by Anne Stuart
“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t misunderstand,” he continued stubbornly.
“You must seduce a lot of women with that line,” she murmured, nestling closer against his taut length.
“Damn it, Annie, I’m serious.” He let go of her hand, and she immediately began to trail it along his torso again, her fingertips soft and questing and having, she noticed, a decidedly marked effect on him.
“I’m sure you are.” Her voice was infinitely patient, gentle. “I don’t understand why you might think otherwise. You haven’t led me on, led me to expect anything from you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“But do you really believe it? Did you make love with me on an impulse, a sexual whim? You’re not that kind of woman, Annie.”
“Isn’t that my line?” she replied sleepily, undisturbed. The more troubled and guilty he was, the more it pleased her.
“No games, Annie.”
“All right, what do you expect from me?” She opened her eyes wide, staring up at his intent face as he leaned over her, and her wandering hand was momentarily stilled. “Do you want me to say that I fell madly in love with you, that I expect you to feel the same and to make an honest woman of me? I didn’t realize I appeared that naive.”
“Not naive. Vulnerable.” The blue eyes that stared down at her were dark with guilt and anger, and she wanted to lift her hand and gently soothe that expression from his face.
“Just tell me what you want from me, Noah,” she said gently. “And then it will be up to me whether I want to accept it or not.”
“I want to make love to you.”
“You just did,” she said with a trace of a smile. “At least, I thought that’s what we were doing.”
“That was only a taste of what I want to do with you. I want to spend the next six months in bed with you, making love to you morning, noon and night.”
She snuggled closer. “I think that sounds delightful.”
His hand reached out and caught her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “That’s what I want to do. But that’s not what we’re going to do.”
“All right, tell me. What are we going to do?”
His answer was the last thing she expected. “Nothing,” he said shortly. “I’m going back to New York tomorrow, and you’re going on with your life. Marry Wilson if that’s what you really want, and if we happen to see each other again we’ll be polite and friendly. And that’s all.”
Slowly Anne withdrew from the circle of his arms, pulling herself into a sitting position, withdrawing into herself. There was nothing she could wrap around her nude body, nothing to shield herself from those cold, merciless eyes. Except that they didn’t look cold and merciless in the firelight; they looked warm with desire and a torment to match hers. “That bad, was I?” she said flatly, willing the misery to go away, the tears to keep back.
He sat up swiftly, and the hands that caught her hunched shoulders were determined. “No, my love,” he said, and the endearment had the breath-destroying ring of truth. “You were that good.”
She stared at him, disbelief and pain warring with the last tiny spark of hope that struggled for dominance. And then she was pulled into his arms, cradled against his chest, as his gentle, gentle hands stroked her face, her hair, her body, holding her tightly against him, and his voice was low and anguished as it rumbled beneath her ear. “I can’t give you what you deserve, and I’m damned if I’m going to give you less. You need someone to love you with all their heart and soul, someone to marry you and give you babies, a partner and a lover and a friend. And the most I can offer you is a short, sweet fling, and you deserve far better than that.”
“Are you going to tell me why?” she murmured against his chest. She could feel his body tense, and hesitate, and patiently she waited.
“Because I’m still in love with my wife,” he said finally. Anne didn’t even flinch. She’d been expecting and dreading something like this, but the reality of hearing it was mercifully numbing.
“Are you?” she questioned with admirable restraint, willing her body not to withdraw from his tortured warmth. “Don’t you think she’d want you to let go?”
“Maybe. But I don’t want to let go,” he said bleakly.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t deserve to. As much as I loved her, part of me hates her. Hates her for dying, hates her for killing our baby, hates her for going off to that damned cabin where no one could reach her.” His voice was low and painfully rasping. “She was always headstrong and willful, and that willfulness killed her and killed our child. And I hate her for that, and I can’t let go. And still tied to Nialla, I can’t offer you anything. You’re strong and beautiful and brave and clever,” he murmured. “And you’ve settled for too little for too long.”
“You’ve got it all worked out,” she murmured helplessly. “So what does that mean for us?”
“It means this is a one-night stand,” he said harshly. “I should have kept my distance in the first place. I promise you, I will from now on. You don’t need any more complications in your life right now.” He released her abruptly, rising to his feet in one fluid movement, reaching for his jeans. His outline against the fire was uncompromisingly beautiful, uncompromisingly aroused male.
Anne looked away, down at the carpet with a great interest belied by the sudden flame of desire that had shot through her at the sight of him. “So that’s settled?” she murmured.
“It’s settled,” he said, his voice firm in the darkness. “Where would you like me to sleep?”
She looked up at him then, her eyes wandering quite shamelessly over his body. The firelight outlined the muscles and sinews in his long legs, caressed the firm male buttocks, and threw his strong chest into relief. He was still holding his jeans in his hand, and his eyes met hers. “In my room,” she replied, very calm. “You said this was going to be a one-night stand. The night isn’t even half over.”
He didn’t hesitate. A moment later he was across the room, pulling her into his arms in a grip so tight only his own willpower would be able to break it. “It’s your choice, lady,” he said hoarsely, his eyes boring down into hers.
“I’ve made it,” she answered, threading her arms around his neck and resting her face trustingly against his shoulder.
His skin was smooth and warm to the touch, and she sighed deeply, caught up between the twin demons of hope and despair. “I’ve made it,” she whispered again, to herself, as he drew her up the winding stairs to her bedroom.
Chapter Ten
It was the sudden glare of lights as the power came back on that tore her from a sound, sated sleep with a rude violence that had her sitting bolt upright in bed. The curtains were drawn against the faintly encroaching sunlight, the digital clock by her bed was flashing with irritating monotony, and she was alone. And then the sound that had been hovering in the back of her sleep-drugged mind intruded again, this time registering on her fully awake brain. It was the sound of a chain saw—several, in fact.
Slowly she pulled herself from the warm, narrow haven of her bed, pulling a robe around her body as she stumbled toward the window. The front of the house was a hive of activity. Telephone trucks, electric company trucks, men with chain saws and ladders and hardhats scurrying around busily in the fitful sunlight that glistened off the wet grass. Even Proffy’s venerable Plymouth was now parked to the left of the house. And Noah’s battered VW was gone.
She was in no hurry—there was nothing to rush downstairs for. A long, leisurely shower helped knead some of the aches from her body, even though the water was barely lukewarm. A part of her regretted washing the last traces of his lovemaking from her flesh, wanted to cling to the physical remembrance of their seemingly unique coupling that still left her weak with longing at the very thought. But Noah was gone, never to return, and she had no reason to doubt his resolve.
She certainly hadn’t acted very wisely in her choice for a weekend fling, she mused with some bitterness as
she pulled on fresh underwear and a pair of jeans. If she wanted a casual affair, a weekend of adventurous sex with no strings attached, why did she have to choose someone she was halfway in love with? She would have been better off haunting a singles bar, or accepting one of Holly’s many invitations for a weekend in New York. Holly wouldn’t have let her go through a forty-eight-hour period without several attractive men to choose from, particularly with her sublimated passion for Wilson.
The forest green of her cotton sweater deepened her eyes; the wet tangle of black hair made her narrow face even paler to her discerning gaze. It was a fortunate thing Proffy was so unobservant. She’d still have a great deal of explaining to do about the deep-purple bruise beneath her eye.
While not expecting hugs and kisses, she was still startled by the glare Proffy sent her from across the breakfast table. He was making do with instant coffee and burnt toast, and Anne immediately assumed it was her dereliction of household duty that had earned his displeasure.
“Do you realize how much trouble it is to make a cup of coffee in this house?” he demanded by way of greeting. “I couldn’t even find the damned beans, much less the filters and the coffee grinder. This instant coffee must be at least two years old.”
“At least,” she agreed, barely suppressing a shudder. “One of Ashley’s friends brought it. I think he used to use hot water from the tap. And I keep the beans in the freezer.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would you want to do a thing like that?”
“It keeps them fresher.” She was scarcely in the mood for an argument about coffee, and she changed the subject abruptly. “That was some storm, wasn’t it? I must say the repair crews have been quite efficient.”
“We were the hardest hit. Just our luck,” he grumbled, eying her warily. “You know I don’t like to interfere in your life, Anne,” he began uneasily. “You’re old enough to know what you’re doing.”
“But?” she prompted, resigned.
“Was that Noah Grant I passed when I was driving back this morning?”
She met his gaze calmly enough. “Probably. Why do you ask?”
“Don’t you have any sense?” he exploded. “You know as well as I do that you shouldn’t have anything to do with him. For one thing, he’s a friend of Holly’s, and you know better than to try to steal your own sister’s men. For another, you happen to be engaged.”
“True enough,” she said reasonably, busying herself with the coffee beans.
He seemed even further incensed by her calm attitude. “Not to mention the fact that you are completely unsuited to each other,” he railed, his tone of voice increasing. “I always thought you were the down-to-earth, practical one in the family. You should realize it can lead absolutely nowhere, that he—”
“I’m not going to see him again, Proffy,” she interrupted smoothly.
“What?”
“I’m not going to see him again. Not if we can help it.” The pronoun was a lie, the reality unbearably accurate. “So you don’t have to worry.”
He scarcely looked appeased. “You forget, he’s involved with Holly, too. I don’t think he’s out of our life, no matter what you might hope.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that,” she said with a false smile, turning on the electric coffee grinder to drown out his conversation. Her equanimity was running a little thin about now, and Proffy wasn’t helping.
He was saying something, and with a weariness that reached into her bones she stopped the grinder. “What was that?”
“I said, I’m sorry if I came down too hard on you yesterday,” he said, his voice still too loud. “I didn’t mean to be quite so harsh.”
Anne shrugged carelessly. “I’m sure you had your reasons.” She looked up at him, smiling a cool, distant smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “If you think I’m a quitter and a coward you have every right to tell me so.” With a snap she turned the grinder back on, drowning out his further explanations.
She took as long as she dared, until the beans were a fine, essentially useless powder, and then turned back to the fuming Proffy.
“You won’t even let me apologize, will you?” he grumbled. “You’re as bad as your grandmother.”
“That was an apology?” she queried. “I hadn’t recognized it. In that case, it’s accepted. Would you like some real coffee?”
“No, thank you. I must say you’re in a surprisingly good mood considering what happened last night.”
Unbidden, her mind wandered back to the hours lying in Noah’s arms, the feel of his deft, strong hands on her responsive body, the hot, sad light in his eyes as he looked down at her. But then she remembered that Proffy could know none of that. “I thought the repair crews had everything in hand,” she murmured.
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t know,” he demanded. “You with your obsessive fixation about this old albatross of a house? Did you sleep through the storm? Noah Grant must be even more distracting than I thought, if he got you to forget about your house.”
Anne felt a sudden sick dread deep in the pit of her stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you even bother to check the house for damage?” he countered severely.
“The power was off. We couldn’t have seen anything, even if we had tried. What happened?” Even to her own ears her voice sounded shrill. Don’t let it be the house, she begged silently. Noah’s been taken from me; please God, don’t take the house, too.
“When the oak fell, half of it shattered and went flying. The roof is partially caved in, the windows on the left side of the house are shattered, the sashes destroyed.”
“It can be repaired?” Her voice was desperate, urgent.
“Not by us. We don’t have the money, Anne.” She could see no grief in his face, no worry. Only a damnable easy resignation.
“We can find the money. I have several thousand in savings; that will be a start. And we can take out a loan—”
“I’ve told you before, Holly and Ashley won’t agree to it. They’re already up to their ears in debt as it is. And the two or three thousand you’ve been hoarding will barely begin to do a patching job. You’ll have to face it sooner or later, Anne. We can’t afford this house.”
“You can give up if you want to,” she said stiffly. “I’m not about to.” And she stalked from the room, bristling with rage, determination and a small core of anguish that she determinedly banished. If she was going to save her house she’d have to use all her talents and energies—she couldn’t afford to spend her time mourning an impossible love.
“YOU’VE DONE YOUR USUAL marvelous job.” Wendell James tossed his linen napkin onto the table and leaned back in his chair with the air of a man well satisfied with his meal, his companion and his lot in life. He was a florid, stocky man in his mid-sixties, bearing no resemblance to Nialla’s delicate dark-haired beauty. She had taken after his first wife, and though he’d always been proud of her and the bullheadedness he felt was his only legacy to her, he’d never really understood her, any more than he understood the man who had been her husband. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Noah. You have an insight few people possess, and it’s worth its weight in gold to me. Are you sure you want to leave New York?”
Noah smiled back at his father-in-law. “It’s either leave New York or leave the law. I’ve spent too much time and money to give up on my career, no matter how disenchanted I’ve become, so my only choice is to redirect it. Corporate law isn’t my thing anymore, Wendell. I need to feel like I’m making a difference, that I’m needed.”
“Hell, Noah, I need you,” Wendell shot back. “I doubt if my profits will be nearly as good without your insightful touch.”
“I think you’ll manage,” Noah drawled.
“Sure I will. But I’d rather have you with me. And not just for Nialla’s sake. We make a great team, Noah. No, don’t flinch every time I mention her name. She’s gone, man. You and I both know it, much as we hate the thought. She’s
been dead for three years, long enough for you to get over it. It was no one’s fault, just one of those freaks of nature, and yet you still go around with one of the worst cases of the guilties I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t your fault, Noah. It’s time for you to let go.”
“Wendell, I’ve let go,” Noah said patiently. “Have you seen me living a cloistered life?”
“You’ve been out with some very beautiful women,” he agreed. “But I haven’t seen any sign of involvement. Noah, you need to find someone, get married, have children.”
“No!” His voice was quiet, harsh, and determined. “No children, Wendell. And no wife.”
“Noah, it was Nialla’s choice. She wanted children as much as you did.”
“And it killed her. I’m not going through that again,” he said flatly, ignoring the sudden memory of Anne’s pain-filled green eyes.
“So you’re going to spend the rest of your life in mourning?” Wendell asked. “I would have thought better of you.”
“Hell, no.” He managed a wry grin. “I just haven’t met the right woman.” That was a lie, but Wendell didn’t need to know it. The right woman was living in a tumbledown, storm-battered mansion just two hours away, and the papers he’d just handed to his ex-father-in-law betrayed her on almost every level. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
He’d cursed himself the entire trip back to the city. He wasn’t content with screwing up his own life; he had to succumb to adolescent sexual temptation and mess her up, too. Except that it hadn’t felt adolescent at all. It had been deep and eternal and inevitable. The only way he could have stopped it was never to have showed up there at all. But he had, and now he was paying for it. And Anne would pay even more.
At least he’d managed to resist the final destructive act. A week after he’d returned from the old farmhouse, Holly had come after him. How she knew, he couldn’t even begin to fathom, but somehow she guessed that he had bedded her sister. And she proceeded to use every ounce of her feminine wiles and not inconsiderable determination to seduce him herself.