her hand, nibbling on it while she clucked at him. "If you were to see your way to making one of those chocolate cakes. The one with the cream and the cherries?"
"Black Forest. Miss Laura's favorite."
"It is?" Apparently they shared the same taste out of bed as well. "She probably wouldn't miss a piece, or two, of it."
"We'll see abo
ut it." She skimmed her hand through his hair, tugged on the ponytail. "You need a decent haircut. Man your age wearing your hair like a hippie."
"The last hippie emigrated to Greenland in 1979. There's a small commune there where they still make love beads."
"Oh, you're a smart one, you are. Eat your breakfast. I've got to see that those children are fed before they go off to school. And Miss Laura," she continued, bustling back to the stove. "Eats like a sparrow. Never takes the time to sit down and start the day with a decent meal. 'Just coffee,' she tells me. Well, you can't fuel a body on coffee."
Laura's body seemed fueled fine to him, but he didn't think it wise to mention it. Mrs. Williamson might be fond of him, but he didn't imagine she'd approve of him luring the mistress into hot, sweaty bouts of sex.
"She's going to make herself sick, like Miss Katie did last year."
Michael stopped brooding, looked up. "Kate was sick?"
"An ulcer." Even the idea of it insulted her. Mrs. Williamson stopped flipping pancakes to turn around to him. "Can you imagine that? Overdoing, undereating, over-worrying until she was flat on her back. Well, we took care of that right enough."
"She's okay now? She looks great."
"Fit and fine. And expecting, too."
"Kate's pregnant?" The grin split Michael's face. "No shit?" He winced when she sent him a narrowed look. He remembered she didn't care for such language in her kitchen. "Sorry."
"We'll overlook it, this time. She's got herself healthy and happy, our Kate. That man she married won't let her get away with that kind of nonsense. There's a sensible man, one who knows how to take care of a woman."
"They look good together." Classy, Michael thought, frowning down at his plate. But then, Byron had grown up in Southern comfort, and Kate was, in every way that mattered, a Templeton. "They fit," he added.
"That they do. It's a good feeling to see Miss Kate happy, and Miss Margo so nice and settled. And what's Miss Laura got but those two angels to raise on her own?" She gestured with her spatula, stopped for a breath. "It's a good thing her parents are coming back for a time. There's no one in the world straightens out a tangle like Mr. and Mrs. T."
When the door opened, she closed her mouth, not wanting to be taken for gossiping.
"Mrs. Williamson, I—oh, hello, Michael."
Laura looked as fresh as a rosebud in her neat pale yellow suit. Not at all like the woman who had sobbed out his name the night before. Unless you looked at the eyes.
"Hello, Laura. Mrs. Williamson took pity on a starving man."
"Blueberry pancakes. The girls will be in heaven."
"Sit down, Miss Laura, and have a plate now."
"No, I can't. Just coffee, please. I was looking for Annie." She accepted the cup Mrs. Williamson handed her. "I've got to go in early. There's a problem at the office." She looked at her watch. "I should be in the car already. I can't find Annie, and I need to see if she can run the girls to school."
"She's gone. It's her day for the farmers' market."
"Oh." Laura pressed her fingers to her eyes. "I forgot. Then I'll have to—"
"I'll run them in."
Busily rearranging her schedule, Laura blinked at him. "What?"
"I'll run them to school."
"I couldn't impose, but—"
"It's no problem, and I don't think you have time to argue about it. Go on to work. I think I can get two girls to school without permanent damage."
"I didn't mean—" He was right, she admitted with another glance at her watch. She didn't have time to argue.
"I appreciate it. Thanks. It's Hornbecker Academy. If you take 1 South to—"
"I know where it is," he interrupted. "Same place you went."
"Yes." She'd had no idea he'd known where she went to school, much less remembered it. "I really appreciate this, Michael. I'm so late." She set the coffee aside, then stood, flustered, when he took her hand.
"Relax. The hotel's not going to collapse if you're late for a meeting."
"No, but my department might. Ali has to turn in her English composition this morning. She has it; I checked. But you might want to remind her. And Kayla should go over her spelling words on the drive in. She has a test. Ali can help her."
"I said I'll handle it."
"Yes, but, if you'd make sure they take umbrellas. I've set them out. It may rain."
"Now." He rose and, forgetting he had an audience, took her face in his hands and kissed her. "Go away."
"I—" She glanced over to where Mrs. Williamson was by all appearances busy humming over her pancakes. "I'm going. But they need to be reminded to feed the dog. Sometimes—"
"Out." Because she apparently needed a boost, he pulled her to the door. "Go nag somebody else."
When she opened her mouth again, he gave her a friendly slap on the butt to send her along. "How does anyone start a morning like that?'' he wondered, then turned and found Mrs. Williamson eyeing him soberly.
He cursed, but was wise enough to do it only mentally. "Is it like that around here every day?"
Ignoring his question, she stepped forward, walked around him. He thought he had a pretty good idea of what she was seeing. A man who came in the back door because he didn't belong at the front one.
She stopped, faced him, pursed her lips. "I wondered if you had your eye on anything else around here besides my cooking."
Because she had a way of making him want to shuffle his feet, he tucked his hands in his pockets. "So?"
"So—good." She gave his cheek a brisk pat, and was amused by the surprise on his face. The boy, she thought, had never had a clue of his own worth. "So—good for both of you, and about time, I say. First time in her life that girl's had a real man."
Humbled speechless, he shook his head. When he found his voice again, he took her hands. "Mrs. Williamson, you slay me."
"I will if you break her heart. But in the meantime, you should be good for each other. Now sit down and finish your breakfast before it's cold. If you're going to handle those girls yourself this morning, you need your fuel."
"I love you. I really do."
Her face creased in a wide smile. "I know that, boy. I love you right back. Now sit down and eat. They'll be down in a minute and chattering like magpies."
Chapter Fourteen
Contents - Prev | Next
Michael Fury had jumped off buildings, fought in jungles, weathered a typhoon at sea, raced cars at high speed and, at one time or another, broken several major bones in his body.
He'd been in bar fights, spent the night in a cell where the artwork on the walls ran to anatomically exaggerated etchings of female organs. He had killed men and loved women.
And he had, he realized, led a sheltered life.
He had never faced the perils and predicaments of getting two girls out of the house on a school day.
"What do you mean you can't wear those shoes?"
"They don't go with my outfit."
His eyes narrowed as he studied Ali's floral skirt and pink sweater. Hadn't she been wearing some green thing a minute ago? "That's what you said the last time. And it looks fine to me. They're just shoes."
In the way of every female since Eve strapped on a fig leaf, Ali rolled her eyes. "They're the wrong shoes. I have to change them."
"Well, hurry up. Jesus," he muttered as she dashed back upstairs, leaving Kayla tugging on his hand.
"I forgot how to spell 'bedlam.'"
"A-l-l-i-s-o-n."
She giggled at that. "No, really. Is it l-a-m or l-e-m?"
"A." He was pretty sure. Spelling homework wasn't exactly his strong point. And if they didn't get moving, he was going to be late meeting his contractor. The backup with building permits had already put him behind. Now Allison and her shoes… "Allison, I'm walking out the door with or without you in ten seconds."
"Sometimes Mama says that, too," Kayla informed him. "But she never does."
"I will. Come on." He tugged Kayla to the door.
"We're going. In the car, come on."
"How will Ali get to school?"
"She can walk," Michael said grimly. "In whatever shoes she's picked out this time."
He'd solved the crisis of Kayla's broken barrette, hadn't he? And her hair looked okay to him tied back with the rubber band he'd pulled out of his own hair. He hadn't panicked when Ali claimed to have misplaced her book bag but had found it himself, under the kitchen table, where she'd dumped it during her breakfast.
He'd remained the calm mediator when the two girls had fallen into a minor catfight over whose turn it was to feed the pets. And he had not faltered when Bongo had expressed his sorrow that his young mistresses were leaving him by peeing in the foyer.
No, he had stood strong through all of that, Michael thought as he gunned the engine. But he knew when he was being dicked around, and he wasn't taking it.
Impatience turned to smugness when he saw Ali flying out of the house. Indignation flashed in her eyes as she pulled open the car door. "You were going without me."
"That's right, Blondie. Get in."
Not wanting him to see, under the circumstances, that the nickname delighted her, she angled her chin. "There's only two seats. Where am I supposed to sit?"
"Beside your sister."
"But—"
"In. Now."
At the snapped order, she moved fast, squeezing beside Kayla. Pouting dramatically when Michael reached over to tug the seat belt around both of them, she announced, "I don't think this is legal."
It was her best lady-of-the-manor voice, Michael realized. Her mother's voice. "Call a cop," he muttered and started down the drive.
For the next fifteen minutes, he was treated to a run of complaints. "She's pushing me."
"She's taking all the room."
"She's sitting on my skirt."
The muscle behind his eye began to twitch. How did anyone—anyone—tolerate this every morning of their life?
"I need to go over my words," Kayla wailed. "I'm having a test. Michael, Ali's pushing her elbow in me again."
"Ali, get a grip." He blew away the hair that, thanks to his gift to Kayla, danced in his eyes.
"There's not enough room," Ali informed him loftily. "She's taking up the whole seat."