by Linda Howard
“She had to love you, to risk all that she did,” Susan said painfully.
“Yes, she loved me. She just wasn’t strong enough not to have any regrets, not to let the hurt eat away at her. She came down with pneumonia, and she didn’t want to fight it. She gave up, let go. And do you want to know the hell of it?” he ground out. “I didn’t love her. I couldn’t love her. She’d changed, and she wasn’t anything like the woman I’d loved, but I stayed with her because she’d given up so much for me. Damn it, she deserved more than that! I did my best to make sure she never knew, and I hope she died thinking that I still loved her, but the feeling was long gone by then. I’m guilty, too, in what happened to Judith. As guilty as hell!”
His eyes were dry, burning like wildfire, and Susan realized that though he wasn’t able to weep for his dead wife, he was about to fly apart before her. She forcibly tugged her hands away from his death grip and cupped his face in her palms, her cool, tender hands lying along his hot flesh like a benediction. His soft beard tickled her palms, and she stroked it gently. His eyes closed at her touch.
“She was a grown woman, and she made her choice when she decided to have an affair with you,” she pointed out softly. “The stress was too much for her, but I can’t see that it’s any more your fault than it was hers.” She wanted to ease his pain, do anything to take that look of suffering off his face. My God, he’d been little more than a boy, to bear so much!
He put his hands over hers and turned his face to nuzzle his lips into her left palm, then rubbed his cheek against her hand. His pent-up breath gusted out of him on a long, soft sigh, and his eyes opened.
“You’re a dangerous woman,” he murmured sleepily. “I didn’t intend to tell you all of that.”
Looking at him, Susan saw that the whiskey was hitting him hard and fast. Cautiously, she eased him back over to the couch, and he dropped heavily onto it, sighing as he relaxed. For a moment she stood indecisively, then made up her mind; he was in no condition to drive, so he would have to spend the night there. She knelt down and began removing his shoes.
“What’re you doing?” he mumbled, his eyelids drooping even more.
“Taking off your shoes. I think you’d better stay here tonight, rather than risk driving home.”
A faint smile quirked his lips. “What will people say?” he mocked; then his eyes closed and he sighed again, a peculiarly peaceful sound.
Susan shrugged at his question; what people would say if anyone knew he’d spent the night here was almost beyond her imagination, yet she really couldn’t see that she had a choice. He was mentally and emotionally exhausted, as well as drunk, and if anyone chose to gossip about that, she couldn’t stop them. She wouldn’t risk his life for that. She completed her task and set his shoes neatly to one side, then swung his long legs up on the couch.
He grunted and adjusted his length to the supporting cushions, dangling one leg off the side and swinging the other one over the back of the couch. Sprawled in that boneless position, he went to sleep as quietly and easily as a child.
Susan shook her head, unable to repress a smile. He’d told her that he was a mean drunk. Looking at him as he slept so peacefully made her doubt that. She went upstairs to get a pillow and blanket, returning to drape the blanket over him and place the pillow under his head. He didn’t rouse at all, even when she lifted his head.
Lying alone in her own bed, she was aware of a deep feeling of contentment at just knowing he was under the same roof. The warm aching of her body told her that she wanted more from him than just his presence; she wanted the completion of his lovemaking. She wanted to be everything to him, every dream he’d ever had, every wish he’d ever made. She wanted to ease him and comfort him, and make him forget his black past. Knowing that he stood too much alone to allow anyone to mean that much to him didn’t lessen the way she felt. How odd it was that, when she loved again, she loved someone so different from herself!
Yet Vance had been different. Unlike Cord, Vance had conformed, at least on the surface, but she had always known that Vance could have been a hard, dangerous man if anything or anyone had threatened those he loved. Circumstances had been different for Vance than they had for Cord, and that part of his personality had never developed, but the potential had been there. With Vance she had felt utterly protected, utterly loved, because she had sensed that he would have put himself between her and anything that threatened her, without counting the cost to himself.
The way I love Cord! she thought, shocked, her eyes wide in the darkness. It stunned her to think that she could be stirred to violence, but when she thought of the anger that had surged through her that night, she knew that she’d have done anything she could have to keep Grant Keller from punching Cord. She didn’t fear for Cord; he was far too capable of taking care of himself. It was simply that she couldn’t bear the idea of him suffering the least hurt. She would gladly have taken a punch on the jaw herself rather than let it land on Cord.
She fell asleep quickly and woke before her alarm clock went off. The sun coming in her window, bright and warm, told her that it was going to be another gorgeous spring day. Humming, she took a shower and put on fresh lacy underwear and chose a bright summer dress that reflected her rise in spirits. The pure white fabric, with its fragile lace trim and scattering of brightly colored spring flowers, made her feel as fresh as the new day, as full of hope. Still humming, she went downstairs and peeked into the den, where Cord still lay sprawled on the couch, sleeping heavily. He’d rolled over on his stomach, and his head was turned to the back of the couch, revealing only his tousled dark hair. Quietly she closed the door and went to the kitchen.
Emily was already there, quietly and efficiently making breakfast. When Susan entered, the older woman looked up with a smile. “Who’s your guest?”
“Cord Blackstone,” Susan replied, returning the smile and pouring herself a cup of fresh coffee. While the coffee cooled, she got the plates and silverware for setting the table.
“Cord Blackstone,” Emily mused, her eyes softening. “My, my, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that boy. He even spent a few nights under my roof, when he was younger.”
“He was drunk last night,” Susan explained as she arranged the plates on the table, absently placing the napkins and silverware just so, moving them around by fractions of an inch until she was satisfied.
“I don’t remember him as being much of a drinker, though of course that was a long time ago. I’m not saying that he couldn’t put it away, but it just never seemed to affect him. My boy would be passed out, and Cord would be as steady on his feet as ever.”
After pouring another cup of coffee, Susan carried it into the den and carefully placed it on the coffee table, then knelt in front of the couch. She put her hand on his blanket-covered shoulder, feeling the warmth of his flesh even through the fabric. “Cord, wake up.”
She didn’t have to shake him. At her touch, her voice, he rolled over, tangling himself in the blanket, and his eyelids lifted to reveal pale, glittering irises. He smiled, then yawned, stretching his arms over his head. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she replied, watching him with veiled concern. “Do you feel like having a cup of coffee?”
“H’mmmm,” he said in a rumbling, early-morning voice, a noise that could have meant anything. He heaved himself into a sitting position, raking his fingers through his hair. He yawned again, then reached around her for the coffee, holding the cup to his mouth and cautiously sipping the steaming liquid. He closed his eyes as the caffeine seared its way to his stomach. “God, that’s good! Do I smell bacon cooking?”
“If you think you can eat—”
He grinned, opening his eyes. “I told you, I don’t have hangovers.”
Susan couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out. “Yes, but you also told me that you’re a mean drunk, and you weren’t anything but a big pussycat! A big, sleepy pussycat!”
He reached out and caught her
hand, his gaze on her radiant, laughing face. “It depends on my company when I’m drunk. I can be mean if I have to.” He finished the coffee and set the cup down, then slid back into a reclining position, closing his eyes, her hand still held loosely in his.
She shook his shoulder with her free hand. “Don’t go back to sleep! It’s time for breakfast—”
Without opening his eyes he tugged on her hand, and Susan found herself on the couch with him, sprawled over him in a very undignified position. Her eyes widened to huge blue pools, and she began squirming in an effort to push her skirt down, but her efforts were hampered because her feet had somehow become tangled in the blanket and she couldn’t get her legs straight.
He sucked in his breath sharply, and his hand caught in her hair, holding her still. “I’d rather have you for breakfast,” he muttered huskily, his fingers exerting just enough pressure to ease her head forward slowly, an inch at a time, until he could put his mouth to hers. Susan quivered, her lips opening to his like a soft spring blossom, her mouth being filled with the coffee taste of his. Like a welcome, familiar friend, his tongue entered lazily and explored the tiny serrated edges of her teeth, the softness of her lips, the sensual curling of her tongue as it met his. His hand left her hair and moved down her back, searching out the slender curve of her spine, as slow and inexorable as the seasons.
Susan forgot about breakfast. She wound her arms around his neck, her hands clenching in his hair, meeting the open hunger of his kiss with her own. It was so sweet and good, and it was all she could ask of life, to be in his arms. She felt his hands on her body, experienced, calm hands, as they sleeked down her sides to the graceful curve of her waist, then down to the roundness of her hips. He cupped her buttocks, grasping, filling his hands with the smooth mounds and pressing her to him. The raw sexuality of his gesture left her reeling with pleasure, unable to rein in the hot sparks of desire that were shooting through her body. She was a woman, and he knew exactly what to do with her woman’s body. With a few swift movements he had her skirt up, and his hands were under the material, burrowing under the elastic waistband of her panties to brand the coolness of her buttocks with the heat of his palms.
Susan moaned aloud, and the sound was taken into his mouth. He began nibbling at her flesh, his teeth catching her lower lip, the tender curve of her jaw, the delicate lobe of her ear. Her breath was rushing in and out of her lungs, her heart racing out of control. The feel of him was driving her mad, and she wanted to sink down on him in boneless need. Now he was biting at her neck, his teeth stinging her skin; then he soothed it with tiny licks of his tongue. Her hands had made fists in his hair, pulling at the thick, vital mane mindlessly. She wanted to give him everything, every part of her, blend the softness of her body with the hardness of his.
“Two minutes!” Emily sang out from the kitchen.
Susan heard the words, but they didn’t make any sense to her. Cord groaned, and his hands tightened on her buttocks in momentary denial; then he reluctantly withdrew his touch from her enticing curves. “I thought a two-minute warning was only in football,” he grumbled, easing her to one side.
She sat up, dazed and aching with frustration, wondering why the narcotic of his touch had been so suddenly withdrawn from her feverish, addicted flesh. He looked at her face, so soft and vulnerable in her passion, and his jaw went rigid with the effort he had to make not to reach for her again. She was too much woman to be so prim and proper, and he was becoming increasingly fascinated by just how prim and proper she wasn’t. She was forbidden fruit, and probably deceitful into the bargain, but logic had nothing to do with the way he wanted her.
Susan willed herself to be calm, forcing her shaky legs to support her when she stood, forcing her voice to a deceptive evenness. “You’ll probably want to wash before eating,” she murmured, and showed him the way to the downstairs bathroom. “Come through to the kitchen when you’re finished.”
But for all her surface serenity, it was several moments after she entered the kitchen before she had collected her thoughts. After staring blankly at the small table in the breakfast alcove, set with three places, a vase of cheerful shasta daisies in the center, she was overcome by the thought that for the first time in five years she would be sharing her breakfast with a man. And not just any man! She would be eating the first meal of the day with a man who made every other man of her acquaintance pale in comparison. A quiver of desire ran through her body again, and she blushed hotly at the thought that she would have let him take her a few moments ago, sprawled on the couch like a wanton, with Emily in the kitchen. Muttering an excuse about collecting his coffee cup, which she’d left in the den, she escaped for a few minutes of necessary solitude.
She had returned with the cup and had a refill of fresh, steaming coffee sitting by his plate when Cord paused in the doorway, assaulting her senses with his size, overpowering everything in her feminine house. He had an aura of hard vitality about him, and for a moment she could only stand and stare at him helplessly. It didn’t make it any better to know that he affected every woman that way; not even Imogene was immune to him, and now Emily turned to greet him, a flush of pleasure pinkening her features. “Cord Blackstone, I swear, you’re even handsomer than ever!”
He searched her face for only a second, his ice-blue eyes sharp; then he grinned and his white teeth flashed. “Mrs. Ferris!” Without pause, he moved across the kitchen to take her firmly in his arms and press a kiss on her flustered mouth, a warm and friendly kiss that had Susan envying Emily for even that small moment.
Emily was laughing and patting his cheek. “That beard! You look like an outlaw for sure! Sit down, sit down. I hope you still like your eggs over easy?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his inbred Southern courtesy not allowing him to address her in any other manner. He seated Susan and Emily before taking his own chair, his long legs fitting under the table with difficulty, but Susan didn’t mind the way their knees bumped. His presence at her breakfast table was as natural as if it were an ordinary occurrence, and the sun was shining for her after an absence of five years. She could feel Emily’s glance on her, but she couldn’t control the radiance of her smile.
She wasn’t the only one who was smiling; Emily was clucking around Cord, chattering at him and fussing over him, and he was eating it up with a look of pleasure that told Susan it had been a long time since he’d known the subtle delight of being cherished in the small, all-important ways. Susan didn’t talk much, just listened to their conversation. She learned that Cord and Emily’s eldest son had been inseparable companions during their teen years, and that Cord had eaten a lot of meals that Emily had cooked. Emily brought Cord up to date on Jack’s life, but Susan noticed that Cord didn’t divulge any information about himself. His past was a closed book; she realized that she didn’t know anything about what he’d done or where he’d been since he’d left Mississippi, not even where he’d been immediately before returning.
She hated to see the meal end, but all too soon the table had been cleared and the kitchen cleaned, the last cup of coffee drunk. She walked with him to the door, her heart beating slowly, heavily. It was either bright sunlight or the darkest shadows, she realized painfully; there was no middle ground in loving him. She stopped in the middle of the foyer, her heart in her eyes as she looked at him.
Chapter Six
His eyes were hooded and unreadable as he watched her, but his hand smoothed over her shoulder as if he couldn’t prevent himself from touching her, his fingers heating the cool silk of her skin before sliding upward over her throat to cup her chin and lift her face. He hadn’t said a word, but he didn’t need to; the burning possession of his lips told her all she needed to know. With a silent gasp, she melted against him, her hands going up to lie along his jawline, where the silkiness of his beard tickled her palms.
He lifted his mouth and simply held her close for a moment. Susan kept her hands on his face, stroking her fingers lightly over his beard,
drowning in the enjoyment of being cuddled by him. His strong, warm throat beckoned, and she stood on tiptoe to press a light kiss onto the skin above his collar. “What do you look like without a beard?” she asked dreamily, for no other reason than that her hands were on his beard and it was the first sentence that popped out.
He chuckled, a husky, male sound that rippled over her like warm water. “Like myself, I suppose. Why? Are you curious?”
“M’mmmm,” she said, letting him interpret the sound as he chose. “How long have you worn a beard?”
“Just for this past winter, though I’ve had a moustache for several years. I was stranded for a week or so without any way of shaving, short of scraping my face with a dull knife, and I realized just how much time I wasted in scraping hair off my face when it promptly grew back, so I kept the beard.”
She trailed one fingertip over his bearded chin. “Do you have a cleft chin? Or a dimple?”
Suddenly he laughed, pulling away from her. “Well, see for yourself,” he teased, catching her hand and pulling her after him as he started up the stairs with a swift, leaping stride. “Where’s your bathroom?”
Susan laughed too, and tried to stop him. “What’re you doing? You’re going too fast! I’ll fall!”
He turned around and scooped her up in his arms, and kissed her so hard that her lips stung. Holding her securely against his chest, he opened doors until he found her bedroom, then walked into it and let her slide to the floor. He looked around at the completely feminine room, the lace curtains, the cream satin comforter on her bed, the delicately flowered wallpaper. His face changed, became curious, surprised. “Vance didn’t sleep in here,” he said. “This is a woman’s room.”
Susan swallowed, a little surprised at his perception. “This was our room,” she admitted. “But I changed everything when he died. I couldn’t sleep in here with everything the way it had been when he was alive, so I bought new furniture and had the room redone completely. Not even the carpet is the same.”