by Nora Roberts
“Too early for what?”
She felt his lips curve against hers. “You’re not even awake yet.”
“Wanna bet?” Running a hand down, she trailed her fingers over his flat stomach. The sleepy kiss smoldered with burgeoning passion. “Maybe you can’t get by on three or four hours’ sleep after all.”
Cocking his brow, he lifted his head. “Wanna bet?”
Her answering laugh was smothered by his lips.
It had never been like this for her. Each time they made love it stunned her, enticed her, then consumed her. In his arms, with his hands and lips running wild and free over her body, she could lose herself. And how she needed to lose herself.
He’d known from the first how to play her. Each time they came together he found new variations, giving her no opportunity to become familiar with a touch or to anticipate a demand. He could dominate her mind so effortlessly, plunge her back into a world that was all keen emotion and sharp sensation.
Everything would magnetize, from the bare brush of a fingertip to the bruising pressure of lips. Jessica thought she could feel the individual threads of the sheet against the naked flesh of her back. The whispering tick of the clock was like thunder. Pale sunlight danced, gray and ghostly. She could see it fall over his hair, accenting its dark confusion as she dove her hands into it.
In her ear he whispered something poetic and foolish about the texture of her skin. Though the tone was almost reverent, his hands were aggressive—arousing and drugging in turns. Murmuring, she told him what she wanted. Shifting, she offered what he needed.
When he took her, Slade took her slowly, watching the flickers of pleasure and passion on her face in the thin morning light. Savoring the sensations that rippled through him as she moved, he nibbled on her parted lips. He tasted her, and himself, before he roamed over her closed lids. Fragile, he thought, her skin was so fragile. Yet all the while her hips urged him to take, to take quickly. With iron control he kept the rhythm easy, prolonging the ultimate delight.
“Jess.” He could hardly form her name between labored breaths. “Open your eyes, Jess. I want to see your eyes.” The lids fluttered, as if weighed down by the pale gold lashes. “Open your eyes, love, and look at me.”
He wasn’t a man for endearments. Even through the haze of needs and sensations, Jessica recognized it. A new warmth filled her—pure emotion—to double the physical ecstasy. She opened them.
The irises were opaque, rich amber filmed over with passion. As he moved inside her, the lashes flickered, threatening to lower again. “No, look at me.” His voice had dropped to a rough whisper. Their lips were close so that their breath merged, shudder for shudder. Jessica saw that his eyes were dark, dark gray and intense, as if he would look into her mind and read whatever frantic thoughts raced inside. “Tell me that you need me,” he demanded. “I have to hear you say it, just once.”
Jessica struggled to form words as she climbed higher toward delirium. “I need you, Slade . . . you’re the only one.”
His lips crushed down on hers to muffle her cry as he drove her swiftly to the peak. His last rational thought was almost a prayer—that the words he had demanded would be enough for him.
Strange that his body felt more rested, more relaxed now than it had upon waking. Slade slid down to press a kiss at the hollow between her breasts before he shifted from her. “Now, get some more sleep,” he ordered, but before he could rise, Jessica had her arms locked around his neck.
“I’ve never been more awake in my life. What’re you going to do with me today, Slade? Make me fill out more of those silly cards?”
“Those silly cards,” he said as he slipped a hand under her knees, “are a necessary part of any organized library.”
“They’re boring,” she said defiantly when he lifted her.
“Spoiled,” he decided, carrying her into the bathroom.
“I certainly am not.” The line appeared between her brows as he switched on the shower.
“You certainly are,” he corrected genially. “But that’s all right, I kind of like you that way.”
“Oh well, thanks a lot.”
He grinned, kissed her, then set her down in the shower stall. Jessica let out one long surprised scream. “Slade! It’s freezing!”
“Best way to get the blood moving in the morning.” He stepped in with her, partially blocking the spray. “Well, second best,” he amended, then cut off a stream of abuse with his lips.
“Turn on the hot water,” she demanded when he let her breathe again. “I’m turning blue.”
He picked up her arm, giving it a light pinch. “No, not yet,” he disagreed. “Want the soap?”
“I’ll go take my own shower, thanks.” Huffily, she tried to climb out only to find herself tangled with him under the icy spray. “Let go! This is police brutality.” She lifted her face to glare at him and got struck fully with the cold needle spray. “Slade!” Sputtering, she blinked her eyes to clear them. Her body was pressed against his, frigid and tingling. “You’re going to pay for this, I swear you are.”
Blinded by the water and her own streaming hair, she struggled to free herself. With one arm keeping her prisoner, Slade took his free hand over her, lavishly soaping her skin.
“Stop it!” Infuriated and aroused, Jessica fought against him. When his hand passed intimately over her bottom, she grew more desperate. Then she heard him chuckle. Temper had her head snapping back up though the spray made her vision vague and watery.
“You listen to me,” she began. Soapy fingers passed over her nipple. “Slade, don’t.” With a moan, she arched away. His palm slipped between her thighs. “No.”
But her mouth blindly sought his. Jessica no longer felt the cold.
When she left the shower, she was glowing. Some color had seeped back into her cheeks. Slade noted it with a mixture of relief and pleasure though Jessica did her best to maintain outward indignance.
“I’m going to go get dressed,” she informed him as she wrapped her wet hair in a towel. Because she was still naked, Slade found it hard to be offended by her haughty tone. Refreshed, he hooked his own towel around his waist.
“Okay, I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there,” she told him grandly as she stooped to pick up his shirt, “when I get there.”
Grinning, he watched her slip into his shirt and button it. “I could get used to seeing you like that,” he commented. When she sent him an arch look, his grin only widened. “Wet and half naked,” he explained.
“It’s that machismo again,” Jessica muttered, holding back the smile. Turning, she flounced to the door.
“Ten minutes,” he reminded her.
Jessica cast a baleful look over her shoulder, then slammed the door behind her. Her grin quickly escaped, then almost as quickly faded. David stood directly outside her own bedroom door, his hand already poised to knock. His head had turned at the sound of the slam, but he hadn’t moved. His eyes roamed over her, taking in Slade’s shirt, the damp, glowing skin and sleep-starved eyes.
“Well.” His tone, like his eyes, turned cool. “I guess you’re already up.”
Jessica felt more color flow into her cheeks. As close as she and David had been, living in the same house, they had never chanced upon each other under these circumstances. Both had always been extremely private about that area of their lives.
We’re both adults, Jessica reminded herself as she walked toward him—but they’d been children together.
“Yes, I’m up. Did you want me?” Part of her wanted to run to him as she had the day before; part of her no longer trusted so unconditionally. Guilt gave her a reserve toward him nothing else could have. Sensing it, he became only more distant and disapproving.
“Thought I’d check with you before I went in, that’s all.” He gave her another brief, telling look. “Since you’re busy . . .”
“I’m not busy, David. Come in.” Coolly polite, Jessica o
pened the bedroom door, then gestured him inside. It never occurred to her that she was breaking one of Slade’s rules by talking to David alone. Even if it had, she would have done no differently. “Were there any problems yesterday I should know about?”
“No . . .” His eyes rested on the bed, which hadn’t been slept in. His voice tightened. “Nothing to worry about. Obviously you’ve got enough to keep you busy.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, David. It doesn’t suit you.” She took the towel from her hair and flung it aside. “If you have something to say to me, come out with it.” She plucked up a comb and began to drag it through her hair.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he blurted out.
Jessica’s hand paused in midstroke. Slowly she lowered the comb to place it back on the dresser. She caught a glimpse of herself—pale, shadow-eyed, damp—and inadequately covered in Slade’s wrinkled shirt. “Be specific.”
“You’re sleeping with the writer.” Shoving up his glasses, he took a step toward her.
“And if I am?” she countered tightly. “Why should you object?”
“What do you know about him?” David demanded with such sudden heat that she was rendered speechless. “He comes out of nowhere, probably without two nickels to rub together. It’s a nice setup here, big house, free meals, a willing woman.”
“Be careful, David.” She stiffened as the anger in her eyes met his.
“How do you know he’s not just a sponge? A couple million dollars is a hell of a target.”
The angry color paled with hurt. “And, of course, what else could he be interested in, other than my money.”
When she would have turned away, he took her shoulders. “Come on, Jessie.” The eyes behind the glasses softened. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. But he’s a stranger and you’re . . . well, you’re just too trusting.”
“Am I, David?” She swallowed the sudden rise of tears as she studied his well-known face. “Have I made a mistake by trusting?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.” He squeezed her shoulders before he dropped his hands. “You know I love you.” The admission seemed to make him uncomfortable. With a shrug, he stuck his hands in his pockets. “And damn it, Jessica, you must know how crazy Michael is about you. He’s been in love with you for years.”
“But I’m not in love with him,” she said quietly. “I’m in love with Slade.”
“In love with him? Jeez, Jessie, you hardly know the guy.”
The use of the silly exclamation brought a quick laugh from her as she dragged a hand through her hair. “Oh, David, I know him better than you think.”
“Look, let me check into him a little bit, maybe find out—”
“No!” Swiftly, Jessica cut him off. “No, David, I won’t permit that. Slade is my business.”
“So was that creep from Madison Avenue who soaked you for ten thousand,” he muttered.
Turning away, she covered her face with her hands. It was funny, she thought. She should be able to laugh. Two of the most important people in her life were warning her about each other.
“Hey, Jessica, I’m sorry.” Awkwardly, David patted her wet hair. “That was a dumb thing to say. I’ll butt out, just . . . well, just be careful, okay?” He shifted from one foot to the other, wondering why she was suddenly so emotional. “You’re not going to cry or anything, are you?”
“No.” That did nudge a small laugh from her. He sounded suspiciously as he had when he’d been twelve and she’d come home after fighting with her current boyfriend. Loyalty came full circle, overlapping everything else. “David . . .” Turning, Jessica laid her hands on his shoulders, looking beyond the lenses and deep into his eyes. “If you were in trouble—if you’d gotten in over your head and made a mistake, a serious one—would you tell me?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but she couldn’t tell if it was from curiosity or guilt. “I don’t know. I guess it would depend.”
“It wouldn’t matter what you’d done, David, I’d always be on your side.”
The tone was too serious. Uncomfortable, he shrugged his thin shoulders and tried to lighten it. “I’m going to remind you of that the next time you jump me for making a mistake in the books. Jessie, you really don’t look good. You ought to think about getting away for a few days.”
“I’ll be fine.” Sensing an argument, she continued. “But I’ll give it some thought.”
“Good. I’ve got to go, I told Michael I’d open up today.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong before. I still think . . .” Hesitating, he shifted his shoulders again. “Well, we’ve all got to do things our own way.”
“Yes,” she murmured as she watched him walk to the door. “Yes, we do. David . . . if you or Michael need money . . .”
“Are we going to get a raise?” he asked with a quick grin as he turned the knob.
Forcing a smile, Jessica picked up her comb again. “We’ll see about it when I come back to work.”
“Hurry back,” he said, then left her alone.
Jessica stared at the closed door, then down at the comb in her hand. On a sudden spurt of rage, she hurled it across the room. Look at what she’d been doing! Pumping him, half hoping he’d confess so that she could see an end to things. She’d watched him, searching for some sign of guilt. And she wouldn’t be able to prevent herself from doing the same with Michael. Her own lack of trust appalled her.
Dropping onto the stool of her vanity, she stared at her reflection. It wasn’t right that she should feel this way—alienated from the two people she’d felt closest to. Watching for signs, waiting for them to make a mistake. Worse, she thought, worse, wanting them to make one so that she could stop the watching and waiting.
She took a long, hard look at herself. Her hair was wet and tangled around an unnaturally pale face. The pallor only accented the smudges under her eyes. She looked frail, already half beaten. That she could put an end to with a few basic practicalities. Stiffening her spine, Jessica began to dab makeup on the smudges. If an illusion of strength was all she had left, she’d make the best of it.
When the phone rang across the room, she jolted, knocking a small china vase to the floor. Helplessly, she stared at the shattered pieces that could never be put back together.
Betsy answered the phone as Slade reached the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, he’s here. May I say who’s calling?” She stopped Slade with an arch look as she held out the receiver. “It’s a Mrs. Sladerman,” she said primly.
Frowning, Slade took the receiver. “Mom?” Betsy sniffed at that and walked away. “Why are you calling me here? You know I’m working. Is anything wrong?” he demanded as annoyance turned to concern. “Is Janice all right?”
“Nothing’s wrong and Janice is fine,” his mother put in the moment he let her speak. “And how are you?”
Annoyance returned swiftly. “Mom, you know you’re not supposed to call when I’m working unless it’s important. If the plumbing’s gone again, just call the super.”
“I could probably have figured that one out all by myself,” Mrs. Sladerman considered.
“Look, I should be home in a couple of days. Just put whatever it is on hold until I get there.”
“All right,” she said mildly. “But you did tell me to let you know if I heard anything from your agent. We’ll talk about it when you get home. Good-bye, Slade.”
“Wait a minute.” Letting out an impatient breath, he shifted the phone to his other hand. “You didn’t have to call to pass on another rejection.”
“No,” she agreed. “But I thought maybe I should call with an acceptance.”
He started to speak, then stopped himself. Anticipation only led to disappointment. “On the new short story for Mirror?”
“Now, he did mention something about that too . . .” She let the sentence trail off until Slade was ready to shout at her. “But he was so excited about selling the novel that I didn’t take it all in.”
“Your novel, idiot,” she said with a laugh. “Second Chance by James Sladerman, soon to be published by Fullbright and Company.”
Emotion raced through him too swiftly. Resting his forehead against the receiver, he closed his eyes. He’d waited all of his life for this one moment; now nothing seemed ready to function. He tried to speak, found his throat closed, then cleared it.
“Are you sure?”
“Am I sure,” she muttered. “Slade, do you think I can’t understand English, even if it’s fancy agent talk? He said they’re working up a contract and he’ll be in touch with the details. Business about film rights and serial rights and clauses with numbers. Of course,” she added when her son remained silent, “it’s up to you. If you don’t want the fifty-thousand-dollar advance . . .” She waited, then gave a maternal sigh. “You always were a quiet one, Slade, but this is ridiculous. Doesn’t a man say something when he finally has what he’s always wanted?”
Always wanted, he thought numbly. Of course she’d known. How could he have ever deceived himself into thinking he’d concealed it from her. The money hadn’t sunk in. He was still hearing the magic word published. “I can’t think,” he said finally.
“Well, when you can, get the one you’re working on now together. They want to see it. Seems they think they’ve got a tiger by the tail. Slade . . . I wonder if I’ve told you often enough that I’m proud of you.”
“Yeah.” He let out a long breath. “You have. Thanks.”
Her chuckle was warm in his ear. “That’s right, darling, save your words for your stories. I have a few hundred phone calls to make now; I love to brag. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” he said again, inadequately. “Mom . . .”
“Yes?”
“Buy a new piano.”
She laughed. “Good-bye, Slade.”
He listened to the dial tone for nearly a full minute.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sladerman, would you like your breakfast now?”
Confused, Slade turned to stare at Betsy. She stood behind him—little black eyes, wrinkled skin, and graying hair on short sturdy legs. She smelled faintly of silver polish and lavendar sachet. The smile Slade gave her had her taking a cautious step back. It looked a bit crazed.