by Webb, Peggy
“What rules?”
“The ones you’re playing by.”
“There are no rules.”
“The code then. What’s the code of behavior?”
“Let me up, Bolton.”
“Not until we talk.”
“Can’t we talk like civilized human beings?”
“Apparently not. You don’t discuss things with me, you merely make decisions and then tell me what you’ve decided.” He applied gentle pressure with his hips and hands. “Talk to me, Virginia.”
She’d known Bolton was not a man who could be manipulated, but she’d never counted on him being the kind of man who wouldn’t give in to reason. Her reason.
“Don’t make this harder than it already is, Bolton.”
“These are not hard questions, Virginia. They’re honest ones. And they deserve honest answers.”
She’d never met a man so implacable. Today she didn’t feel like handling implacable. Next week, maybe. Or even next month. But not today.
“All right. You want an honest answer. I’m forty-eight years old, and I live by codes that you’re too young to understand.”
His entire body tensed, and his eyes turned the color of thunderclouds.
“Do you think love knows or cares about age?” This time the pressure he applied with his hips was not subtle. “I don’t care if you’re fifty-eight. That doesn’t change a thing. I love you, and I have no intention of walking away quietly. If you want to get rid of me, Virginia, you’re going to have to give me a better reason than that.”
“Oh, God, Bolton. I don’t want to get rid of you.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard. “I don’t... I don’t.”
He parted her thighs with his knees and slid home. There was no gentleness in him now, only the power of a man determined to make a woman his own. The mattress moved out of line with the box spring and the bed moved two inches away from the wall.
Everything about Virginia set him on fire, the way she raked her fingernails across his back, the way she flung back her head when she moaned, the soft expanse of neck that invited his kisses, the sweet, hot invitation of her thrusting hips. His passion escalated.
She was his, only his, and he would never let her go. Never.
He understood her needs, knew exactly how to please her, how to please himself.
The door to her bath was open, and the floor-length mirrors reflected their joining, the way they fit together, the way they moved, the way they loved.
He couldn’t get enough of her, nor she of him. In their lovemaking there was no thought of past or future. Only here. Only now. Only the certainty that the kind of magic they had came once in a lifetime, and the desperate need to hang on and never let go.
Sweat slicked their backs, their chests, their thighs. It dampened her hair and dripped off his face onto hers. And still they loved.
“I’ve never had anyone like you, Bolton. Never.”
And she knew she never would again. When he gave his cry of completion, she crushed him to her and hid her face against his chest.
“I don’t want you to go, Bolton,” she whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He raised himself on elbows, and with gentle fingers wiped her tears away. “Don’t cry. I’m not going, Virginia.”
“Candace is coming... In all the years I’ve been alone, I’ve never had a man in my bedroom while she’s in the house.”
“I understand. I’ll pack my things and move back to the motel while she’s here.”
“You can stay in the guest house.”
“It’ll give me a chance to get my notes together for that article.” His smile was like quicksilver.
She curled her fingers in his hair, and held him there, smiling up at him.
“Bolton... I want you to meet Candace’s friends.”
“As what? The photojournalist who is doing a piece about you or as your lover?”
“I’ll think about that when the time comes.”
o0o
The time came far sooner than Virginia imagined.
Candace and Marge Rutland arrived late in the afternoon, and Bolton stayed in the guest house, giving Virginia and the girls time alone. He and Virginia had a carefully planned strategy.
“You mean you’re consulting me?” he’d said, teasing her. “That’s a first.”
“I’m afraid of the punishment you mete out when I don’t.”
“Afraid?” His hand was on the back of her neck, big and warm and solid. “Come here.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Afraid, Virginia?”
“Hungry is a better word, Bolton. I’m hungry for everything you give me.”
Standing on tiptoe in the kitchen, she kissed him until both of them felt the hot stirring of passion. Virginia disentangled herself and made two tall glasses of lemonade.
“To cool us off. Otherwise Candace will find us on the kitchen floor, and then I’ll have a different sort of explaining to do.”
Over lemonade they’d planned for Bolton to join them for dinner, then afterward they would all go dancing.
It sounded like a safe plan, one that would not invite questions. Neither of them had counted on Marge’s reaction to Bolton.
The minute he walked in the door the vivacious redhead was smitten. Virginia could see it in the dazzling smile she turned on him, the body language, the not so subtle jockeying to sit beside him at the dinner table.
She wasn’t surprised. Any woman in her right mind would be dazzled by Bolton Gray Wolf. What surprised Virginia were her own feelings. She was jealous, pure and simple, and of a young woman she’d always treated like a second daughter.
“I’ve never met a real photojournalism,” Marge said, batting her big brown eyes at Bolton. “Candace tells me you’ve done layouts in all the major magazines and that you’ve traveled all over the world. That must be so exciting!”
Any residual maternal feelings she’d had for Marge flew out the window.
“My, my, that sounds so wonderful,” Marge said, leaning toward Bolton, all but drooling.
Virginia actually wanted to slap her face. What in the world was happening to her?
“I’ve always wanted to travel around the world,” Marge added.
Virginia had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “Why don’t you start right now?” Instead she picked up a bowl of potatoes and thrust them at Marge.
“I know how you love these, Marge. Why don’t you have a second helping?”
“I’m watching my figure.” Marge preened in a way that assured her Bolton was watching it too. “But thank you, anyway, Mrs. Haven.”
Mrs. Haven, indeed. The way Marge said it made Virginia feel a hundred years old. Next thing she knew Marge would be offering to lead her to a rocking chair and cover her with a shawl.
“Well,” she said, hoping her false smile didn’t crack and fall off her face, “why don’t we all get our sweaters and pile into the car? I don’t know about you girls, but I’m eager to dance the light fantastic.”
“Dance the light fantastic?” Marge wrinkled her forehead. “Is that an expression from the twenties or something?”
Virginia was so mad, she was beyond words. Candace came to her rescue.
“That’s the way writers talk, Marge. You ought to live here. Sometimes I think I’m in the middle of a grade B movie... or outer space.” Looking at Virginia, Candace wrinkled her nose in the way she did when she was puzzled. “Mother, could I borrow one of your sweaters? I didn’t pack anything except that scruffy old red cotton thing I wear around the barn.”
“Sure, baby. In the closet. Help yourself.”
“Could you help me? I could spend the next two hours searching your closet and never find anything.”
Virginia was almost panicky at the thought of leaving Marge and her raging hormones alone with Bolton. As if he’d read Virginia’s mind, he smiled reassuringly.
“We’ll be fine, Virginia. If Marge doesn’t mind boring stories, I think I have enough travel tales to k
eep her entertained.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Virginia said.
“Not at all. But hurry back. I don’t have your knack for being the most exciting person in a room.”
“Mother, what in the world is going on?” Candace said as soon as they were upstairs with the bedroom door closed.
Virginia had always been open with her daughter. She debated briefly about revealing her affair, then decided that what she did in the privacy of her own bedroom was none of her daughter’s business. Besides, in a few days Bolton would be gone, and that would be the end of it.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Nothing? That’s not how you looked at the dinner table.”
“How did I look at the dinner table?”
“Like you’d received a rotten review or had one of those creative differences with your editor. Are you sure nothing is wrong?”
“I’m sure.” Virginia felt as if she’d betrayed the two people she loved most—Bolton and Candace. She quickly turned her back and rummaged through her closet until she could pull herself together. “How about this blue one? I think it looks good with your eyes.”
“Fine. I really don’t care what kind of sweater I wear. Anything looks all right with jeans.” She shrugged into her mother’s sweater. “Marge is bowled over by the journalist.”
“Bolton?” Virginia tried for nonchalant and failed miserably.
“Who else? He’s the only journalist here.” Candace laughed. “Wouldn’t that be great? My very best friend falling in love with somebody we introduced her to?”
“Don’t you think he’s a little too... mature for her?”
“She likes older men. Besides, he can’t be more than thirty.”
“Thirty-five.” Virginia smoothed the covers where she’d lain with him, then walked to her dressing table and started fiddling with her hair. She was so nervous, she dropped the brush.
“Mother, you’re a basket case tonight. Do you have another book idea running around in your head or something?”
“Or something. Hey, are we going to stay up here talking all night, or are we going to the Bullpen?”
“Why don’t you lie down and rest awhile. You look kind of tired to me.”
“Stop treating me as if I need a cane and shawl.”
“You don’t have to be so snappish. Look, if you’re worried about our guest, we’ll show him a good time. Especially Marge.”
Virginia reached into her closet and grabbed the first sweater she put her hands on. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
As she walked to the door she saw herself in the mirror, a woman who still looked good in jeans but whose flushed cheeks and too-bright eyes betrayed her anger. She was going to have to do better than that. And she would, she promised herself. As soon as they got to the dance club.
Chapter Seven
The Bullpen was a barn that had been converted into a dance hall specializing in western dancing. It was a favorite gathering spot for the college crowd, and a large group of Candace’s friends was there. She and Marge were caught up in a line dance, while Bolton and Virginia sat at the table nursing two lukewarm soft drinks.
“You’re a good dancer,” Bolton said. Underneath the table, he found Virginia’s leg and caressed her inner thigh through the denim.
“How could you tell? We’ve only had one dance together and that was practically at opposite ends of the room.”
Bolton lifted one eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Virginia said.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“Ahh, Virginia.. “ He took both her hands in his. “Don’t you know I want to dance every dance with you? Don’t you know I want to get out on that floor and hold you close and let the whole world know you’re mine?”
Suddenly she was too choked up to speak. She clung to his hand, begging him without words to lead her through this horrible dilemma.
“I never wanted to pretend this evening,” he added. “I only agreed because I want to make things easy for you.”
“This is not easy,” she whispered.
“No, it’s not.”
The line dance ended, and as the dancers gathered around the bar to order cold drinks, the band segued into a haunting country-western ballad.
“Come, Virginia. Let’s be bold and dance the way we were meant to dance.”
He led her onto the floor, and underneath the spinning silver lights he pulled her close. Sighing, she put her head on his shoulder.
“This is more like it,” he said.
His breath stirred her hair, and his voice fell like music on her ears. Content, Virginia forgot everything except the man who held her in his arms. They danced as if they were made for each other, their steps in perfect rhythm, their bodies in perfect harmony.
He slid one hand underneath her hair and gently massaged her neck. She closed her eyes.
“Hmmm. Nice. I needed that.”
“What else do you need, Virginia?”
“What a wicked question for such a public place.”
“I’m a wicked man.” His hands were insistent, his touch sensual. “Tell me, Virginia, what else do you need?”
“Something that only you can give me, Bolton.”
“I like the sound of that. I’ll slip away and climb in your window later tonight.”
“No. Not in the house with the girls...” The thought of a night without him was unbearable. “I’ll come to you.”
He spoke to her then in the tongue of his people, and the words mesmerized her. Even after he had finished, the silence was so beautiful, she was reluctant to break it.
“That was incredibly lovely,” she whispered. “Interpret, please.”
“When the moon bends down and touches Mother Earth, come softly to me, and we will lie in paths of silver, our bodies gilded vessels of love,” he said.
“Apache poetry. My heart hurts with the beauty of it. Who is the author?”
“Me.”
“You? Is it published?”
“No. Then it would belong to the world. Now it belongs to me, and I can give it as I choose.”
“I’m so glad you chose me.”
“Not only chose you, but wrote it for you.”
“When?”
“This evening while I was banished to the guest cottage.”
She smiled. “I thought you were working on that article.”
“That too.”
“You’re a remarkable man, Bolton Gray Wolf.”
“And you’re a remarkable woman.”
They were so entranced with each other that neither noticed when the band stopped playing.
“I’m in love with you, Virginia.”
“Let’s not talk about that tonight, Bolton.”
“All right. But the time will come when we have to talk.”
“Bolton... the music has stopped.”
“Not for me.” He grinned.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you’re blushing.” He kissed her flushed cheeks. “On you it looks like roses.”
Bolton led her back to the table where Candace and Marge were waiting. Virginia didn’t turn away from their stares.
“That’s a great band,” she said, trying to look casual.
Her daughter glared at their joined hands and Virginia’s flushed face. Marge took an avid interest in her cola.
“The band took a break five minutes ago,” Candace said.
“We didn’t notice,” Virginia said.
“Obviously.” Candace grabbed for her drink and overturned it. Lukewarm cola spilled into her lap. She stared at Virginia as if it were her fault, and then dashed for the bathroom.
“Candace... wait.” Virginia turned helplessly toward Bolton.
“Go after her,” he said.
“How could you?” Candace stormed out as soon as Virginia walke
d into the bathroom.
“I did nothing to you, Candace.”
“Nothing! You call pawing all over Bolton Gray Wolf in public nothing.”
“I wasn’t pawing; I was dancing.”
“Spare me.” Candace backed up against the sink, wadding wet paper towels in her hands.
Virginia knew from the look on her daughter’s face that nothing she said was going to do any good. Rather than get into a futile argument, she headed toward the door.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll spare you.”
“You embarrassed me in front of my friends.”
“Embarrassed you?” Two spots of color on her cheeks were the only signs of Virginia’s anger. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a divorced woman who danced with an available bachelor. I fail to see how that was an embarrassment to you, Candace.”
“Good grief, Mother. You were all over him.”
“It’s called slow dancing.”
“It’s called making out in public.”
Was she that obvious? As always, when she was with Bolton, Virginia lost all perspective.
“I’m sorry if we embarrassed you, Candace. That was certainly not my intent, and I know it wasn’t Bolton’s. We were merely enjoying each other’s company.”
“In public... on the dance floor... for all my friends to see.” Candace scrubbed vigorously at the stains on her jeans.
“Spare me the morality sermon, Candace. I happen to know that Jake’s mother is dating and so is Kim’s mother. I fail to see the difference.”
“The difference is this...” Candace drew back and threw the wet paper towels into the garbage can. “My friends’ mothers don’t go out with somebody young enough to be their son.”
Virginia stiffened as if she’d been slapped. Just when she’d begun to relax about the age issue, her own daughter brought it brutally back to life.
“I’m hardly old enough to be Bolton’s mother.”
“Thirteen years. I can count.”
“Good for you.”
Virginia turned on her heel and walked out the door. It was a brave exit, but one that she couldn’t sustain for long. She ducked around the corner to a small hallway, caught hold of the fountain, and lowered her face to the cool rush of water. It dripped onto her collar and the front of her denim blouse, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was getting out of the place where she’d made a fool of herself in front of her own daughter.