RSVP...Baby

by Pamela Browning

  “I should run,” she said half to herself.

  He traced her cheekbones with his thumbs and lifted her chin. Her lips parted slightly, and he felt his head dipping toward hers. When their lips met, hers were trembling, and he slid his arms around her to hold her tightly, wanting her to know the warmth and strength and protectiveness that he could provide.

  She hesitated before she returned his kiss, and he remembered that night in the gazebo when she had been so passionate that he’d ultimately lost control. Now he wanted to take it slow and easy, to show her how tender their lovemaking could be.

  When his lips released hers, he was stunned to see that tears glistened in her eyes. In that moment his hopes were dashed, but somehow he couldn’t believe he had misread her.

  Words, in this instance, were obligatory. “If you don’t want this, we won’t,” he whispered.

  One tear spilled over and trickled down her cheek, a tiny crystalline droplet. “The baby,” she said.

  He glanced at the crib. “Sound asleep,” he murmured into her ear. She brushed the tear away and looked as if he’d misinterpreted her meaning. He drew slightly away. “Is something wrong, Bianca?”

  “You could say that,” she said, not very loudly. He was on the verge of insisting on an explanation, but to his immense surprise, she distracted him by taking his hand and placing it firmly on her breast. Her hand remained on his, leaving no doubt that she wanted it there. Her eyes were closed, her nostrils flared, and her expression was one of intense longing.

  His head swam with the possibilities, and before he could sort them out she was kissing him again, this time so thoroughly that all he could think was that he’d been a fool for staying in Colombia and not seeking her out long ago, baby or no baby. And if he’d gone to her and found her pregnant? It would have made no difference. He would have wanted her anyway.

  She unbuttoned his shirt, carefully and deliberately, her eyes intent on the task. While he stood motionless, she loosened his tie and slipped warm hands inside his shirt. Neill managed to come to his senses and tug the zipper down on her dress. The silky fabric slid to her waist, and with an expert twist he unfastened her bra. Her breasts were even more perfect than he remem— bered them. He teasingly flicked the firm pink nipples with his thumbs. They stiffened at his touch.

  “Beautiful,” he said, his breath stirring little tendrils of hair in front of her ear. He bent and touched his lips to one erect peak, then the other, and then her dress puddled to the floor so that only a brief snippet of lace remained between her body and his. He knelt and shimmied it down past her hips, kissing her knee and then her softly rounded hipbone on his way back up.

  He had wanted her to be totally revealed to him, and he especially wanted to know what she was thinking and feeling in those moments. Her expression gave him no clue. He traced the line of her ribs until his hands reached her backbone; she pressed against him so that their bellies were flat against each other. When she offered her lips, he tasted them slowly and gently, nibbling, sucking, beginning to own the feelings that welled up from somewhere deep inside his soul.

  He hadn’t known he could feel so much for one person. He couldn’t have known, because none of the others were Bianca. There was something so special about her, something that engendered a kindred expectancy in him. He sensed that she knew and understood exactly how he felt about all the important life events that had molded him into the person he was.

  She had been through so much of the same. It hadn’t been easy for either of them.

  He swung her easily into his arms. She was featherlight, and his head swam with the reality of the moment. Bianca had been the subject of many daydreams and a few impassioned night dreams, but never had his fantasies approached such pleasure.

  He laid her on the soft feather comforter, his eyes caressing her as he rid himself of the last of his clothes before he switched off the light. They hadn’t drawn the curtains, and moonlight streamed into the room, touching lightly upon the sleeping Tia in her crib, upon Bianca with her arms upstretched to receive him, and then upon the two of them, man and woman, as they melted together in sweet pleasure.

  “It’s been so long,” Bianca sighed.

  “Too long,” he agreed. Then he smiled at her and strung a chain of hot-and-hungry kisses from her earlobe, down her neck, across her breasts and up again to capture her lips in an intoxicating kiss.

  “I don’t think it’s only Eric we have to worry about getting drunk,” he murmured before turning her over so that she was on top.

  Her hair slid seductively across his face. “What are you talking about? And why are you talking?” she said, pressing her lips to his throat.

  “I’m drunk with kisses. Drunk with passion.”

  “You’re awfully talkative when you’re drunk,” she said playfully, and he laughed low in his throat as he slid his hands down her back to cup his palms around her sweet curves.

  Her flesh was firm and yet yielding. So many times as he lay in his narrow bed in the house near the mine he had thought of Bianca—of her face, which he had often tried to sketch but couldn’t; of her eyebrows delicately winging toward her pale, pale hair; of the slim, sleek lines of her and what it felt like to sweep his hands along the curves from hips to stomach to breasts and upward to tangle in her hair. Since he couldn’t have her body, he had steeped himself in the memory of her, living her and breathing her, for to inhale her meant that she was made part of him, and then he could know her in every cell of his body. Sometimes his heartbeat pounded out her name, Bianca, Bianca, Bianca, and his mind had caught on fire with the refrain so that sometimes he couldn’t sleep at all on those long, humid nights. And when he had slept, his dreams had often been of her.

  But now as Bianca slid her knees upward until they embraced his thighs, he knew that this wasn’t a dream. No dream woman could have risen above him in such pale beauty, nor could a dream woman lean forward and rest upon him, her breath stirring the hair on his chest as she nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder. It fit exactly, like a missing puzzle piece.

  He stroked her hair gently, wanting to touch her elsewhere but reluctant to relinquish the tenderness of this moment. Bianca was a capable woman, a strong woman, but he wanted to protect her like the male swan protected the female. He wanted to wrap his wings around her and take her into his heart.

  She lifted her head and smiled quizzically. The smile said so much. It said, Do I please you? It said, Are you glad? It wasn’t necessary for her to speak the words. He knew. And he tried to think if he’d ever experienced that degree of knowing with any other woman, and he couldn’t think of anyone with whom he had even come close.

  “Of course,” he said simply, gazing deep into her eyes.

  They widened. “What?”

  “You know what. You know what I’m thinking.” There was a catch in his voice.

  “Of course,” she said in a tone of wonder.

  “How could we not have known this years ago?”

  She shook her head slightly, shrugged those bare shoulders, bit her lip.

  “Come here,” he said, moving his hands upward to press them against the back of her head.

  She said, half laughing, “I’m already here.”

  To which he replied against her lips, “So you are, my dear Bianca,” and then his mouth covered hers.

  He wanted to be consumed by her, ravished by her, and as his arousal sought her softness he thought that perhaps it was possible. But no, it wasn’t possession of her that he wanted but union, that exquisite melding of bodies and communion of souls that had always eluded him. In the gazebo they had been ravenous for each other and unwilling to wait. Now they had time to explore and appreciate. There was no hurry, only discovery, and if that seeking proceeded slowly at some times and more passionately at others, it established an ebb and flow of rhythm that seemed perfectly natural.

  And if the rhythm surged deeper than they could have imagined, if the getting turned to giving, if
the giving gave to them both, it was no more than they each expected. And no less.

  The first climax was hot and long, lost in the sighs and murmurs of utter contentment. And later they found themselves caught up again in sweet shivering passages of delight, in shuddering moans and whispered endearments and the impassioned slow silkiness of flesh upon flesh.

  They made love. It wasn’t mere sex, this honest-togoodness mating of two who knew how to pleasure each other, body and soul. It was more, much more. At last, when they finally lay sated in each others’ arms, the comforter and the sheets had been consigned to the floor and all pillows jettisoned except for the one that cradled both their heads. Bianca slept, but Neill remained half-awake. He was too overjoyed to fall into a deep sleep; he was full of plans and ideas and musings, all of which concerned Bianca.

  When the baby began to stir, he came fully awake with a start. Tia wasn’t cooing; she wasn’t gurgling. This sounded more like a snuffle. No doubt about it, the noise the baby was making was definitely identifiable as a snuffle. All kinds of thoughts flew out of nowhere and settled on his mind; a snuffle meant a stuffy nose, and Tia couldn’t blow her own nose, she was a baby, and her nanny had been diagnosed with mono, which meant that perhaps Tia was sick. Maybe he’d better make sure she was still breathing.

  He thought for a few seconds about waking Bianca, but he didn’t want to bother her unless there was real trouble. Bianca was sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted. He could take care of this himself, probably. Maybe he’d need one of those aspirators to suction out Tia’s cute little nose, and if that was what it took, he’d find one if he had to call 911 or the state police or whomever. He, Neill, could deal with this.

  Full of good and noble intentions, he disentangled himself from Bianca, and with one last lingering look at her lovely hair spread out upon the pillow, he went to see what Tia needed. He’d given Tia a bottle and burped her on the day of the garden party, and he didn’t think that changing a diaper could be much more difficult.

  Sure enough, the baby was soaking wet. He found disposable diapers in that big bag that accompanied Tia everywhere and inexpertly fumbled with the adhesive strips that held the old diaper on. Somehow he managed to encase the baby in the fresh diaper, eyeing her with trepidation all the while. She waved her arms and smiled around her pacifier, so evidently what he was doing met with her approval.

  Another problem—Tia’s gown was drenched. He stripped it from her, taking care not to hurt her. She seemed so delicate. She began to whimper, and he didn’t want her to break into a full-grown fit of crying, so he carefully picked her up and cradled her against his bare chest. She quieted right away and stared up at him. She felt so warm against his skin, and so cuddly. It occurred to him that she might have been cold without her gown on.

  “Is that what it was?” he whispered to her. “Were you too cold? Well, I’m warming you up, aren’t I? Just a minute and we’ll have you all set.”

  Tia blinked at him a few times, then her small rosebud mouth stretched into a very wide, very wet yawn. He smiled at this. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a charming baby.

  Using one hand, he dug around in the diaper bag until he found a clean gown. Carefully he laid Tia in the crib before painstakingly shoving Tia’s little arms through the sleeves. The gown was the kind with a drawstring on the bottom, so he tucked her feet securely inside. It was only when he was preparing to pull the drawstring tight that he noticed—really noticed—those feet.

  They were small and pink and utterly adorable, but they had one feature that was unmistakably meaningful. The toes were webbed.

  These were Bellamy feet, that was certain.

  That left only one possibility.

  The shock of recognition drenched him in cold sweat. He was unable to doubt any longer. Oh, God, he thought as his world reshaped itself. Why hadn’t Bianca told him?

  Neill felt numb. All his emotions seemed suspended in the light of his discovery. An ache seized his throat reminding him of all that he had loved and lost in his lifetime, too much for any one man. Stepmothers, half brothers and sisters, stepsiblings, Bianca—in that moment his grief at losing all of them flashed through his mind. It squeezed the air from his lungs, it paralyzed his brain, it tightened its fist around his gut.

  All of those people he had loved and lost. And he had lost his child, too.

  In a daze he tucked the blanket around the baby and stood staring down at her mother. Bianca slept on, unaware that his heart was pounding and his mouth dry.

  Bianca, how could you?

  He couldn’t fit his present emotions into the ones he had felt last night. Last night had been perfect, wonderful. He was pretty sure that Bianca had thought so, too.

  He wanted to shake her awake and hold her accountable for her secrecy and her lies. He wanted to make her defend her decision and to apologize. He wanted to break her heart open and find out, at long last, what was inside. He wanted—he wanted so much.

  Maybe too much.

  As usual, he considered his options. He could wake Bianca, or he could climb back into bed beside her, or he could leave.

  So in the end what he did was put on his clothes and, without a backward look, he walked out the door.

  Chapter Ten

  Bianca woke slowly. She had so often dreamed of staying with Neill deep into the night and opening her eyes to find herself sleeping beside him. Sleeping together seemed like the ultimate intimate act, a closeness more meaningful than even sex because two people must let their guard down completely while asleep. And she and Neill had no need to erect barriers between them. Today she would tell him everything. All of it.

  The sun streamed across the crib with the sleeping baby in it, and the hotel was slowly coming to life around her. Around them. She reached across the bed for Neill and found—

  Nothing. No one.

  Her eyes flew wide-open then, and she bolted upright in bed. At her first waking, she had gloried in the natural rightness of it; Neill beside her, their baby sleeping in a patch of sunlight beyond. And now everything was wrong. Again.

  His clothes were gone, and his jacket had disappeared from the back of the chair. She slid out of bed and pulled on a kimono, checking the bathroom just in case. Nope. No Neill.

  She grabbed the phone to call him at Mulberry Cottage. But before she could place the call, Tia started to fuss, so Bianca replaced the phone in its cradle and went to attend to the baby.

  “My, aren’t you dry this morning!” she said to the baby in surprise. But then she noticed the clumsy way that the disposable diaper had been stuck together at the sides. And Tia was wearing a different gown from the one she’d been wearing when Bianca put her in her crib last night.

  Then it struck her: Only Neill could have changed Tia’s diaper. The thought that he had done it was endearing, not to mention surprising.

  But then she realized that he couldn’t have changed the baby, he couldn’t have put a new gown on her without seeing Tia’s feet. Bellamy feet. He would have recognized those webbed toes.

  He must know that he was her baby’s father.

  The thought stilled her heart. After last night, she wanted Neill to know everything about her. They both knew that they belonged together; it had been implicit in their actions and interactions, in their loving and in the communion of their bodies. They knew.

  And she had so desperately wanted to tell Neill her— self about what she’d been through in the past year. To hold his hand and break the news softly, to watch the gentle, fierce pride of fatherhood leap into his eyes, to soothe away his anguish at the lost year, the lost months when they could have been together.

  A sob caught in her throat. She’d been denied what she wanted—again. She’d screwed up—again. And Neill was gone—again.

  She knew, of course, why he’d left without waking her, without a word. He’d run as she’d run last year from him. And she had to talk to him, to tell him that she’d done what she thought best at the time
, and that she regretted shutting him out of her life and Tia’s, and that she’d been wrong, and that she loved him.

  She loved him. Oh, yes. And she had to tell him. She might have to miss the wedding breakfast, but she had to tell him.

  She pulled on jeans without benefit of underwear, shoes without benefit of socks, and a shirt without benefit of bra.

  It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was finding Neill. And, finally, daring to bare her soul to him once and for all.

  “COME ON, let’s go,” Bianca said, poking her heels into Maisie’s considerable girth. Her urging didn’t do any good, so she resigned herself to the horse’s slow pace and tried to think of how she might best find Neill. Franny, when she’d dropped Tia off, had told her that she’d seen Neill earlier riding Black Jack, the horse he exercised for Winnie.

  Unfortunately, by the time Bianca had arrived at the stable, all the horses except for this sweet-tempered elderly mare were gone; someone had reserved them for a trail ride. Bianca had thought that riding Maisie would be faster than walking. She was wrong.

  At the first possible opportunity, she angled Maisie off into the woods and eventually found herself being borne along slightly faster than the speed of molasses across a landscape composed of gently rolling hills and a farmhouse in the distance. Bianca headed for the farmhouse, thinking that maybe someone there had seen a handsome stranger ride past.

  The farmhouse seemed deserted. She reined Maisie in for a few minutes, then urged her into the woods on the back side of it. She doubted that Neill would have stuck to any of the main trails.

  Eventually the woods opened out onto a large, flat meadow, and then she saw Neill. He was riding a huge black horse and goading the horse to run faster than fast, fast as the wind. The animal was magnificent, his coal-black mane and tail streaming in the wind, his ears forward, his mouth straining at the bit, his hooves pounding the grassy turf.