by Nora Roberts
“Jules—”
“No, don’t, please.” She retreated instantly, hugging her arms tight against her body in defense. “I don’t want to be held. I don’t want sympathy or understanding.”
“Then what?”
“To go back.” Desperation snuck into her voice like a thief. “To be able to go back to before she started to tell me that story. To make her stop. To make her see this was one lie she should live with. Why couldn’t she see? Why couldn’t she see, Paul, that the truth would ruin everything? She’s taken away my identity, scarred my memories, and left me rootless. I don’t know who I am. What I am.”
“You’re exactly the same person you were an hour ago.”
“No, don’t you see?” She held her hands out, and they were empty. Like her heritage. “Everything I was was built on that one lie, and all the others that followed it. She had me in secret, under a name she’d borrowed from one of her scripts. Then she walked away, picked up her life exactly where she’d left off. She never even told …” The words shuddered to a halt, then began again on a husky whisper. “Victor. Victor Flannigan’s my father.”
That was the only thing that didn’t surprise Paul. He took her hand, found it stiff and icy to the touch. He curled her fingers closed inside his as if to warm them. “He doesn’t know?”
She could only shake her head. His face seemed pale in the moonlight, his eyes dark. Did he know? she wondered. Did he know he was looking at a stranger? “God, Paul, what has she done? What has she done to all of us?”
So he held her, despite her resistance. “I don’t know what the consequences are, Julia. But I know whatever you’re feeling now, you’ll get through it. You survived your parents’ divorce, their deaths, bringing Brandon into the world without a father.”
She shut her eyes tight, hoping to erase the afterimage of Eve’s face—with tears just beginning to spill out, leaving only hope and needs behind. “How can I look at her and not hate her, hate her for being able to live so easily without me?”
“Do you think it was easy?” he murmured.
“For her, yes.” She pulled away to wipe impatiently at tears. The last thing she would feel now was sympathy. “Goddamn. I know what she went through. Disbelief, panic, misery—all the phases. Sweet Jesus, Paul, I know how much it hurts to find yourself pregnant and know the man you love, or think you love, will never make a family with you.”
“Maybe that’s why she felt she could tell you.”
“Well, she was wrong.” She was calming slowly, methodically. “I also know that if I had made the decision to give Brandon up, I would never push myself back into his life and make him wonder, make him question, make him remember all those doubts about not being good enough.”
“If she made a mistake—”
“Yes, she made a mistake,” Julia said on a hard laugh. “I’m it.”
“That’s enough.” If she didn’t want sympathy, he wouldn’t give it. “At the very least, you know you were conceived in love. That’s more than most people can be sure of. My parents have retained a polite revulsion for each other as long as I can remember. That’s my legacy. You were brought up by people who loved you, and were conceived by people who continue to love each other. You can call that a mistake, but I’d swear you had the better bargain.”
There were things she could have hurled back at him, hurtful things that rolled through her brain, then died of shame and self-disgust before they touched her tongue. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was stiff, but no longer raw with pain. “There’s no reason to take all this out on you, or to indulge in self-pity.”
“I’d say there was plenty of reason for both. Will you sit down now, and talk to me?”
As she brushed away the last of the tears, she shook her head. “No, I’m all right, really. I hate to lose my temper.”
“You shouldn’t.” To soothe himself as well as her, he combed her hair away from her face with his fingers. “You do it so well.” Because it seemed right, he brought her back into his arms, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “You’ve had a rough night, Jules. Maybe you should get some rest.”
“I don’t think I can. I could use some aspirin, though.”
“We’ll get you some.” He kept an arm around her as they walked back into the kitchen. There were lights, glowing cheerfully, and a buttery scent that made her think the hamburgers had been followed up by a bowl of popcorn. “Where’s the aspirin?”
“I’ll get them.”
“No, I’ll get them. Where?”
Because her mind felt as limp and achy as her body, she gave in and sat at the table. “Top shelf, left side of the stove.” She closed her eyes again, listening to the sound of the cupboard door opening, closing, the sound of water hitting glass. On a sigh, she opened them again and managed what passed for a smile. “Tantrums always give me a headache.”
He waited until she’d swallowed them. “How about some tea?”
“That’d be nice, thanks.” Sitting back, she pressed her fingers to her temple, circling them slowly—until she remembered that was one of Eve’s habitual gestures. With her hands clasped in her lap, she watched as Paul readied cups and saucers, rinsed out a porcelain pot in the shape of a donkey.
It was odd, sitting there while someone else handled the details. She was used to taking care of herself, solving the problem, mending the breaks. Now she knew it was taking all of her will, all of her energy to resist the need to lay her head down on the table and indulge in a bout of hot weeping.
And why? That was the question that dogged her. Why?
“After all this time,” she murmured. “All these years. Why did she tell me now? She said she’d kept tabs on me all along. Why did she wait till now?”
He’d been wondering the same thing himself. “Did you ask her?”
She was staring down at her hands, shoulders slumped, eyes still damp. “I don’t even know what I said to her. I was so blind with hurt and anger. My temper can be … ugly, which is why I try not to lose it.”
“You, Jules?” he said lightly as he passed a hand over her hair. “An ugly temper?”
“Horrible.” She couldn’t bring herself to answer his smile. “The last time I went off was nearly two years ago. A teacher at Brandon’s school had made him stand in the corner for over an hour. He was humiliated, wouldn’t talk to me about it, so I went in for a conference. I wanted it straightened out because Brandon’s just not a troublemaker.”
“I know.”
“Anyway, it turned out that they were making up Father’s Day cards toward the end of the school year, and Brandon didn’t want to make one. He, well, he didn’t want to.”
“Understandable.” Paul poured boiling water over tea bags. “And?”
“And this teacher said he was expected to treat it as an assignment, and when he refused, she punished him. I tried to explain the situation, that Brandon was sensitive in that area. And with this tight-lipped sneer she said he was spoiled and willful and enjoyed manipulating others. She said if he wasn’t taught to accept his situation, he’d continue to use his accident of birth—those were her words—accident, as an excuse not to become a productive member of society.”
“I hope you slugged her.”
“Actually, I did.”
“No.” Now he had to grin. “Really?”
“It’s not funny,” she began, then felt a bubble of laughter in her throat. “I don’t remember hitting her exactly, though I recall a few of the names I called her as people came rushing in to pull me off her.”
He picked up her hand, weighed it in his, then kissed it. “My hero.”
“It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it sounds now. At the time I was sick and shaky, and she was threatening to sue. They calmed her down when the whole story came out. In the meantime, I pulled Brandon out of the school and bought the place in Connecticut. I wouldn’t have him subjected to that kind of thinking, that kind of nastiness.” She let out a long breath, then another. “I
felt exactly the same way tonight. I know if Eve had come near me, I would have hit her first and been sorry about it later.” Julia looked down at the cup he set in front of her. “I used to wonder where I got that streak of mean from. I guess I know.”
“It scared you, what she told you tonight.”
Julia let the tea slide into her system and soothe. “Yes.”
He sat beside her, rubbing fingers at the base of her neck, knowing instinctively where the bulk of the tension would be lodged. “Don’t you think she was scared too?”
Carefully, aligning the base of the cup with the rim of the saucer, she looked up. “I’m afraid I can’t really think about her feelings yet.”
“I love you both.”
She saw now what she hadn’t been able to see before. He’d been as shocked as she, and perhaps nearly as hurt. He was hurting still, for both of them. “Whatever becomes of all this, she’ll always be more your mother than she could ever be mine. And, I guess, since we both love you, we’ll all have to find a way to deal with it. Just don’t ask me to be reasonable tonight.”
“I won’t. I will ask you something else.” Taking her hands he drew her to her feet. “Let me love you.”
It was so easy, so simple, to move into his arms. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Upstairs, the bedroom was draped in shadows. She lit the candles while he drew the shades. Then they were alone in the half light, a lovers’ light. She lifted her arms to him in a gesture of welcome, and of need.
He took her in, understanding without being asked that she needed to reaffirm her life, to take back her sense of self. So when she fit her body to his, tilted back her face, offered her mouth, he took gently, he took slowly, wanting her to remember every moment.
With long, moist kisses, he tasted, and her taste was the same. One firm, possessive stroke from waist to hip, and back. She felt the same. Nuzzling at her throat, he drank in her scent. Beneath that fragile perfume was the unmistakable essence of Julia. That, too, the same.
He would allow nothing to change between them.
The jacket slid smoothly from her shoulders. One tiny button at a time he unfastened her blouse, stepping back so he could see each inch of flesh exposed. That same excitement, that same clutching desire stirred in him as he parted the fabric, let it slip from her shoulders to the floor with a sensual whisper.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he told her. “Everything I’ve ever needed.” He laid a finger on her lips before she could speak. “No, let me tell you. Let me show you.”
He touched his mouth to hers, teasing, tempting, then taking her deep until she was drunk from the single kiss. All the while he was murmuring things, beautiful things, as his fingers moved lightly, competently, to undress her. The tension in her shoulders began to ease. The fluttering in her stomach changed from that hollow motion of stress to the warming movement of anticipation.
It was magic. Or he was. Here, with him, she could erase the past, forget tomorrow. There was only the everlasting now. How could he have known just how much she’d needed that? In the now there was the feel of tight muscles under her dancing fingers, the perfume of moon-dusted flowers, the first stirrings of hunger.
Lost in him, she let her head fall back, made soft, helpless sounds deep in her throat as his lips trailed down to cruise over her breast.
“Tell me what you like,” he said, and his voice echoed inside her head. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
“Anything.” Her damp palms slid down his flesh. “Anything.”
His lips curved once before he rolled his tongue over the heated point of her breast, caught it between his teeth on that delirious edge between pleasure and pain, drew it into his mouth—hot, firm, fragrant—to suck his fill.
He would take her at her word.
It was as if it were the first time she’d been with a man. She shook her head to try to clear it so that she could give back. But he was doing things to her, wild, wonderful, wicked things to her. She could only shudder at burst after burst of pleasure.
Her head lolled back as she struggled to gulp in air that was suddenly too thick. Her breasts were so heavy, the nipples so hot, that when he flicked his tongue there again, she cried out in astonishment at the good, hard orgasm he gave her.
“I can’t.” Dizzy, she braced her hands on his shoulders as he burned a line down her torso. “I have to—”
“Enjoy,” he murmured, nipping at her quivering flesh. “You only have to enjoy.”
He knelt in front of her, his hands gripping her hips to hold her in place while he dipped his tongue along the juncture of her thighs. He could feel each ripple of sensation that passed through her, and his body was hammered by the same dark delights that rocketed in hers.
She came again, and with a half sob clutched her fingers in his hair to drag him closer. Now her hips were moving, quick as lightning, urging him on. When his tongue speared inside her, she went rigid, stunned by the jolt of heat. Her knees went to jelly. She would have fallen if he hadn’t grasped her hips and forced her upright.
Relentless, he drove her up again, his desire feeding greedily on hers. He wanted—wanted to know her system was a jumble of sensation, that her nerve endings sizzled to the touch, that her appetites matched his.
When he knew, when he was sure, he dragged her down to the floor with him and took her further. Showed her more.
He had to stop. She would die if he stopped. While they tumbled over the rug she clung to him, her body limp one instant, tense the next. She had thought they had given each other all there was long before this. Now she knew there was yet another level of trust. There, in the deep shadows of that room, there was nothing he could have asked of her, nothing she wouldn’t have given willingly.
But before it was done, it was she who asked. She who would have begged. “Please, now. God, I need you now.”
It was all he’d wanted to hear.
With his eyes on hers he brought them together, torso to torso. Slowly, watching the pleasure and confusion flicker in her eyes, he wrapped her legs around his waist. He filled her, inch by trembling inch, until he was plunged deep. Gasping, she reared back, accepting him, absorbing him, enjoying him.
When the first shudders had passed, she came back, bringing her lips to his even as they began to move together. Through the excitement, the passion, the clutching hunger, came a new sensation—one that settled and soothed and healed.
Lips curved, she held him close until there was nothing left but velvet darkness.
Later, much later, when she slept, he stood by the window, looking out at the single light he could see through the trees. Eve was awake, he knew, even as her daughter slept. How could he, a man so firmly tied to each of them, find the way to comfort both?
He went in the side door. Before he had crossed through the parlor with its scent of fading roses to start up the front stairs, Travers was there. She hurried down the hallway to him, rubber-soled slippers flapping.
“This isn’t the time for visiting. She needs her rest.”
Paul paused, one hand on the newel post. “She’s awake. I saw the light.”
“No matter. She needs her rest.” Travers gave the belt of her terry-cloth robe a quick and audible snap. “She’s not feeling well tonight.”
“I know. I’ve spoken with Julia.”
Like a fighter daring a punch, Travers stuck out her chin. “She left Eve in a terrible state. That girl had no right to say such things, shouting and breaking china.”
“That girl,” Paul said mildly, “had a hell of a shock. You knew, didn’t you?”
“What I know is my own business.” Lips folded tight on secrets, she jerked her head toward the top of the stairs. “Just like seeing to her’s my business. Whatever you have to say can wait till tomorrow. She’s had enough grief for one night.”
“Travers.” Eve came out of the shadows, down two steps. She was wearing a long, sleek silk robe in ripe red. Her face was an ivory
oval above it. “It’s all right. I’d like to speak to Paul.”
“You told me you’d go to sleep.”
Eve flashed her quick smile. “I lied. Good night, Travers.” She turned away, knowing Paul would follow.
Because he respected loyalty, he spared the housekeeper a last look. “I’ll see that she goes to bed soon.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” With a final glance up the stairs, she walked away, terry cloth swishing, rubber flapping.
Eve waited for him in the sitting room adjoining the bedroom, with its plump cushions and low, inviting chairs. It held the evening’s disorder—discarded magazines, a champagne glass with a few drops going flat and stale, tennis shoes carelessly kicked off, a slash of purple and scarlet that was the robe she’d tossed aside after her bath. Everything bright and vivid and alive. Paul looked at her, sitting in the midst of it all, and realized fully for the first time how much she was aging.
It showed in the hands that suddenly seemed too frail and thin for the rest of her body, in the fine lines that had crept stealthily back around her eyes since her last bout with the surgeon’s knife. It showed in the weariness that coated her face like a thin, transparent mask.
She looked up, saw everything she needed to know on his face, and looked away again. “How is she?”
“Sleeping now.” He took the chair across from her. It wasn’t the first time he had come in here late at night to talk. The cushions were different, the pillows, the curtains. Eve was always changing things.