Halfway to Paradise

by Neesa Hart

  “Scott,” she said, feeling her throat constrict, “this isn’t right. You can’t fall in love with me.”

  “The way I see it, you don’t have much say in the matter.” He tugged on a lock of her hair.

  Maggie pushed his hand away. “I mean it,” she said. “You can’t.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you afraid of, Maggie?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not afraid.”

  “You are. I can see it in your eyes. You have the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen. Have I told you that before?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. You’re scared out of your mind.”

  “I’m not scared, I’m cautious.”

  “Cautious of what?”

  “Of this. Of us. Of you,” she admitted.

  Scott stared at her. “Me? I’d never hurt you. You know I wouldn’t.”

  “You can’t guarantee that. No one can. Mark didn’t want to hurt me either, but he did. He died and left me alone to raise Ryan. How can a person hurt you more than that?”

  “Oh, Maggie. Honey, you can’t be afraid to love someone just because they might leave you someday.”

  “I can’t go through that again. I can’t.”

  He cradled her face in his hands. “Sweetheart, listen to me. When I lost Annie, I wanted to die right along with her. I couldn’t imagine living without her to share my life. I loved her so much, it was all I could do to get up in the morning for months after she was gone.”

  Maggie sucked in a tight breath. “Sometimes, I still feel that way,” she said.

  “But being with you has changed that,” Scott said. “It’s a good change, but a hurting change all at the same time. I had numbed everything after Annie’s death. I couldn’t face the pain, so I ignored it. You’ve put the edge back on my feelings. You don’t let me forget.”

  Maggie felt the impact of his words like a blow to her midsection. How could he be feeling what she was feeling? “It’s like that for me, too,” she admitted. “Do you remember when I told you I’d stayed up too late working on my plans last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t entirely true. I did work on them, but only because I couldn’t stop crying long enough to go to sleep. I haven’t done that since the month or so after Mark died.”

  “Maggie, I’m sorry.”

  “Sometimes it’s so bad, I can’t stand it. I don’t know what I’ll do if I fall in love with you, Scott. I don’t think I’ll live through it.”

  Scott ran his thumb over the curve of her cheek. The pad was rough and warm, and Maggie shivered. “We can make it together,” he said.

  “That’s not all.” She was driven now. Driven by a need to tell him everything, to put into words the feelings that had been clawing at her almost from the moment she’d met him. “This”—she curled her fingers into the flannel of his shirt—“this passion between us. I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s like an inferno.” He stared at her. “I think it’s consuming me.”

  A ragged groan sounded in his throat. He dropped his head back against the sofa. “I’m on fire for you,” he confessed, and ran his hand along the soft, worn fabric of her sweatshirt until he found the hem. He slid his hand beneath it to splay his fingers on the bare skin of her lower back. “Your skin feels like hot satin. Just thinking about you makes me ache.” He moved against her, and Maggie felt the evidence of his words. “I want you so much it makes me tremble inside.”

  She was the one who was trembling. “I can’t, Scott. I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  “I’m not going to rush you. I said I wouldn’t.”

  Maggie swallowed, then plunged ahead. “And what about your bid on the Cape Hope project?”

  “What about it?”

  “What if you don’t get it?”

  Scott shrugged. “I’d still have my position in Dallas.”

  “I’m here,” Maggie said, wondering if she sounded as forlorn as she felt.

  Scott sighed. “We’d work it out, Maggie.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I was thinking, I have some excellent connections with design firms in Dallas. I could get you on as an associate.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t want to be an associate.”

  “Maggie, honey, be reasonable. You said yourself that By Design was struggling. Do you really want to run your own business, or do you want the freedom to design?”

  “I’m just starting to feel like Ryan and I have a new life here. I don’t want to uproot him again.”

  “OK, OK. I don’t claim to have all the answers. Hell, I don’t even think I have half the answers. We don’t know yet what’s going to happen with Cape Hope.”

  “But—”

  He gave her a quick squeeze to interrupt her. “If there’s one thing I learned about life during Annie’s illness it was not to dwell too much on the future. I want to be with you, Maggie. We’ll find a way to work it out.”

  “What if we can’t?”

  “We will. I knew it tonight. I’ve never felt as uneasy or on edge as I did this evening. It was as if . . . as if everything that had become familiar to me in the months following Annie’s death was suddenly stripped away. I felt vulnerable, exposed.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “Alone,” she said.

  “Completely.”

  Maggie moved one hand to his shoulder and clung to him. “What’s happening to us?”

  “I don’t know, but I need to hold you tonight, Maggie. I can’t be alone.”

  “Neither can I,” she admitted, and knew it was true. She needed the feel of Scott’s warmth, of his solid strength. “I’m still afraid,” she said.

  “So am I.” His voice was so soft, she barely heard him.

  And then the wind whistled beneath the eaves of the old house, and the fire danced as a cool draft played across the room. Maggie clung to Scott, aware of a slow sense of calm that was seeping into her disquieted soul. The wind moved through the open vents in the attic, humming its way through the house in a low, mournful cry. Maggie felt a stillness, a sense of well-being. Scott relaxed beneath her, his tight grip relaxing, his breathing slowing to a leisurely cadence.

  Maggie rubbed her face against his shirt. She shivered, suddenly aware of a completeness, a rightness in his being there.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not really.”

  He seemed not to hear. “That draft is really bad. You should have that fixed.”

  Maggie drew in a deep breath. She felt at peace for the first time in hours. “I’ve always liked the way the wind whistles under the eaves,” she said. “It reminds me of Mark. He used to say if anything every happened to him, I’d hear him in the wind.”

  Scott stiffened. “What?” His voice sounded strangled.

  “He was a pilot, remember? He said if anything should happen, I’d always know he was watching over us because I’d hear him every time I heard the wind.”

  “Annie used to say that.”

  Maggie looked at Scott in surprise. He was staring at the trees out the window, watching intently as the brisk December breeze blew clumps of snow from their laden boughs. “She did?” Maggie asked.

  Scott nodded. “It was from a poem she liked. I think it was called ‘They Softly Walk.’”

  Maggie looked at him, amazed. “It’s by Hugh Robert Orr. Mark liked it, too.”

  “Mark liked poetry?” Scott asked.

  Maggie laughed softly. “Only when he thought I’d be impressed. He found the poem in a book, and wrote it in a letter for me the day before he left on his first mission. I used to pull that letter out and read it over and over in the days following Mark’s death. I ended up memorizing the poem. It goes:

  They are not gone who pass

  Beyond the clasp of hand.

  They have put off their shoes

  Softly to walk within the wind,

  Each day, our thought-led paths
/>   of memory.

  Her voice faded, lost in the whistle of the winter breeze. Scott wrapped his arms closer around her. “Within the wind,” he quietly repeated.

  Maggie met his gaze. “Do you think they’re up there?” she asked, pointing to the ceiling.

  Scott paused. “Have you felt the difference in this house since the wind picked up?”

  She nodded. “I thought it was you—having you here I mean.”

  He tipped his head and listened to the quiet, gentle blowing. “Somehow,” he whispered. “I don’t think so.”

  Annie leaned back in her chair in Maggie’s living room. She looked at Mark. After they’d left the hotel, they’d found themselves in Maggie’s living room, watching, listening to Maggie’s conversation with Scott. Mark’s expression told Annie that he was struggling. She got out of her chair and went to him.

  Kneeling in front of him, she took his hands in hers. She waited until he tore his gaze from Maggie and Scott to look her in the eye. “Mark,” she said, “this is good. This is what we want.”

  “I know.”

  “You agreed to help them.”

  “I know.”

  She squeezed his hands. “Why don’t we go upstairs for a while?”

  He shook his head. “I’m too exhausted to move. I told you being away from Maggie and Ryan was wearing me down. Don’t you feel the same way?”

  Annie paused only briefly before she nodded. It had been exhausting for her to remain separate from Scott for so long. “Yes. I feel the same way.”

  Mark shifted his hands and laced his fingers through hers. “Annie, do you think—”

  “Yes?”

  “Could we just sit here for a while? Together.” He nodded his head toward Scott and Maggie. “Like them.”

  Annie slipped into his lap with a slight smile. She wrapped her arms around his waist. “I think I’d like that.”

  Eleven

  Scott awoke, vaguely aware of an unfamiliar stiffness in his shoulders and legs. He flexed his muscles, only to find himself pinned down by a weight so warm, so soft, it reminded him of waking up with . . . His eyes popped open. He was staring at the ceiling of Maggie’s living room. A brief glance at Maggie’s head, tucked securely against the curve of his neck, brought memories of the previous evening rushing back to him.

  The first weak rays of dawn cast a pink hue on the room. Scott lifted a hand gently to stroke the soft disarray of Maggie’s hair. She sighed and shifted against him. Memories of the previous night flooded in. He closed his eyes, recalling the long hours of shared sorrow; the tender, comforting promises; the warmth of companionship. There had been no hint of the passion that normally surged between them. Instead, it had been a time of one soul meeting another to share a common burden.

  But now, as the falling snow whispered against the windows, and the dawn settled a warm glow on Maggie’s sleeping features, Scott felt his body respond with a rush of desire so strong, so intense, he feared he might explode. He drew a deep breath as he gently shifted Maggie to his side. A stab of white-hot passion rushed through him when her thigh brushed his groin.

  Determined, he stretched out a hand to lift the top off the glass candy dish on the coffee table. He picked up two peppermints. He popped one into his mouth, before sliding down on the sofa so that Maggie’s body was aligned with his. “Maggie,” he whispered, pressing the other peppermint against her lips. “Honey, wake up.”

  Her eyes drifted open. She parted her lips just enough for him to slide the candy into her mouth. He smiled at her bemused expression. It took several moments for her eyes to clear. As recognition and recollection dawned, Scott leaned down and rubbed his mouth against hers in a half kiss that made the blood rush to his head. “Good morning,” he whispered.

  Maggie’s eyes widened. “I—good morning.”

  Scott decided not to give her time to adjust to her surroundings. He took her lips in a hot kiss full of all the rife hunger he’d told her about during the night. To his delight, Maggie moaned and pressed into him. “God, Maggie,” he said, then slanted his mouth over hers.

  Her fingers threaded into his hair, rubbing over his scalp in haphazard abandon. Scott groaned. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her full against him. He felt desire, wild and hot and uncontrollable, racing through his blood with the force of a stampede. His tongue delved into her mouth, and he knew a moment of dizzying passion when her fingers clenched in his hair.

  On fire, Scott slid one leg between hers. He moved a hand to the bottom of her sweatshirt. He was consumed by a need for the feel of her flesh, warm and alive and real. She immediately began tugging at the buttons of his flannel shirt, pulling them free as she sucked at his tongue. Finally, she wrenched the shirt open and yanked his tee shirt from his waistband. Her cool fingers slid up his chest at the exact instant he worked her sweatshirt up and spread his fingers on her back. The sensation of skin against skin was devastating. Scott tore his mouth from hers as a ragged groan ripped from his lips.

  His body was hard, throbbing. He ran his lips along the curve of her jaw. He reveled in the raspy sound of her uneven breathing fanning across his ears. Fearing spontaneous combustion, he moved his thigh between hers, and when her hipbone pushed into his groin he nearly went insane. Still half-asleep, Maggie kissed him with an ardor and abandon that made his head swim. He could feel his pulse pounding a reckless rhythm as the blood roared in his ears, and his lungs squeezed from lack of air.

  Maggie fought back a wave of reality and clung to him. It felt so good, so incredibly good. Mark had known, always known, exactly how and where to touch her, but with Scott, the exploration was a mutual experience. He shuddered when she brushed her fingers over his ribs. She moaned when he dipped his tongue into the whorl of her ear.

  Reality that it was her house, and her couch, and that her son was sleeping upstairs began to intrude. Maggie thrust it aside. She skimmed her fingers over the smooth contours of his chest. She threaded them in the crisp hairs that covered his warm skin. Scott was worrying her earlobe with his teeth. Maggie gasped when he found the sensitive spot just beneath it. She felt him smile against her skin.

  “Are you sensitive here?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her voice was a breathy hiss. “Yes.”

  Scott nuzzled the pulse point, and she felt her insides quiver. His strong, muscled thigh was trapped between her legs. She shifted on it, hoping to relieve some of the throbbing ache spreading through her lower body. Her thigh slid across his hardened length. Scott’s body jerked in reaction. Maggie felt a brief smile tug at her lips. “Are you sensitive here?” she asked.

  He growled something in her ear before reclaiming her lips for another heart-stopping kiss. Maggie moved her hands over his ribs, his back, the firm planes of his shoulders, clinging, clutching at the pleasure he offered. If only she could forget . . . she pushed the thought aside. There was this and him and now, and she wouldn’t dwell on what had been or what would be. “No,” she gasped, sucking on his lower lip when he moved to end the kiss. “Not yet.”

  He moved one hand to her breast, cupped it, tested its weight, rubbed his callused thumb over the tip of her nipple. “Maggie,” he rasped, his voice a harsh whisper, “Maggie, I can’t take this.”

  She arched into his hand, pushing her breast against his palm. Her loins ached, and her heart raced, and her head pounded with the heady wonderful feel of him pressing down on her. “Please,” she said, rubbing her mouth over his. “Please, don’t stop.”

  “Honey.” Scott’s fingers flexed into her breast. Maggie leaned into his palm. “Darlin’, I’m going to explode in a second.”

  She bit down on his lower lip. “So long,” she said. “So long. Please.”

  Scott sucked in a harsh breath and brought his mouth down hard on hers once more. He was losing control. Any thought of resisting what Maggie offered was quickly shredding into a pile of tatters. She wanted it. He wanted it. He moved his thigh between her legs, then groaned when he felt
the moist heat of her. There was no reason, no sense in denying themselves any longer.

  Ruthlessly, he pushed aside Maggie’s objections of the night before. He refused to dwell on her fears, her anxiety. Her breasts were tight and full against his hands, her skin smooth as silk. He rubbed his palm in slow circles on her breasts. When she moaned and clasped his thigh between both of hers, he felt a rush of desire so strong it stole his breath. No, there was no reason.

  Maggie arched against him, and twined her fingers into Scott’s hair. Her voice was a breathy whisper against his face when she said, “Mark.”

  He froze.

  That was a damn good reason.

  Maggie seemed not to notice his sudden stillness. She clutched at his head as she ran her tongue along the line of his teeth. Scott took several deep breaths before reaching up to disentangle her hand from his hair. “Maggie,” he said, his voice a hollow rasp. He felt all the passion in his body drain away. “Honey, look at me.”

  She shook her head. Her lips were swollen, her skin flushed, and for an instant Scott was tempted to ignore what had happened. “Open your eyes, darlin’.”

  She shuddered once. Her eyes slowly drifted open, and she met his gaze. He watched the play of emotions on her face. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from beneath her sweatshirt, then lifted it to brush her hair off her forehead. Maggie stared at him. “Scott,” she said.

  He felt a surge of jealousy as he rolled away from her and sat up on the couch. “That’s right. Scott. I don’t want you to forget it either.”

  She reached for him, laid her hand on his forearm. He flinched and drew away. “Scott,” she said, her voice a plea, “I didn’t mean—”

  “Didn’t mean what, Maggie?” he asked. She visibly cringed. He bit back a quiet oath of self-loathing. He pulled her gently against him. “I was the one who promised not to push,” he said. He held out his hand so they could both see it tremble. “And here I was all over you while I knew you were half-asleep.”

  Maggie shuddered. “I didn’t mean to say that, Scott. I knew who you were.”