He also couldn’t seem to stay away.
Every week that he was in town he tried. And every week he ended up right in this same place. He’d thought that maybe today, in his efforts to prevent his sister from making the biggest mistake of her life, he’d be spared this little sojourn.
But even that peace had been denied him.
So here he sat, champing at the bit as he watched Mitch’s dad massacre what had promised to be a damn good soccer team. The city league was sponsored by the Y and played all year, no matter what the season, in an effort to keep kids off the streets and in organized activities.
Last year, Seth had been their coach.
“Use your head!” he yelled. And then, ducking his own head, looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard.
Someday he’d learn to keep his big mouth shut. He’d have been a lot better off if he’d done that before he volunteered to coach soccer for underprivileged kids. Before he’d met Jeremy Sinclair. Or his mother.
“Finesse, Jeremy,” he muttered fiercely. “Keep your eye on the ball and your feet in motion.”
The boy watched the ball, but he was practically tripping over his feet in his hurry to get down the field.
“Dance, son.”
Seth itched to get out of the car. To stand at the side of that field and holler. He noticed Peter Adams sitting on the bench, his lower lip jutting out like he was going to cry. None of the boys were smiling. Wishing he could motivate their butts, Seth swallowed instead.
And saw Jeremy glance over. There was no way the kid could see him. He was too far away, camouflaged by a tree. But it was time to go. He couldn’t risk practice ending early. Couldn’t risk Jeremy finding him there.
Anyway, he wanted that drink.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MAN WAS enough to drive her to drink. Two o’clock Saturday afternoon and they’d spent barely a moment at home. So, of course, Michael still hadn’t made love to her. He’d touched her. Hell, he could hardly keep his hands off her. Yet the second things started to progress, he’d find something to talk about.
Without really talking about anything at all.
And Susan thought she was nervous about taking that final, irrevocable step.
This morning, after he’d thrown Seth out, he’d decided he was hungry, after all. So they went to the new restaurant Seth had recommended for lunch, and a couple of hours disappeared. Then he’d asked to see her office on the way back to the condo, giving as his reason the fact that he hadn’t been there since she’d moved her desk in front of the window.
Eventually, they’d ended up back at the condo. It was either that or go see the Star Trek movie.
“Let’s make a gingerbread house,” Susan said as they pulled in the drive.
“What?” He looked over at her as though she’d lost her mind. Putting her Infiniti in park, he shut off the engine and handed her the keys.
“Come on.” She grinned at him. “It’ll be fun.” And it would give them something unthreatening to do—at home, where there was at least a possibility of babies being made.
“You need special candies and stuff to do that,” Michael told her as he followed her into the house.
“Got them.” She’d meant to make a gingerbread house with Spencer and Barbara’s five-year-old daughter, Melissa, at Christmastime. Thank goodness she’d never mentioned her intentions to Melissa, because she hadn’t had a Saturday off in the entire month of December.
Hanging his coat on the rack, Michael reached for hers. “Gingerbread houses are for Christmas.”
“If you promise not to tell Santa, I won’t.”
“Susan.” Michael took her in his arms, pulled her against him. Kissed her once—and let her go. “A gingerbread house isn’t something you finish in an afternoon. They take hours of planning.”
Hurt by Michael’s unwillingness to make love to her, Susan headed for the kitchen. “Then we’ll design a simple one.”
Michael had always had artistic flair. His doodles were proof of that. But he’d hardly ever stopped working long enough to do more than doodle. She’d like to see him turned loose on a gingerbread house.
“Just waiting for the gingerbread to bake and cool takes all day,” Michael said, walking into the kitchen.
“We’ve got all day.” Susan was taking ingredients from cupboards, piling them on the kitchen counter. “Besides, it won’t take that long. We can always pop the pieces in the freezer when they come out of the oven.” She had to stand on tiptoe to get the molasses from the cupboard above the stove and Michael was suddenly there, reaching over her, bringing it down.
He brushed his body against hers, then let her go. And told Susan something she desperately needed to know. He wanted her. He was hard as a rock.
But before she could so much as turn in his arms, he’d stepped away from her to study the recipe she’d put on the counter.
“It says you have to chill the dough overnight before you cut it.”
“So we’ll pop it in the freezer before we bake it, too.”
“Susan, I’m telling you, if you start this now, you’ll still be at it tomorrow afternoon.”
“Not with you helping me I won’t.” She grinned at him to hide her hurt. “You want to mix or dump in the ingredients?”
“Dump.” Michael didn’t sound any more excited about that than he had about the baby. She hoped he was a little quicker at the dumping or they wouldn’t get the house made.
HE’D BEEN RIGHT, of course. There was no way they were going to finish her damn gingerbread house that day. They’d been working on it for a couple of hours already and he was still at the designing stage.
But he had to admit the idea had been a good one. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Susan had laughed together like this.
“You have flour on your nose,” he told her, reaching up to brush the dab of white away. His fingers lingered. He’d always loved the softness of her skin, the contrast between it and his rough stubble.
“Remember that time we were fooling around in the trees outside my dorm, and Connie Fisher dumped that bag of flour all over us?” she asked now, leaning over his shoulder as she surveyed his drawing. He’d been sitting at the table with paper and pencil for the better part of an hour.
“She was lucky she was up three flights,” he grumbled, remembering all right. Susan had just let him under her shirt for the first time and right before he’d had his first real handful of the breasts that had been driving him to distraction all semester, they’d been ambushed.
And she’d been donned the rest of the week for missing curfew. He’d had to wait another five days to finally touch her.
She’d been so worth the wait....
“I think this is it.” He reined in his thoughts, not trusting himself to travel along the road they’d taken. Which was ironic, considering the fact that sex with Susan was his whole reason for being there.
“I love the turret,” she said, smiling at the intricate drawing.
He handed her a stack of pages. “Your pattern pieces, madam.”
Taking them, she headed over to the dough she’d rolled out on the counter and said, “This is great, Michael. I can’t wait to see the finished product.”
And because she sounded so happy with herself, neither could he.
THE PIECES were all cut out, baked and cooling in layers in the freezer. Susan was washing the last of the dishes. It was still only seven o’clock.
Too early to go bed. Or at least, Michael amended that last thought, to go to sleep.
“I’ll dry,” he said, grabbing a towel out of the drawer and moving to the sink beside Susan. She had a perfectly good dishwasher, but Susan preferred to wash the dishes by hand. He’d long since concluded that she just liked playing in the suds.
He couldn’t count the number of times he’d seen her standing at that very same sink, her arms elbow-deep in warm sudsy water. Or the number of times he’d stood beside her, drying the dishes as she washed
, wanting her.
He could count the number of times it had happened since their divorce. Not once.
“Why is it that we always seem to eat out when I come to town?”
Shrugging, Susan focused on the task at hand. “Guess it’s just easier.”
Maybe. Or had she been keeping a distance between them? A distance he hadn’t even noticed until now.
Her arm accidentally touched his side. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” He continued to dry. And to watch the curve of her neck. She always shivered when he kissed her there. And tightened inside. He’d made that particular discovery years ago.
Rinsing a dish, she glanced over at him. “I’ve got this case I’m working on...” she began, then stopped. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, but he continued to hold her gaze with his own. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to love her.
The consequences be damned.
She was going to do this with or without him. And though he had a feeling he might hate himself for the rest of his life, he couldn’t let her do it without him. He also couldn’t spend another minute standing beside her, sharing her space, sharing their memories, without making love to her.
So he would. He’d leave his sperm inside her as she wanted. He just wouldn’t think about what changes that might bring. Except, perhaps, to pray that there wouldn’t be any changes at all.
Susan, with her heart in her eyes, fell into his arms as he reached for her, clinging to him. And opened her mouth for his kiss.
He didn’t want this to happen. But, God help him, he was only a man.
FINALLY. Susan’s quivering body cried out the word. Picking her up without even taking the time to dry her arms, Michael carried her down the hall to her bedroom—their bedroom—and put her on the bed. He followed her down, still fully dressed, kissing her again before either of them could speak.
Not that she had anything to say. He was coming at her so fast she couldn’t even think. But she could feel. Oh, could she feel. His hands glided over her possessively, knowingly, hungrily. It was almost as if he were trying to possess all of her at once, to claim her, and she couldn’t succumb fast enough. For either of them.
She wanted to touch him, too, to reassure herself that he still felt familiar, that he was still hers. But he was consuming her senses with his urgency and it was all she could do to keep from splintering into a million pieces. She held on—to him, to the covers beneath her, to whatever she could clutch in her fists.
There wasn’t room for gentleness. Not that he hurt her. He didn’t. He never would. He was careful with his passion, but not controlled. Not at all controlled.
His shirt came off one arm at a time but his searching caresses didn’t stop for a second. Susan helped him with the waistband of her slacks, pulling her shirt up to her neck. She helped him with the waistband of his pants, too, needing him desperately, needing to finish what they’d started. Before she could think about it. Question. Worry.
She knew in her heart that this was right, that something far stronger than either of them was driving her to her eventual goal. And that was all she knew. Michael left her no time for any further thought.
Because of the day’s frantic and—until now—unrelieved tension, she climaxed before Michael had even straddled her. Her gaze traveled his body as he suspended himself above her, loving the firm lean lines she knew so well, the dark hair tapering down his belly, the sweat on his brow.
Entering her with one quick thrust, he lowered his body to hers. Then, chest to chest and belly to belly, there was nothing left but feeling. He was so strong, so confident in his strokes, his caresses, she came a second time, experiencing wave after wave of sensation, until she was only aware of how much she loved the man in her arms.
And as the waves passed, as the sweetest peace followed, Susan felt him empty himself into her unprotected body. He groaned as he held himself deep within her and she knew he was doing that for her. Only for her. He was giving her the most precious gift, the gift she’d wanted, and Susan did the only thing she could.
She wept.
Silently, softly, the tears dripped off the sides of her face onto the mattress beneath her. Her arms still wrapped tightly around Michael, she prayed that he wouldn’t know, that he wouldn’t ask her to explain her tears. Or worse, be angry with her...
Michael began to move again, to settle himself inside her, to caress her body as thoroughly as he had before. Whether he knew about her tears or not, she wasn’t sure, but they dried, forgotten on her lashes, when he loved her again.
And later, as she was sleeping in his arms on top of the covers, he woke her and made love to her a third time.
There was still, in spite of their satiation, something frantic in Michael’s loving. Something that called out to Susan even though she didn’t want to hear its voice. Something she answered even as she denied its existence.
Almost as though he were telling her goodbye. And she was accepting that he had to go. That he wouldn’t be back. Not as she knew him that night Not as she’d ever known him before.
It shouldn’t have mattered. They were, after all, divorced. Living separate lives in separate states. It shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
She was deathly afraid she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
As MISTAKES WENT, the gingerbread house ranked right up there. All day Sunday, Michael and Seth were in her living room, roaring along with the players on the field at the Super Bowl. While Susan was stuck in the kitchen building, frosting and decorating the dream house she’d never, ever own in real life.
That house, scaled up to size, would take a big family to fill. A single mom and one kid didn’t qualify. A divorced woman living alone even less so.
She didn’t even have a use for this mammoth gingerbread house now that it was finished. The original plan had been to send it home with Melissa.
“Seth’s gone, and I’m about ready to head out.” Michael stood in the kitchen doorway, his hands in those damn jeans pockets again.
Not trusting herself to speak, Susan nodded. She’d been weepy all day and she couldn’t blame that on Michael. He’d done exactly what she’d asked him to do—and only because she’d pushed so hard. Regrets were hers alone.
“You okay?” Sliding his arms around her from behind, Michael kissed the side of her face.
Resting the back of her head against his chest, Susan nodded. “Just tired.”
“Hey—” he let her go “—the house looks great!”
She nodded again. She felt chilled, needed a sweater.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Susan busied herself with the last of the dishes. “Give it to Annie.” Actually, she’d decided to call Seth’s friend Brady. The disadvantaged kids in his care wouldn’t mind that the house was a month late.
“Who’s Annie?”
“Ed Halliday’s dog,” she reminded him. “Tricia still brings her to work every day.”
“I thought you didn’t like that dog. You always complained that she sheds.”
Shrugging, she put away the frosting utensils. She’d complained about Annie a time or two when she’d first gone to work at Halliday Headgear. A dog at the office hadn’t seemed quite professional.
“Annie grows on you,” she finally said. “I’ve actually been thinking about getting one.”
“An Annie?”
“A dog, or maybe a cat.”
She turned in time to see Michael shaking his head, as though he didn’t know her at all.
“I’ve thought about it myself,” he shocked her by saying. “I’m just not home enough.” Taking a seat at the kitchen table, Michael started munching on the gumdrops lining the side of the house. For someone who was heading out, he was doing it slowly.
“We had a dog when I was growing up,” he continued.
Susan joined him at the table. “You never told me that.”
“Haven’t thought abou
t it in years.”
“What was his name?” They’d never been allowed pets when she was growing up. Too much commotion.
“Her.” Michael grinned. “Samson.”
“Samson was a girl?”
“What did I know? I was only six.” He grabbed another gumdrop. “Besides, she was a mutt. She didn’t care.”
She’d known Michael for almost twenty years, and she was seeing a part of him she’d never known. A part that mattered, somehow. “How long did you have her?”
“Until I left home.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was old.” He shrugged, pushed the house a little farther away.
“She got sick?”
“Not really. She just sort of...stopped wanting to live.”
He wasn’t making any sense. “She must have missed you an awful lot.”
“Yeah.” Michael glanced up at her and then away.
Suddenly she understood. The dog had died of a broken heart. And Michael still felt the sting of not being there for her.
“I’d best get going.” He stood up and stretched. “I still have to turn in the rental.”
Nodding, Susan followed him as he collected the satchel he’d brought. His things were already packed.
“Well—” he gave her a quick peck on the lips “—take care....”
Susan nodded, feeling a little bereft. “Michael?”
Michael stopped on his way out, one hand on the doorknob. She’d sounded almost...needy. Susan was never needy. On the contrary, she always thought she could handle anything, better than she probably could most of the time. Except that eventually she always seemed to manage.
“Do you want to know?”
No! He didn’t want to know about it, think about it or talk about it. He turned, satchel in hand, not knowing what to say.
“Whether or not it worked, I mean,” she clarified.
“Uh, sure.” That seemed to be the answer she was hoping for. “I guess I need to, don’t I, in case we have to try again?”
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