The Soldier's Seduction

by Anne Marie Winston

  It took him only a moment to cover the steps to her bedroom, only a moment more to cross the room and set her beside the bed. Although she had steadfastly refused to allow herself to think of him during waking hours, she had dreamed of Wade over and over, even after she’d believed he was dead. But none of the dreams had ever come close to the heady reality of being in his arms. Even now, she wasn’t sure it was real sometimes.

  He pulled her shirt over her head as she set her small hands to work unbuttoning his, then unhooked her bra. She paused so that he could slide it off her shoulder and toss it aside, and then, as he cupped her breasts and began to lightly rub his thumbs across the rosy nipples, her hands slowed and fell away.

  He tore his gaze from the sight of the plump, beautiful mounds in his hands to look into her eyes. Heat and passion filled his gaze, and to her delight, she felt his body shudder in anticipation against her. Reluctantly, he took his hands from her and stripped off his jeans and briefs, then tugged her slacks and panties down and off in one smooth, efficient motion. He reached around her and peeled the bedcovers back before urging her down onto the cool cotton sheets.

  Taking her hand, he guided it down between them to his aching length. “Help me.”

  He jumped when her small hand closed around him. Savoring the silken feeling of his body, so taut and hard, she tightened her grip the way she knew he liked and stroked him once, twice and yet again. His hips lifted and thrust against her and he growled. “Tease.”

  She lightly bit his shoulder. “Tell me you don’t like it and I’ll stop.”

  He sounded as if he were having trouble dragging air into his lungs. “Like that’s ever going to—oh, baby, yeah.”

  As she positioned him at the throbbing entrance to her body, she lifted her hips. He was hot and solid and she cried out as he surged forward, embedding himself deeply within her. Her hands clenched on his buttocks, urging him to move, and within moments they established a fast, frantic rhythm that built a blazing fire within her. His body hammered against her, creating an ever-rising tension that stretched tighter and tighter until finally it snapped. As her body bucked and writhed in his arms, and then he was hoarsely calling her name as his body stiffened and froze in a shattering climax that left him shaking and gasping for breath.

  When she could breathe again, think again, she stretched up and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Wow.”

  He snorted and chuckled. “Yeah. Wow.” He rolled to one side and pulled her into his arms and she relaxed against him, enjoying the cuddling. “I think we’ve mastered that.”

  “You do? As an educator, I can tell you that research shows that even when a skill has been mastered, a certain amount of practice is necessary to reinforce the concept.”

  “Is that so?” He stroked a hand gently down over her hip and lightly squeezed her bottom. “In that case, I suppose we’ll just have to keep practicing until we’re sure we’ve got it right.”

  Now it was her turn to laugh. “Could take a while.”

  “It could,” he agreed.

  Nine

  Wade had a job interview on Friday with the company out of Virginia, the specialized security firm that was setting up a new branch. He’d met the personnel director already, and today’s interview, he told Phoebe, was with the owner of the company.

  “He’s going to love you.” She picked up her coffee cup as he rose to put his dishes in the dishwasher. They’d gotten into a pleasant weekday routine in which they had breakfast together before she left. He usually had some kind of start on dinner before she arrived home, which meant she got her work done faster if she’d brought any home to grade, which meant that right after Bridget went to bed, she and Wade could go to bed, also.

  Or at least go to the bedroom, she amended.

  Every night he made love to her, stoking the blaze between them into a raging inferno of need. She awoke in his arms in the morning to a wild sense of unreality.

  She’d had more than a year to accustom herself to the idea that Wade would not be a part of her life, and during half of that time she’d believed that he was dead. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that she really could be so happy. Although happy was a pale imitation of the feelings that rioted through her when she came through the door in the evening to see him there waiting for her, holding their daughter in the crook of one muscular arm.

  When he pulled her to him and kissed her senseless, she was able to silence the one niggling voice in her head that reminded her that Wade might desire her…but he didn’t love her.

  “Don’t worry about Bridget,” she said. “Angie is watching her all day.”

  Wade nodded. “I could be back by lunch if this doesn’t fly. If it does…it’ll be late when I get home.”

  She rose on tiptoe to kiss him as he straightened his uniform, liking the way he’d said home. As if they truly were a family already. “Good luck.”

  She watched as he climbed into the rental car he still had, and waved as he drove off. “I love you,” she murmured.

  Would she ever be able to say it aloud? He seemed happy, and he clearly was thrilled with fatherhood. And when he touched her…well, they had no problems in that department. She smiled to herself as warmth radiated through her. But sometimes she caught him staring into space with a faraway expression on his face and she wondered what he was thinking about.

  She was afraid she knew. And she was afraid to ask.

  Melanie. Oh, she remembered everything that had happened the night of the reunion, the way he’d looked at her as if she were some new treasure he’d discovered—but that had been one single night. And even then, when he’d realized how upset Melanie had been, he’d been quick to pursue her.

  To reassure her that there was nothing between Phoebe and him?

  She would never know. Just as she would never know how much he still thought of her sister, how often his heart ached with loss.

  Phoebe’s insecurities, those feelings that had dominated her interactions with her sister most of her life, reared up and grabbed her attention every once in a while, reminding her that Wade had belonged to Melanie.

  Never to her.

  True, Wade seemed content now. But was it the familiarity of their friendship? His new fatherhood? Guilt at leaving her pregnant and alone? She feared it might be all three.

  But he’s with me now. He couldn’t make love to me like that if he didn’t care for me at least a little. Could he? Stop being a pessimist.

  The school day dragged. She wondered how Wade’s interview went. She checked her mobile phone for messages several times during the day, but he hadn’t called. Although she hadn’t expected him to, she worried that things hadn’t gone well.

  He probably wouldn’t call her if the interview had not been successful. For all the years that she’d known him, Wade had been an intensely private man about his deepest feelings; she suspected that if he didn’t want to talk, prying any information out of him would be next to impossible.

  It wasn’t until she saw the familiar outline of her little home that her spirits rose. Bridget was in there, with Angie. The sight of her daughter, the feel of that little body snuggled into her arms, was always balm to her sad moments.

  Angie was sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching an afternoon soap opera, when Phoebe came through the door. “She was great today,” Angie informed her. “I laid her down for her afternoon nap about two so she shouldn’t get up again until at least four. I put the paper and the mail on the table.”

  “Thank you so much,” Phoebe said. “I really appreciate you coming on short notice.”

  “Not a problem.” Angie gathered her things. “Wish me luck on my psych test.”

  “Luck.” Phoebe winked and smiled at her as Angie left. She set down her bag of paperwork from the day and slipped out of her shoes, then headed for the kitchen to get a drink.

  As she sipped her tea, she glanced through the mail Angie had laid on the kitchen table. She set aside two bills and the groce
ry store flyer that had coupons in it, tossed three offers for credit cards in the trash, and laid out two envelopes of what looked like personal missives for immediate attention.

  The first was a thank-you from a fellow teacher for whom she and her coworkers had thrown a bridal shower. The second bore an unfamiliar return address in California. Curious now, she slit the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper.

  Dear Mr. Merriman,

  Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) thanks you for your generous donation in memory of your loved one, Melanie Merriman. May we express our deepest condolences on your loss. Melanie sounds as if she was indeed a special young woman.

  With your donation…

  Bewildered, Phoebe picked up the envelope and looked more closely at the address. The sender had gotten Wade’s name wrong on the envelope: it read Wade Merriman and she hadn’t even noticed that it wasn’t for her. Additionally, a change of address label had been slapped over the original and she realized it had been forwarded from his father’s home in California.

  She reread the letter—and suddenly it began to make sense, horrible sense, and the small, fragile bubble of hope she’d allowed herself to feel burst.

  Wade had made a donation in Melanie’s memory—in his loved one’s memory—to a charitable organization known nationally for its education programs targeting drinking and driving. His loved one. Phoebe registered the hit to her heart as desolation spread through her and tears stung her eyes.

  It wasn’t that she begrudged the money, or the thought. A part of her treasured the realization that her sister’s name had been so honored. But now there was no way she could pretend that their marriage would be anything more than a convenience.

  Now she knew for sure that there was no way Wade was ever going to love her because he was still in love with her sister. She sank down in a chair at the table and reread the letter twice more. Then she realized that if the letter hadn’t been forwarded, she never would have known about the donation.

  A sob escaped without warning. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but the truth confronting her wouldn’t be denied and her efforts to resist the tears were futile. She had known Wade didn’t love her. She shouldn’t be so upset by this.

  But she was. Not just upset, but devastated.

  How could she marry him? Her heart wasn’t going to be able to take that kind of beating day after day. She’d been kidding herself, believing that she could love him enough to make a marriage work. Even for the sake of her sweet baby girl sleeping upstairs, she couldn’t do it.

  At that thought, another sob welled up and tears began to stream down her face. Giving in to her misery, she laid her head down on her arms and cried.

  Wade let himself into the house, wondering where Phoebe was. The baby monitor on the end table was silent, so she wasn’t in Bridget’s room. Could she be napping? Doubtful. He had yet to see her sleep during the day. Maybe she had taken Bridget out in the yard.

  He crossed the living room and headed into the kitchen—and stopped short as he caught sight of her. She was slumped in a chair with her arms on the table, her head buried. Fear gripped him. “Phoebe! Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” He rushed forward. Was she ill? Dear God, had something happened to Bridget? Panic nearly stopped his heart. “God, what’s wrong? Is it Bridget?”

  He knelt beside her chair and put an arm around her shoulders to hug her to him—and she exploded out of the chair halfway across the kitchen.

  “Don’t,” she said between sobs. “Just—don’t.” She fumbled in a drawer for a tissue then turned away, her shoulders shaking with misery. “Bridget’s fine.”

  A huge wave of relief swamped him momentarily, only to rush back as he realized she hadn’t told him anything about herself. “Then what is it? Are you…” He could barely bear to utter the word. “Sick?”

  She whipped back around at that, immediately grasping what he was asking. Her mother had gotten sick and died; so had his. “Oh, no, Wade. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Except that there was. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her nose pink. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose while he stood. “Then…what?” he finally managed to ask.

  She tried to smile, but her lips trembled and she quickly abandoned the effort. “I can’t marry you.”

  What? “Why?” It was the most obvious question and he was too confused to think of a better one.

  She sighed. “I just can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  Fair to whom? “What the hell are you talking about?” Heat rose. He knew his tone was too rough, too angry, but— “Dammit, you scared me half to death! I thought something happened to Bridget or you. And now you tell me you won’t marry me but you won’t tell me why?”

  A brittle silence followed the furious torrent of words, but she didn’t speak, merely stood there with her eyes averted. And in her stance he read determination. He knew Phoebe and he knew that posture.

  But what—? It hit him then. Stunned, he sank into the chair she’d bolted from. “It’s because of Melanie, isn’t it?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath and nodded, and he saw a tear trickle down her cheek.

  “Lord God above,” he said quietly. Silence reigned again as he absorbed the information. He’d wondered—no, he’d feared—for more than a year, that she blamed him for Melanie’s death. It had kept him from contacting her after the first time they’d made love, and it had cost him the first months of his child’s life.

  When he’d finally decided to try to talk to her about it, she had been gone. And after he’d found her, after he’d learned about Bridget, his guilt had taken a backseat while he had adjusted to fatherhood and pretended that everything was fine and that Phoebe would love him and that they’d spend the rest of their lives together.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face and looked down at the table, unable to stand seeing the pity and regret he knew he would see in her eyes.

  A letter lay on the table and his name caught his eye. His first name, anyway. As he scanned it, he realized what it was. The foundation to which he’d made the donation in memory of Melanie had sent a thank-you note.

  “I opened it by accident.” Phoebe’s tone was flat.

  “I thought it would be a meaningful wedding gift.”

  “A wedding gift?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know there’s nothing I can say to ever make it up to you—”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “—and if it helps any, I will never forgive myself for letting Melanie die. If I’d been quicker, I’d have caught her. I’ve relived that night a thousand times and I know why you blame me.” He halted for a moment. “I blame myself, so why shouldn’t I expect you to?”

  “Wade—”

  “Don’t.” His shoulders slumped. “Just tell me what you want me to do now. Do you want me to leave?” His voice broke. “I will. I hope that you’ll let me see Bridget sometimes, but I won’t push—”

  “Wade!”

  At the volume and pitch of her voice, he finally stopped talking abruptly for the first time since she’d shoved away from his embrace.

  Looking at the anguished set of his features, hearing the pain in his voice, she suddenly realized what he was thinking. It had nothing to do with lost love. He was blaming himself for Melanie’s death! A tidal wave of shock, confusion and compassion crashed over her head and she forgot about her own pain.

  “Wade,” she said. He didn’t look at her and she said it again, crossing to the table and touching his arm. “Wade, look at me.”

  Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers and she was astounded by the pleading look in his eyes.

  “I don’t blame you,” she whispered. She knelt on the floor beside his chair. “I’ve never blamed you. Melanie was impulsive. She had an ornery streak a mile wide. Her heart was that big, too, most of the time. She had been drinking. Neither one of us is responsible for what happened that night.” She paused and put a hand to his face. “I don’t blame y
ou,” she said again, urgently, as the look on his face eased fractionally.

  “Then why?” He swallowed. “Why won’t you marry me? God, Phoebe, I know I was a slow learner, but I realized that night at the dance that you were what had been missing from my life.” He averted his eyes. “I took advantage of you after the funeral. I have no excuse, except that I had finally figured out that I loved you and I couldn’t have walked away from you then any more than I could have stopped breathing.”

  He stopped speaking again then, and the only sound in the room was his harsh breathing and the hitching breaths she still took in the aftermath of her storm of tears.

  Phoebe was frozen, his words hammering at her brain but not making sense. At least, not making sense in her current framework of reality.

  “Phoebe?”

  She sank down onto her heels and he looked alarmed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “You love me?”

  He stopped. Searched her eyes, his own incredulous. “You didn’t know?” He snorted. “I thought the whole damned world could see it.”

  “I didn’t know,” she confirmed. “I thought—believed that you still…”

  “Melanie?”

  She nodded. “When I saw the letter, I thought you’d done it because you still missed her, and that it was an accident that it came to this address.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, no.” He put his hands beneath her elbows and stood, lifting her to her feet. “It was supposed to make you happy. I wanted to do something special to commemorate our marriage.” He paused, looking down at her and she could see him choosing his words with care. “My feelings for your sister were only a crush. Infatuation. Mel and I weren’t well suited. You surely could see that. We were over long before that reunion and I never regretted it.”

  As their eyes met again, she saw the beginnings of hope creeping into his expression. “You love me?” she said again. Stupid, she knew, but she wasn’t quite sure she’d really heard it the first time.