Stroke of Fortune

by Christine Rimmer

  Grace closed her book, slid her reading glasses into their case and pushed herself from the chair. She looked right at Josie. “I suppose things tend to work out, after all, don’t they?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carson. If you let them, they do.”

  “You’ll call me Grace now, won’t you?”

  Josie nodded. “I will.”

  Grace whispered another good-night and left them.

  Josie turned to Flynt. He was perhaps five feet away, near the chair that still rocked a little in an echo of Grace’s presence there. He held out his hand.

  With a small, glad cry, she went to him, reaching toward the hand that reached out to her. He caught her fingers in his, gave a tug—and she landed right where she wanted to be: in his arms.

  “A kiss,” he whispered into her upturned face.

  “Oh, yes.”

  She gave him her mouth and he plundered it, tenderly, sweetly, oh, so very thoroughly.

  When he drew back, he slid a hand along her arm and captured her fingers again. He turned to pull her toward the door.

  Josie cast a glance at the baby’s crib. “Oh, wait,” she whispered.

  So they tiptoed over there, together, just to make certain Lena was sleeping soundly.

  She was. They stood over her, holding hands. At that moment, Josie felt such gratitude toward the dark-haired darling in that crib. Really, this child had made tonight possible.

  Standing over the little angel now, Josie knew with certainty what the future would bring. She and Flynt would share a good marriage. They’d have several children. It would be all she’d ever dreamed of. Her sweetest, most impossible secret yearnings all coming true.

  Yes, there would be another rough time to get through: when the results of that test came and the truth had to be faced. But they would get through it; Josie just knew they would.

  Hadn’t they won Grace over? Hadn’t they gone out to the Lone Star Country Club together, and hadn’t it worked out just fine?

  And most important, wasn’t Flynt slowly giving up that terrible promise he’d made to himself after Monica died? Yes. He was smiling more. He was…happier.

  He was learning to live—and to love—again.

  “Lena’s fine,” Flynt whispered.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Come on.” He sounded urgent, hungry. She felt the same. He turned for the door, still holding tight to her hand, pausing only to grab the brown bag off the table as they went by.

  His bedroom suite was as she remembered it.

  He’d ordered it all done over when he got sober, a year after the accident that took Monica and their unborn child. The colors were masculine—strong, deep and rich reds and maroons, blacks and midnight-blues. The door from the hallway opened into the sitting area, with its black damask wing chairs and a sofa patterned in maroon and blue—the blue so dark it almost looked black. There were lamps with cloisonné bases and tables inlaid with jade.

  Flynt pulled her in there, shut the door and turned the latch as well as a dial beside the door. Soft recessed lights glowed overhead.

  He backed her up against that door and started kissing her again. He kissed her mouth and then he trailed a string of kisses up to her temple, down along her cheek to her mouth again, where he lingered—but not for long.

  Right away, his mouth went on the prowl once more. He kissed her throat with wet, sucking kisses. She moaned. He made an answering sound deep in his throat.

  He dropped the brown bag. She heard it fall to the floor not far from their feet. His hands found the zipper at the back of her dress. He caught the tab and she heard that shivery, sizzling sound as it went down. She felt the air against her back. And then his hands were there, on her bare skin, caressing, driving her wonderfully crazy, so sweetly mad.

  He took the sides of the dress and peeled it over her shoulders. At his urging, she slid her arms out. He took the dress down, working it over her hips until it fell to her feet—her little black panties going down with it.

  When she stepped free of the fabric, he scooped up the dress and the little scrap of panties and sent them sailing toward a chair. It was a hot South Texas night, and she hadn’t worn any stockings. The gorgeous sandals Mrs. McKenzie had talked her into buying looked good without them, anyway. So what she had left right then were the sandals and a black bra that matched the panties—or at least, for about ten more seconds she had a black bra.

  Flynt unhooked it and tossed it atop the rest of her clothes.

  Which left her standing there, naked from the ankles up.

  He took her mouth again, and her knees went to jelly. She clutched his shoulders and pushed at his jacket. He took the hint and let her shove it off his shoulders, catching it as it fell and sending it flying.

  He breathed her name against her skin, over and over as his lips moved on her body. His mouth closed on a hard, aching nipple. She cried out. He sucked at her, deeply, and she arched her back, heat pooling in her belly, moving outward, turning her inside out, making her ready, so ready. For him.

  He drew on her breast and he slipped a hand between them, stroking her stomach, so she gasped and moaned some more. And then that hand went lower.

  He touched the tight pale curls at the place where her thighs joined. Oh, she just knew she was going to melt right there, just slide down to the soft carpet underfoot, her whole body gone liquid.

  His mouth slid upward again to claim hers. She kissed him. And she put her hands on his chest, set her fingers to the task of unbuttoning his shirt.

  It wasn’t easy, but she managed it, kissing him the whole time. She shoved that shirt off his big shoulders and then she pressed herself against him, her bare breasts to his fine, hard chest. Down below, he kept on tormenting her. His fingers moved lower still, parting her. She groaned into his mouth.

  And then he broke the endless kiss they shared, pressing his forehead against hers as his hand continued, stroking fast and then slowly, a rhythm that drove her wild, that made her whole body burn.

  She couldn’t stay standing, couldn’t hold herself upright. So she let go, just slid right down that door to the soft, thick carpet below. He went with her, bending to a crouch, then helping her, urging her to stretch out.

  And to open her legs for him.

  As if she could have done anything else right then.

  His hand kept on, as he kissed his way downward, his tongue sliding along her throat, leaving a trail of hot wetness that the caress of the air made cool. He lingered briefly at her breasts, taking one and then the other into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the nipples, drawing so deeply that she felt as if a thread of pure desire had pulled itself taut from the place where he kissed her down into the melting hot center of her sex.

  And then his mouth moved lower still. His tongue trailed over her navel, dipping in briefly, then down…and down….

  He settled himself between her legs. She didn’t object—why should she? His kiss, his touch—it was all that she wanted. All she’d secretly yearned for through the long months just passed.

  He said her name. She opened her eyes, looked into his.

  And he lowered his head and kissed her—kissed her in that most secret of places. She let out a cry, clutching for him, her fingers sliding through his silky brown hair. And she called out his name, once and then again and then again and again.

  The whole world seemed to expand. There was heat and brightness behind her eyes. And then the wonderful, hot pulsing of release began.

  He kept his mouth on her, until the ripples of completion faded. Then he lifted his head once more and, once again, she was looking down the length of her own naked body and into those blue, blue eyes of his.

  And then she couldn’t bear it, meeting his gaze right then. With a sigh, she turned away. She felt…shy at that moment. And also lazy and very naughty and extremely satisfied.

  He moved, gently disentangling himself. He rolled to the side and sat, his back to her. With a long sigh, she turned her head
his way again and watched as he swiftly and rather ruthlessly began stripping off the rest of his clothes.

  “Flynt.” She reached out, touched the tender place at the small of his back.

  He sent her a hot glance over his shoulder.

  She didn’t have anything to say to him, really. She just wanted the contact again, to feel his eyes meeting hers. He gave her that, then turned back to his task, yanking off his boots and socks, and slacks and briefs.

  At last he was naked, too. He turned back to her, bent over her, put his mouth on hers again.

  More kisses. Endless kisses. Kisses she needed to give—and to get. They had so many kisses to make up for. So many kisses missed. Almost a year’s worth of kisses, really, that they should have been sharing, since the last time they’d loved.

  And then he took his mouth from hers. She forced her heavy eyelids open, feeling drugged with loving, and made a questioning sound.

  “I want you in my bed.”

  He didn’t seem to require an answer, but she nodded anyway.

  He grabbed the brown paper bag he’d dropped earlier and, scooping her tight against his broad chest, rose to his knees and then all the way to his full height.

  He carried her to the big bed across the room and laid her down on the dark coverlet. It took him only a moment to deal with the contents of the bag.

  She reached out and pulled him down into her eager arms. He entered her in one smooth thrust. She cried out, but only with pleasure, with pure happiness.

  He lifted up on his elbows as he pressed more deeply into her down where their bodies were joined. “Josie,” he whispered, his voice ragged with need.

  “Yes. Oh, yes…”

  They shared another long, intimate look, and then his mouth came down and they were kissing again.

  He moved within her and she wrapped her legs around him, seeking his rhythm, finding it, going with him. He tried to go slowly; she could feel him holding back, trying to make it last, to make it good for her sake.

  She let him do that for a while, moving with measured care, not letting this heat between them get too out of hand. But she knew he couldn’t last that way.

  She didn’t want him to. She wanted him wild and hungry and completely hers. She wanted him to give himself up to this wonder between them, as she had done, back there by the door.

  She touched the side of his face. He braced up on his elbows again, his eyes burning into hers. “What?” The word was rough—still controlled, but barely.

  She smiled at him. It was a brazen, knowing smile—and then she lifted her head and captured his mouth again, bucking against him at the same time.

  That did it. With a guttural moan, he pushed into her hard. She took him, all of him, everything he could give.

  After that, the world seemed to spin away into nothing but heat and wetness and mutual need. They rolled across the bed together, wild and so eager, holding on tight.

  Finally he stiffened. She felt him pulsing into her. He threw back his head and pressed into her so deep. She held on tight, her own pleasure cresting, a thousand stars exploding behind her eyes.

  For a time, they just lay there, still joined, arms and legs all tangled together, his breath warm and sweet across her cheek, the sweat of their lovemaking drying on their skin. It seemed she could feel his heart beating in time with hers, so fast at first and then gradually slowing.

  He kissed her temple. “Cold?”

  She smiled against his shoulder. “A little, I guess.” Outside, the night was hot and close. But in the air-conditioned comfort of the Carsons’ huge house, the temperature wasn’t much over seventy.

  “Come on. Let’s get under the covers.”

  “Mmm.” She rolled off the side of the bed and pulled back the coverlet. They both climbed in and he gathered her close again.

  “Tired?”

  She made a soft noise that meant yes and closed her eyes.

  She came awake slowly. It probably wasn’t that much later. The recessed overhead lights were still on, very low.

  Flynt was touching her, stroking the side of her waist, cupping a breast, toying with it a little, then trailing that teasing hand downward, over her stomach—lower still.

  She didn’t even pretend to resist him. Why should she? She wanted him and he wanted her.

  And more than that.

  More than just wanting. More than just this physical hunger. More than desire.

  She might as well say it, she realized. Might as well get it out there, tell him in words what she was pretty certain he already knew.

  When he found the feminine heart of her, she moved against his hand, moaning his name on an exhalation of breath. “Flynt.”

  He made a low sound of masculine encouragement.

  “Oh, Flynt.”

  He continued caressing her. She felt herself drifting off on a hot sea of pure sensation and she knew she must say the words, before words themselves were lost to her.

  “Oh, Flynt, I love you. I love you so.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers, drank those words right off her lips. And down below, his fingers went on working their dangerous magic.

  She would have told him again, cried she loved him out loud. But he had his mouth on hers and he was driving her crazy, driving her wild.

  Just before she hit the peak, he reached for the box he’d set on the nightstand and he came into her, came with her, into that hot, spinning place where there was pure pleasure, an agony of glorious sensation. And then, at last, that final rising to the shattering wonder of shared fulfillment.

  Flynt woke after sunrise. The heavy curtains were open. He hadn’t thought to close them last night; now the room was bathed in morning light.

  He didn’t move. Not for a minute or two, anyway. Josie lay right there in the bed next to him, her velvety cheek cradled on his arm, her pale hair a sweet tangle against her white throat.

  He thought of the night just past and his body hardened instantly. Ready for more.

  She had said that she loved him.

  He had liked hearing that. Liked it a lot. Liked it more, he supposed, than he had any right to like it.

  More than he deserved. Yeah. That was Josie. A miracle in his life. And a hell of a lot more than he would ever deserve.

  He glanced at the baby monitor. It sat on the nightstand next to the open box of condoms. There was a receiver in Josie’s room, too—though this morning, there would be no one in her room to hear if Lena cried.

  Flynt couldn’t hold back a smile. Soon enough, Lena would cry. They’d have to get up and take care of her.

  Carefully he slid his arm out from under Josie’s head. She let out a small sigh, turned her face the other way, but she didn’t wake.

  Good.

  He took hold of the coverlet and slowly peeled it back.

  Her body stole his breath. She was slim and her skin was smooth, her breasts as high and full as he remembered them. Her stomach was flat—concave, even, right now, as she lay on her back.

  Not a stretch mark in sight that he could detect.

  No difference, he thought, his mind spinning away from what that could mean. No difference at all….

  Was that possible, after Lena? Could she have carried and delivered a baby and yet have her body show no signs that she had borne a child? It seemed damned unlikely.

  Yet, who could say about something like that?

  It could be. Certainly, it could be….

  She woke right then, with no warning. She turned her head his way and those green eyes met his.

  She knew instantly what he was up to. “Oh, Flynt.” Her tone was chiding, her eyes sad.

  He wanted to make demands. He wanted to force her, somehow, to tell him the truth.

  But he had made a promise, and he would keep it. Lena’s caseworker had said about two weeks. Twelve days had passed since he took the test. They’d have the undeniable truth very soon now.

  She spoke again. “When will you believe me? Lena is no
t—”

  He was not going to hear that. Tenderly he put his hand across her mouth, blocking her words. “No. Don’t say it. Don’t say it again.”

  He waited until she gave him a nod, then he let his hand slide away, down that silky white throat. “Kiss me,” he commanded.

  She lifted her mouth for him and he covered it with his own.

  Thirteen

  Lena woke about a half hour later. They went in together to feed and change her. Then Flynt called down to the kitchen to have breakfast sent up. They shared it at the table in the sitting room, with Lena rocking happily in her baby swing nearby.

  When Lena went back to bed, so did they. For a couple of lovely, luxurious hours, they made love. It was slow and exciting, not quite so frantic as the night before.

  In the afternoon, Josie showered and dressed to go check on her mother. Flynt tapped on her door just as she was putting on her lipstick. He’d showered and changed, too, into khakis and a polo shirt. He had Lena in his arms, all dressed in pink with a little pink bonnet on her head.

  “We’re coming with you,” he announced.

  “To my mother’s?”

  “That’s right. Any objections?”

  “Well, no. That would be fine.” She felt a wide smile break over her face. “I’d love it.”

  So they all went to Alva’s. Josie’s mother seemed delighted to see them. She fed Lena her bottle, her eyes getting kind of misty. “Oh, it has been such a long, long time since I’ve held a sweet one like this in my arms.”

  If she had any questions about what, exactly, was going on between her daughter and Flynt Carson and the “mystery baby,” she didn’t ask them. She offered them sweet cold tea and some Toll House cookies she’d made the day before.

  Flynt asked her how she was feeling.

  “Much, much better. Good enough to bake cookies. That’s something, don’t you think?”

  He agreed that it was—and he added that they were very good cookies. Just about the best he’d ever tasted, as a matter of fact.

  Color came into Alva’s too-pale cheeks. “I can see you are a charmer, Flynt Carson.”