Her surprise was all too evident as she met his rueful gaze. "What?"
His powerful shoulders rose and fell. "A one-armed man isn't a lover many women would choose. I've been sensitive about it, and perhaps a little standoffish when it came to invitations." He searched her eyes. "I've always been comfortable with you. I knew that if I fumbled, you wouldn't laugh at me."
"Never that," she agreed quietly. She looked at the way they were laying and flushed.
"Now you know," he murmured with a warm smile.
"Yes. Now I know."
"I'm sorry I had to hurt you." Regret was in his eyes as well as his tone. He traced her eyebrows. "It had been too long and I lost control. I couldn't pull away."
"I understood."
"You were tight," he said bluntly. "And very much a virgin. I apologize wholeheartedly for every nasty insinuation I've ever made about you."
She was uncomfortable. Was he apologizing for making love
to her?
He tilted her face back up to his and kissed her tenderly. "I won't say I'm sorry," he whispered into her mouth. "You can't imagine how it felt, to know I was the first with you."
She frowned worriedly.
He lifted his head and saw her expression. "What's wrong?" he asked.
“You didn't use anything," she said.
"No. I assumed that you were on the pill," he replied. "That went along with the assumption that you were sleeping with Charles and you'd never gotten pregnant."
The very word made her flush even more. "Well, I'm not," she faltered.
An expression crossed his face that she couldn't understand. He looked down at her body pressed so closely, so intimately to his, and curiously, his big hand smoothed over her flat belly in a strangely protective caress.
"If I made you pregnant..."
He didn't have to finish the sentence. She always seemed to know what he was thinking. She reached up and put her cool fingers against his wide mouth.
"You know me," she whispered, anticipating the question he was afraid to ask.
He sighed and let the worry flow out of him. He bent to her mouth and traced it with his lips. "It would complicate things."
She only smiled. "Yes."
His mouth pressed down hard on hers all at once and his hips moved suggestively.
She cried out.
He stilled instantly, because it wasn't a cry of pleasure. "This is uncomfortable for you now," he said speculatively.
"It is," she confessed reluctantly. "I'm sorry."
"No, I'm sorry that I hurt you." He lifted his weight away and met her eyes. "It may be uncomfortable when I withdraw. I'll be as slow as I can."
The blunt remark made her cheeks go hot, but she watched him lift away from her with frank curiosity and a little awe.
"Oh, my," she whispered when he rolled over onto his back.
"Yes, isn't it shocking?" he whispered and pulled her gently against his side. “And now you know why it was so uncomfortable, don't you?" he teased softly.
She laid her cheek on his broad shoulder. "I have seen the occasional centerfold," she murmured, embarrassed. "Although I have to admit that they weren't in your class!"
He chuckled and took a deep, slow breath. "Your body will adjust to me."
That sounded as if he didn't mean tonight to be an isolated incident, and she frowned, because it worried her. She didn't want to be his mistress. Did he think that she'd agreed to some casual sexual relationship because she'd given in to his ardor?
His hand smoothed over her long, graceful fingers. “When you heal a little, I'll teach you how to give it back," he murmured sleepily. "That was the first thing I noticed when I kissed you," he added. "You didn't fight me, but you didn't respond, either." She sighed. "I didn't know how," she said honestly. Her wide eyes stared across his chest to the big, dark bureau against the wall. Her nails scraped through the thick hair on his chest and she felt him move sinuously, as if he enjoyed it.
His hand pressed hers closer and he stretched, shivering a little in the aftermath. "I'd forgotten how good it could be," he murmured. He tugged on a damp strand of red-gold hair. "I'm not taking you home."
She stiffened. "But I..."
"But, nothing. You're mine. I'm not letting you go." That sounded possessive. Perhaps it was a sexual thing that men felt afterward. She knew so little about intimacy and how men reacted to it.
As if he sensed her concern, he eased her over onto her side so that he could see her face. It disturbed him to see her expression. "This was a mistake," he said at once when he saw her eyes. "Probably my biggest in a long line of them." His big hand pressed hard against her stomach. "But we're going to make it right. If you've got my baby in here, there's no way you're raising it alone. We'll get married as soon as I can get a license."
She was even more shocked by that statement than if he'd asked her to live in sin with him.
She took a breath and hesitated.
His eyes held hers firmly. "Do you want my baby?"
The way he said it made delicious chills run down her spine. There was all the tenderness in the world in the soft question, and tears stung her eyes.
"Oh, yes," she whispered.
He looked at her until her breathing changed, his eyes solemn and possessive as they trailed down to her submissive body and her soft, pretty breasts. He touched them delicately.
"Then we won't use anything," he murmured, lifting his eyes back to hers.
Her lips parted. There were so many questions spinning around in her mind that she couldn't grasp one to single out.
His fingers went up to her lips and traced them very slowly. "Why did you give yourself to me?" he asked.
She stared at him worriedly. "I thought you knew."
"I hope I do." He looked worried now. "I really didn't have any intention of seducing you, in case you wondered. I was going to kiss you. Maybe a little more than just that," he added with a rueful smile. "But you came in here with me like a lamb," he said, as if it awed him that she'd yielded so easily. "You never protested once, until I hurt you." He grimaced and brought her hand to his mouth, kissing the palm hungrily. “I never thought it would hurt you so much!" he said, as if the memory itself was painful. "You cried and started moving, and I lost my head completely. I couldn't even stop..."
"But, it's...it's normal for it to be a little uncomfortable the first time," she said quickly, putting her fingers against his hard mouth. “Simon, some girls are just a little unlucky. I suppose I was one of them. It's all right."
He met her eyes. His were still turbulent. "I wouldn't have hurt you for the world," he whispered huskily. "I wanted you to feel what I was feeling. I wanted you to feel as if the sun had exploded inside you." His fingers tangled softly in her hair. "It was...never like that," he added in quiet wonder as he searched her eyes. "I never knew it could be." He bent and touched his mouth to hers with breathless tenderness. "Dear God, I wanted to cherish you, and I couldn't keep my head long enough! It should have been tender between us, as tender as I feel inside when I touch you. But it had been years, and I was like an animal. I thought you were experienced...!”
She drew his face down to hers and kissed his eyelids closed. Her lips touched softly all over his face, his cheeks, his nose, his hard mouth. She kissed him as if he needed comforting.
"You wanted me, she whispered against his ear as she held him to her. "I wanted you, too. It didn't hurt the second time." His arms slid under her and he shivered. "It won't ever hurt again. I swear it."
Her legs curled into his and she smiled dreamily. He might not love her, but he felt something much more than physical desire for her. That long, stumbling speech had convinced her of one thing, at least. She would marry him. There was enough to build on.
"Simon?" she whispered. "Hmmm?"
"I'll marry you."
His mouth turned against her warm throat. "Of course you will," he whispered tenderly.
She closed her eyes and linked her ar
ms around him, her fingers encountering the leather strap of the prosthesis. "Why don't you take it off?" she murmured sleepily.
He lifted his head and frowned. "Tira..." She sat up, proudly nude, and drew him up with her so that she could push the shirt away. She watched his teeth clench as she undid the straps and eased the artificial appliance away, along with the sleeve that covered the rest of his missing arm.
She drew it softly to her breasts and held it there, watching the expression that bloomed on his lean, hard face at the gesture.
"Yes, you still have feeling in it, don't you?" she murmured with the first glint of humor she'd felt in a long time as she saw the desire kindle in his pale eyes.
"There, and other places," he said tautly. "And you're walking wounded. Don't torture me."
"Okay." She pushed him back down and curled up against him with absolute trust.
She looked like a fairy lying there next to him, as natural as rain or sun with his torn body. He looked at her with open curiosity.
"Doesn't it bother you, really?" he asked.
She nuzzled closer. "Simon, would it bother you if I was missing an arm?" she asked unexpectedly.
He thought about that for a minute. "No."
"Then that answers your question." She smiled. "I'm sleepy."
He laughed softly. "So am I."
He reached up and turned off the lamp, drowsily pulling the covers over them.
She stiffened and he held her closer.
"What is it?" he asked quickly.
"Simon, do you have a housekeeper?"
"Sure. She comes in on Tuesdays and Thursdays." His mouth brushed her forehead. "It's Saturday night," he reminded her. "And we're engaged."
"Okay."
His arm gathered her even closer. "We'll get the license first thing Monday morning and we'll be married Thursday. Who do you want to stand up with us?"
"I suppose it will have to be your brothers," she groaned.
He grinned. "Just thank your lucky stars you didn't refuse to marry me. Remember what happened to Dorie?"
She did. She closed her eyes. "I'm thankful." She drank in the spicy scent of him. "Simon, are you sure?"
"I'm sure." He drew her closer. "And so are you. Go to sleep."
Chapter 9
They got up and showered and then made breakfast together. Tira was still shy with him, after what they'd done, and he seemed to find it enchanting. He watched her fry bacon and scramble eggs while he made coffee. She was wearing one of his shirts and he was wearing only a pair of slacks.
"We'll make an economical couple," he mused. "I like the way you look in my shirts. We'll have to try a few more on you."
"I like the way you look without your shirt," she murmured, casting soft glances at him.
He wasn't wearing the prosthesis and he frowned, as if he wasn't certain whether she was teasing.
She took up the eggs, slid them onto the plate with the bacon, turned the burner off and went to him.
"You're still Simon," she said simply. "It never mattered to me. It never will, except that I'm sorry it had to happen to you." She touched his chest with soft, tender hands. "I like looking at you," she told him honestly. "I wasn't teasing."
He looked at her in the morning light with eyes that puzzled her. He touched the glory of her long hair tenderly. "This is all wrong," he said quietly. "I should have taken you out, bought you roses and candy, called you at two in the morning just to talk.
Then I should have bought a ring and asked you, very correctly, to marry me. I spoiled everything because I couldn't wait to get you into bed with me."
She was surprised that it worried him so much. She studied his hard face. ''It's all right."
He drew in a harsh breath and bent to kiss her forehead tenderly. "I'm sorry, just the same."
She smiled and snuggled close to him. "I love you." The words hit him right in the stomach. He drew in his breath as if he felt them. His hand tightened on her shoulder until it bruised. Inevitably he thought of all the wasted years when he'd kept her at a distance, treated her with contempt, ignored her. "Hey." She laughed, wiggling.
He let go belatedly. His expression disturbed her. He didn't look like a happy prospective bridegroom. The eyes that met hers were oddly tortured.
He put her away from him with a forced smile that wouldn't have fooled a total stranger, much less Tira. "Let's have breakfast." "Of course."
They ate in silence, hardly speaking. He had a second cup of coffee and then excused himself while she put the breakfast things into the dishwasher.
She assumed that he was dressing and wanted her to do the same. She went back into the bedroom and quickly donned the clothing he'd removed the night before, having retrieved half of it from the living room. She didn't understand what was wrong with him, unless he really had lost his head and was now regretting everything including the marriage proposal. She knew from gossip that men often said things they didn't mean to make a woman go to bed with them. She must have been an easy mark, at that, so obviously in love with him that he knew she wouldn't resist him.
Last night it had seemed right and beautiful. This morning it seemed sordid and she felt cheap. Looking at herself in his mirror, she saw the new maturity in her face and eyes and mourned the hopeful young woman who'd come home with him.
He paused in the doorway, watching her. He was fully dressed, right down to the prosthesis.
"I'll take you home," he said quietly.
She turned, without looking at him. "That would be best."
He drove her there in a silence as profound as the one they'd shared over breakfast. When he pulled into her driveway, she held up a hand when he started to cut off the engine.
"You don't need to walk me to the door," she said formally. "I'll...see you."
She scrambled out of the car and slammed the door behind her, all but running for her front door.
The key wouldn't go in the first time, and she could hardly see the lock anyway for the tears.
She didn't realize that Simon had followed her until she felt his hand at her back, easing her inside the house.
"No, please..." she sobbed.
He pulled her into his arms and held her, rocked her, his lips in her hair.
"Sweetheart, don't," he whispered, his deep voice anguished. "It's all right! Don't cry!"
Which only made the tears fall faster. She cried until she was almost sick from crying, and when she finally lifted her head from his chest and saw his grim expression, it was all she could manage not to start again.
"I wish I could carry you," he murmured angrily, catching her by the hand to pull her toward the living room. "It used to give me a distinct advantage at times like these to have two good arms."
He sat down on the sofa and pulled her down into his lap, easing her into the elbow that was part prosthesis so that he could mop up her tears with his handkerchief.
"I don't even have to ask what you're thinking," he muttered irritably as he dried her eyes and nose. “I saw it all in my mirror. Good God, don't you think I'm sorry, too?"
"I know you are," she choked. "It's all right. You don't have to feel guilty. I could have said no."
He stilled. "Guilty about what?"
"Seducing me!"
"I didn't."
Her eyes opened wide and she gaped at him. "You did!"
"You never once said you didn't want to," he reminded her. "In fact, I distinctly remember asking if you did."
She flushed. "Well?"
"I don't feel guilty about that,” he said curtly.
Her eyebrows lifted. "Then what are you sorry about?"
"That you had to come home in your evening gown feeling like a woman I bought for the night," he replied irritably. He touched her disheveled hair. "You didn't even have a brush or makeup with you."
She searched his face curiously. He was constantly surprising her these days.
He touched her unvarnished lips with a wry finger. "Now you're home," he said
. "Go put on some jeans and a shirt and we'll go to Jacobsville and ride horses and have a picnic."
She lost her train of thought somewhere. "You want to take me riding?"
He let his gaze slide down her body and back up and his lips drew up into a sardonic smile. "On second thought, I guess that isn't a very good idea."
She realized belatedly what he was saying and flushed. "Simon!"
"Well, why dance around it? You're sore, aren't you?" he asked bluntly.
She averted her eyes. "Yes."
"We'll have the picnic, but we'll go in a truck when we get to the ranch."
She lifted her face back to his and searched his pale eyes. He looked older today, but more relaxed and approachable than she'd ever seen him. There were faint streaks of silver at his temples now, and silver threads mixed in with the jet black of his hair. She reached up and touched them.
"I'm almost forty," he said.
She bit her lower lip, thinking how many years had passed when they could have been like this, younger and looking forward to children, to a life together.
He drew her face to his chest and smoothed over her hair. She was so very fragile, so breakable now. He'd seen her as a flamboyant, independent, spirited woman who was stubborn and hot-tempered. And here she lay in his arms as if she were a child, trusting and gentle and so sweet that she made his heart ache.
He nuzzled his cheek against hers so that he could find her soft mouth, and he kissed it until a groan of anguish forced its way out of his throat. Oh, God, he thought, the years he'd wasted!
She heard the groan and drew back to look at him.
He was breathing roughly. His eyes, turbulent and fierce, lanced down into hers. He started to speak, just as the doorbell rang.
They both jumped at the unexpected loudness of it.
"That's probably Mrs. Lester," she said worriedly.
"On a Sunday? I thought she spent weekends with her sister?"
She did. Tira climbed out of his arms with warning bells going off in her head. She had a sick feeling that when she opened that door, her whole life was going to change.
And it did.
Charles Percy stood there with both hands in his pockets, looking ten years older and sick at heart.
Books By Diana Palmer Page 197