“Need you ask?” He kissed her again. “I knew you could be a wonderful lover, but I didn’t expect it to be so fantastic the first time.”
“Neither did I,” she confessed. “Thank you, Marcus.”
“Don’t say that. Thank you for marrying me, Jenna. And for being so courageous and utterly beautiful. You were stunning.”
Jenna was glad she had pleased him. She felt nicely floaty, and when he withdrew from her she experienced a sense of loss.
Later they showered and decorously sat down to a room service meal and more champagne.
And still later they were back in bed and in each other’s arms.
That was how they spent most of the next week, between walking along white coral-sand beaches and snorkeling in sparkling clear water, dining on exotic coconut-flavored dishes and watching the Cook Island dancers who provided entertainment at their hotel.
The dancing was sensuous and flirtatious, the men half crouching and slapping their brown, muscular thighs together as they circled the women, who seductively swayed their hips, eyes demurely downcast, while the wooden drums that accompanied them kept up a clamorous rhythm.
Marcus hired a motor scooter, the chief form of transport, and they circled the island, Jenna clinging to him with her arms about his waist. He drove up through coconut and taro plantations to the hilly interior, and they walked under tall yellow-flowered hibiscus trees and raggedy-leaved banana trees with huge dark-wine velvet flowers and found a secluded little glade where moss cushioned their bodies as they made love sheltered by a circle of close-growing trees.
“This is a slice of heaven,” she breathed afterward, as she lay in Marcus’s arms, watching the latticework of leaves overhead shift against the sun. Distantly she could hear the waves breaking on the reef surrounding the island. Close by the palms shivered and swayed. “It really is a tropical paradise.”
“Paradise is where you make it,” Marcus replied. “But…” He looked down at her, smoothing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I’ll never forget this. I want to make you happy, Jenna. And keep you happy forever.”
On their last night on the island, when the guests were invited to join in the island dancing, Marcus surprised Jenna by pulling her to her feet. Laughing at her protest, he put his hands on her hips and challenged her to imitate the women dancers, while he followed the men’s example.
At first self-conscious, she soon picked up the rhythm and began to enjoy herself. The drumbeat became faster and faster, a frenetic, dazzling display, and when it stopped she was breathless.
The dancers left to a storm of applause, and a three-piece band began to play a jazz tune. Instead of leading her back to their table, Marcus folded Jenna into his arms and moved to the music among other couples taking the floor.
Tonight Jenna had worn one of the hand-dyed cotton sarongs sold in the local markets, knotting it about her waist so that it fell to her ankles, teaming it with a white cropped top. Marcus’s hands were on her skin, a thumb subtly tracing the groove of her spine.
His chin brushed her temple, and his thighs flexed against hers. The lights dimmed and she closed her eyes, enjoying the spell cast by the tropical night, the music, and the man holding her.
She felt alive and content—more so than she had in years. For a long time she’d been in a sort of suspended animation, waiting for her life to take up where it had left off.
And now it had taken a different direction. She had woken from a dream and found reality infinitely more exciting and satisfying.
Tightening her arms about Marcus’s neck, she laid her cheek against his shoulder. When the music stopped he didn’t let her go immediately, but murmured, “Shall we go now?”
“Yes.” She wanted him. Wanted his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, wanted him inside her again, taking her to heights of pleasure that seemed to grow more intense every time they were together.
The hotel was all on one level, its guest quarters individual thatch-roofed units secluded by tall, gracefully bowed palms, heavy-scented frangipani trees and glossy red-leaved shrubs. Low lights among the shrubbery lit the path back to their unit.
Inside, screened windows allowed the scent of the frangipani to perfume the bedroom, and through the lattice of palm leaves a full moon lit the wide bed, turning the sheets blue-white.
Jenna was admiring the moon framed by the big window when Marcus came up behind her and linked his fingers at her bare waist. He kissed her neck, and Jenna leaned back against him.
He turned her and backed her against the wall and kissed her until she was dizzy. When he began tugging at the knot of the pareu, Jenna reciprocated by undoing the buttons of his shirt. She pressed herself against him and felt with triumph the surge of his response.
Naked, they fell on the bed together, and within seconds her small cries of fulfillment were joined by his low groans of satisfaction.
In the aftermath she turned to him, his sweat-sheened body lit in restless bars of moonlight as the palm tree outside whispered harshly in the wind. His face was in shadow, but he wound his fingers into her hair and kissed her again.
Jenna rested her head against his shoulder and felt him let out a long breath. Her skin tingled, and her limbs were twined with his. She turned her head to kiss his salty skin, and his hold on her tightened. She felt remarkably content, happier than she could ever remember. She had never been so close to another human being.
It was a night she was to remember for a long time. Something magical and intimate that they shared before returning to New Zealand and a different kind of reality.
Reality now was going back to work and spending the days apart from Marcus. But it was also settling herself into his apartment and into his lifestyle.
He made room for her clothes in his bedroom. She found space for her toiletries and makeup in the bathroom, and filled his kitchen cupboards with condiments, spices and ingredients that he’d never bought himself.
“I generally eat out or order something in,” he told her the first time he came home to find her preparing a meal. “You’re working too. There’s no need to rush home and make dinner for me.”
“I like cooking.” Jenna opened the oven to insert a tray of duchesse potatoes. “If you don’t want me to—”
“I didn’t say that. Only it wasn’t my intention to turn you into a housewife.”
“You’re not turning me into anything,” Jenna said firmly. “Pass me that glass bowl over there, will you? I need it for the salad.”
He passed it, and left to change out of his business suit into casual slacks and a T-shirt.
Over the filet mignon and fresh vegetables she’d prepared, he said, “This is great. I’m not much of a cook myself.”
Jenna looked at him curiously. “You made me breakfast when I stayed here, the night the flat was flooded.”
“Ah, breakfast is different. On weekends I often do bacon and eggs.”
For two? Unreasonably, Jenna was pierced with jealousy, wondering how many women had sat at this table after a night of passion—how many had shared his bed.
Don’t be silly, she admonished herself. He didn’t marry any of them, did he?
He had married her—Jenna. Because he was ready to settle down, and preferred to do so with someone he’d known for years.
It sounded sensible—and boring.
“Do you like being married?” she asked him.
“I like being married to you, Jenna.” He paused. “Do you like it?”
“Yes.” She liked being with him and certainly was never bored. Besides having a quiet sense of humor and a kind heart, Marcus was an inventive, exciting lover. Jenna knew she had surprised and delighted him by matching his appetite, if not his expertise. They challenged each other to new heights of pleasure, often until they were both exhausted. And he was always careful of her pleasure as well as his own.
She glanced away from the rather penetrating look he was giving her. “You’re a very considerate husband, Marcus.”
He stood up abruptly and started clearing away plates. “I guess that’s my cue.”
Jenna hadn’t realized what a full social life Marcus had. There were dinner parties and weekend yachting parties, and business occasions when Marcus asked her to accompany him.
His friends seemed happy to welcome Marcus’s wife. His business partner’s wife in particular was warm in her congratulations. As she and Jenna renewed their lipstick in the ladies’ room after a restaurant meal with potential clients, she said, “Marcus has been wrapped up in the business far too long. It’s time he had a real relationship.”
“He’s had girlfriends,” Jenna ventured.
“Hmm.” Angela Travers tossed her dark curls, her normally soft, pretty mouth thinning. “None of them were what he needs.” She took a tissue from a box on the counter and blotted her lipstick.
“What do you think he needs?” Jenna asked.
“Someone who puts him first,” Angela said frankly. “Who truly loves him and isn’t just using him, who won’t let him down.”
Feeling a pang of guilt, Jenna said, “Has he been let down?”
Angela hesitated. “I don’t know for sure. I’ve always had a feeling that he’s hurting deep inside. And that none of those women he’s been with have helped much. You’ve known him forever, haven’t you? I thought you’d know.”
Jenna shook her head. “He’s older, and when we were kids the gap seemed huge. Since he left home I’ve only seen him at family gatherings, really. Until recently, that is,” she added hastily.
“But you do love him?”
“I’ve always loved him.” It was true, although of course it was different from the way she’d felt for Dean.
Different, but…? All that angst over Dean now paled into a fuzzy memory. Teenage romanticism, Marcus had scathingly called it. Puppy love. Could he have been right?
Apologetically the other woman said, “I have no business cross-questioning you. It’s just that Ted and I are very fond of Marcus, and we want him to be happy.”
“So do I.” She owed him that.
“Of course you do.” Angela squeezed her arm. “I shouldn’t be butting in. Put it down to the wine. I’ve never had a good head for alcohol.”
Chapter Nine
They were invited to have dinner with Dean and Callie.
“How do you feel about that?” Marcus asked, studying her face.
Jenna shrugged. “We can’t say no, can we?”
He didn’t answer for a second. “I suppose not,” he said finally. “We’d better accept, then.”
Katie and Jason had been invited too, and the twins kept the conversation lively, each capping the other’s jokes with some quick-witted reply. Callie smiled a lot, although she was quieter than usual.
Watching Dean as he laughed at something his sister had said, Jenna smiled too. She loved them both, and that would never change, but with a sense of relief she realized that her feelings for Dean had radically altered. Affection was there, but there was no tearing heartache and no longing for a closer tie.
It was over. Dean was someone she was close to but not intimate with. And compared with his older brother he seemed very young.
A new sensation of lightness and freedom washed over her. She was happy, almost wildly so. When Dean made some silly pun and Katie groaned loudly, Jenna capped it with one of her own, her eyes dancing, and the three of them were soon off into a teasing, laughing round of quip and counter-quip that had Callie giggling, Jason grinning in a slightly bewildered way, and Marcus’s eyes moving from one to the other of them while his mouth curved and his cheek creased in amusement.
Dean poured more wine, and Callie said, “It’s great that you all get on so well together.”
“We’ve been friends forever,” Dean said. “I’m glad Marcus had the sense to marry Jenna. The best thing he ever did.”
“I concur with that,” Marcus said lazily.
“Thank you, Dean,” Jenna said graciously. “I’m glad too.”
They grinned at each other, and the bubble of happiness inside her seemed to swell and burst in a rush of affection for him, unmixed with any sexual feelings at all. He was her old playmate again, and she was glad to have him back. Laughing from sheer exuberant relief, she turned to Marcus, and saw his eyes narrow. The laughter died and she gave him a radiant smile. How foolish she had been to imagine that her puppy love was the real thing. Now she knew what a pale imitation it had been of grown-up, lasting love. She couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but Marcus.
When Callie got up to clear the plates and bring the next course, Jenna followed her into the kitchen, offering help.
“You could cut that into wedges.” Callie indicated the cheesecake on the table. “I’ll just put some fruit salad in a bowl.”
“This looks good.” Jenna found a knife and began slicing.
“I bought it,” Callie said, seeming embarrassed. “I’m not much of a cook.” She took a can of fruit salad from a cupboard.
“The chicken was delicious,” Jenna assured her.
Callie wrinkled her nose. “The rice went gluey.”
“It was fine. No one complained, did they?”
“You’re all too polite.” Callie wrestled with the can opener. “Oh, heck—I can’t even open a can!” Frustratedly she banged it on the counter.
“Let me help.” Jenna abandoned the cheesecake and picked up the opener, making sure it was firmly seated before turning the wings. The wheel cut into the metal and soon she was removing the top.
“Thanks.” Callie took the can and emptied it into a bowl. “At home we had an electric opener.” She sniffed.
“You can buy them here.” Jenna looked at the other girl’s downbent head. “Are you all right, Callie?”
Callie sniffed again and dashed a hand across her eyes, but it didn’t stop the tears Jenna saw spilling onto her cheeks.
She put an arm about Callie’s shoulders. “Callie?”
“I’m all right.” Callie grabbed a paper towel from the wall dispenser and dabbed her eyes and nose. “I love Dean,” she said fiercely. “Only sometimes I miss home. You won’t tell him about this, will you?”
“Does he know how you feel?”
“He knows how I feel about him.”
“If you miss your home so much, shouldn’t you tell him?”
“I don’t want him to know what a baby I am.” Callie squared her shoulders. “If I carry this, can you bring in the cheesecake?”
“We should have Dean and Callie round to our place soon,” Jenna said later as Marcus drove the car into the garage.
He pulled on the hand brake and switched off the lights. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“She needs friends.”
“I would have thought you’d be the last person on earth…”
“You want your brother to be happy, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he replied shortly. Pulling the key from the ignition, he got out of the car.
Inside, Jenna prepared herself for bed, pleasantly filled with food and wine and the memory of an enjoyable evening, except for Callie’s sudden revelation of her homesickness.
Marcus hadn’t come into the bedroom, and as she was about to climb between the sheets, she wondered what he was doing and returned to the living area to find out.
There were no lights on, but in the darkened living room he stood, a dark, shadowy figure at the window, looking out at the lights of the city.
“Marcus?”
He turned at the sound of her voice, and she saw the faint gleam of a glass in his hand.
She went to join him, the satin of her nightgown sliding against her thighs as she approached. “What are you doing?”
“Having a nightcap,” he answered, adding after a second, “Do you want one?” He sounded remote and polite and she couldn’t see his face.
“No, I’ve had enough alcohol tonight.” He had drunk very little, pacing himself because he was driving. Marcus had never b
een a heavy drinker.
She stood at his side, watching the winking lights, while he tossed off the remainder of the drink and put down the glass on the sill. A spatter of rain hit the window, and ran crookedly down the pane, picking up diamond points of lights on the way. Jenna felt goose bumps on her flesh and crossed her arms in front of her.
“You’re cold.” Marcus put an arm about her, rubbing his slightly roughened palm over her suddenly cooled skin.
“Not really.”
The rain outside intensified, blurring the view, all the lights running together like an abstract painting. She looked up and saw Marcus’s face in profile, jutting against the window, strong and impenetrable. She did feel cold, then. Cold and shut out.
“Marcus?” She said his name again, and he turned slowly, as if he’d just remembered she was there.
“What is it, Jenna?” he asked gently.
He must have heard the troubled note in her voice. “Nothing,” she said. “Are you coming to bed?”
“Are you inviting me?”
Her heart quickened. “Do you need an invitation?” She paused. “You know you’re always welcome.”
“Always?”
She had never refused him unless for obvious reasons. “Of course. Surely you know that?”
“Men don’t always know for sure. Women can pretend.”
She’d never have thought Marcus was lacking in confidence. She tried to see his face, but it was too dark to discern his expression. “I don’t pretend,” she said. “I wouldn’t. And besides, there’s no need.”
“You don’t…fantasize?”
The only fantasizing she did was when he wasn’t around and she was thinking about him. “Do you?” she asked point-blank. Did he see some film star or pin-up in his mind when he was making love to her?
“Why would I want to?” he said, turning to bring her into the circle of his arms. “When the embodiment of all my fantasies is right here?”
An extravagant thing to say, that would please any woman. She didn’t know why it caused her a slight pang. Perhaps because she couldn’t quite believe it. To banish the small doubt, she lifted her face to him in invitation and slid her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Marcus.”
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