"I do have to get back upstairs…"
"Please tell him, Lily."
"Yes, yes. I will. Now, I have to—"
"I know. Call me if there's anything—"
"Thank you. I will." Lily shut the door.
Ronni stood on the back step, staring at the closed door, feeling dismissed. Lily's obvious reluctance to pass on Ronni's simple message grated.
It also made the situation all too clear. Lily would present a real problem if Ronni and Ryan took their relationship any further than it had already gone.
But right now, Lily wasn't the primary issue.
Ryan was.
Ronni knew he had to be blaming himself for the catastrophe of the vanished funds. She wanted to reach out to him, to hold him, to tell him things he wouldn't believe but needed to hear, anyway.
It's not your fault. You'll find a way to get through this. You'll find the money. Somewhere…
Ronni ran back to the guest house and called Memorial. The switchboard put her through to Ryan's desk, but all she got there was his voice mail.
She stumbled over her message, not knowing quite what to say. "This is Ronni. It's 8:45 p.m. Thursday. I'm at the guest house, if you need to talk…"
After that, she couldn't think what else to do to try to reach him. So she reheated her soup and ate it. Then she retired to the bathroom. She took a long, hot bath, hoping to relax, to make herself stop worrying…
Ryan let himself into the silent house at a little after midnight. At that point, he was functioning completely by rote. He locked the door and punched the correct buttons on the alarm. He set his briefcase down, shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it in the closet by the stairs.
Lily had left his newspapers, the Gazette and the Oregonian, on the foyer table where she always set them. Ryan didn't pick them up. There had been copies waiting on the side credenzas at two of the emergency meetings he'd called that day. He didn't need to read it all again.
He bent, grabbed his briefcase and started up the stairs. Halfway to the landing, the light came on. It was Lily.
"Ryan. Is every thing … all right?"
"It's fine," he lied automatically. "The kids?"
"Sound asleep."
"Good."
"You look exhausted."
"I am."
"Ryan…" She was frowning, the faint lines on her face etched deeper than usual. He wondered what the hell else might have gone wrong.
Some crisis with the kids, most likely. "What?"
Her gaze slid away, then she drew her shoulders back a little. "Oh, nothing. It's not important."
He just didn't have the energy to press her, though he probably should have. "Go on to bed. Get some sleep."
"Yes. I will. Good night."
"Good night."
Lily turned and went off down the upper hall to her own room. He heard her door close, then realized he was just standing there, halfway up the stairs, holding on to the banister as if he'd fall on his face if he let go. He started climbing again.
In the master suite, he didn't bother to turn on a light. The drapes were pulled back. He could see well enough by the outside lights. He left his briefcase by the door, tore off his tie and tossed his jacket on the bed. Then he dropped into a big overstuffed chair in the sitting area near the wide front windows. He rested his head back and stared at the ceiling.
He had never in his life been so tired.
He should take off the rest of his clothes and go to bed.
But he knew he wouldn't sleep. He'd only lie there, staring at the ceiling, random and infuriating phrases playing through his head.
Pembroke Fund In Trouble…
"…liquidate assets, as quickly as we can…"
"…can't promise you anything…"
"…fully calculate the extent of the problem…"
"The thing is, a man has to grab his chance when it comes along…"
With a groan, Ryan dragged himself upright. He stared around him at the big, attractive room he had once shared with Patricia. It looked way too empty tonight. Way too quiet, too gloomy, too cold.
He couldn't stay there, in the gloomy silence, listening to mocking phrases echo through his head. He strode to the door, quietly let himself out and went back down the stairs.
The light was on in her bedroom. He could see it—shining a welcome through the trees.
He probably should have gone around the front and rung the bell. But that light seemed to beckon him. He couldn't turn away from it. He went through the back gate and straight to the patio.
The filmy under curtains were drawn. He couldn't see anything but vague shapes inside. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the source of the light—the lamp by her bedside, he could make that much out—a pool of greater brightness within the general glow.
He lifted his fist.
And he knocked.
Then he waited.
She didn't take long. He saw movement, near the lamp. And then a figure approaching the doors. A hand lifted the curtain.
And there she was, on the other side of the glass, wearing the same pajamas she'd been wearing that first night, flannel ones with little flowers on them. As usual, her hair was pulled back, but still coming loose in little corkscrews all around her freckled face.
She drew back the curtains, turned the lock and pulled open the door.
He started to explain himself. "I know I promised I'd stay away until Saturday, but…" He didn't finish. He realized he didn't have to. He could see in her eyes that she understood.
And she did. She more than understood. For Ronni, something momentous had occurred, right at the moment when she'd pulled back the curtain to find him waiting on the other side.
She'd seen his face and it had hit her.
She loved him.
She, Ronni Powers, loved Ryan Malone.
This was happening too fast and he was not the kind of man she'd planned to love.
But maybe love didn't work on a timetable. Maybe love wasn't something a woman could plan.
And she was Ronni, after all. Ronni who was willing to take chances. Who bravely stepped forward to meet every challenge.
Ronni. Not scared, cautious Veronica…
And maybe it was crazy and yes, it was too fast. Maybe it wasn't going to be easy.
But still, she knew—this was love.
And somehow all her doubts and hesitations, all her well-laid plans for her life, meant nothing anymore. Not in the face of his need for her. Not in the face of her love.
"Oh, Ryan…"
"There you go again." Ryan smiled. It felt strange. He didn't think he'd smiled one time in the past three days.
She reached out, took hold of his arm and pulled him inside with her. Then she shut the door, drew the curtains.
"You must be freezing," she chided. "You don't even have a jacket on."
"I'm all right."
"I was so worried you wouldn't get my messages."
"Messages?" His brain felt slow, thick. "You left messages for me? When?"
"Tonight. One on your voice mail at the hospital. One with Lily…"
"I didn't check the voice mail. And Lily didn't mention it. I … what did your messages say?"
"Just that I was here. If you needed me."
Her words sent warmth spreading through him. He hadn't consciously realized how much he needed warmth. Until now, when he was here, with her.
"I read the news in the Gazette. About the money," she said softly. "I … couldn't stop thinking of you. Worrying about you. Hoping you were all right."
It occurred to him that he'd feel even warmer if he had his arms around her. So he held them out.
She came to him, soft and small and firm, smelling of soap and shampoo, wrapped in flowered flannel. He lifted her off the floor so that he could bury his face in her wild red hair.
For the first time in days, it seemed to him, he felt alive. The blood coursed through his veins, hot and swift. He lowered his mouth t
o hers.
She wrapped her slim arms so tightly around him. He felt … a change in her. There was no reluctance in her now. She returned his kiss without hesitation.
It was just what he needed. That frank eagerness, that honest hunger matching his own.
He shifted her higher, taking her hips in his hands, raising her up enough that he could kiss her smooth white neck, and then lower. He nuzzled the collar of her pajama top. She knew what he wanted and helped him, holding tight to his shoulder with one hand as she undid two buttons with the other.
Her breast, small and firm, traced with fine blue veins, was bare to him. He took it, pressing his lips into the soft curve, drawing the tight nipple into his mouth.
She moaned and held his head, helping him, holding him where he wanted to be as he swirled his tongue around and around. She moved against him, the muscles of her hips tightening and then relaxing in his cradling hands.
He wanted her mouth again. He kissed his way back up her pale throat, over her jaw to her softly parted lips. As he drank from her mouth, he lowered her a little, until he held her at the waist.
She clutched him tightly with her arms, her legs dangling against his thighs, as he carried her to the bed. The covers were already down. She must have been lying there, unable to sleep, waiting…
He dared to think it: waiting for him.
She slid to the floor, there beside the bed. And she took him by the shoulders, guided him down to sit on the edge.
He looked up at her. Her lips were swollen, her pale skin flushed. One pretty breast peeked out at him from between the sides of her unbuttoned top.
He didn't want to say it. But the man he was had to say it. "I … didn't bring anything."
She knew what he meant. And she said, "It's all right."
But it wasn't. In spite of how his body ached for her, he couldn't let them be that irresponsible. "Ronni…"
"It's all right. Honestly. I can take care of it."
"You can?"
She nodded. "You remember Kelly Hall, that OB-GYN I introduced you to the other day at Granetti's?"
"I remember. What about her?"
"Well, some doctors pass out suckers to well-behaved patients. Kelly passes out—"
He grunted. "You're kidding."
"No, I'm serious. She does. To everyone. I think she's seen the results of one too many unplanned pregnancies in her line of work."
"You're saying she passed them out to you?"
"She did."
So that problem was solved. Still, there remained the deeper question. Did she really want this? Her eager kisses, her yearning body, her sighs and her moans had all told him yes.
But he wanted her to say it—needed her to say it.
"Ronni, are you sure?"
She whispered, so sweetly, "Yes, Ryan. I am."
* * *
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
He didn't know what to say next. But it didn't matter.
She knelt at his feet. She took his shoes away, and then his socks. He just sat there, looking down at her bright head, thinking that somehow he'd found heaven, in the middle of an endless, gloomy night.
She rose, took his hand, made him stand. And then she undressed him, took everything away and set it neatly on a straight chair a few feet from the bed.
When he was naked, she kissed him, pressing herself all along his bare body. Her pajamas felt warm and fuzzy, and she felt so soft, so fantastically willing.
He ached at the feel of her, at the heat of her… "Get in bed now," she whispered, and gently pushed him down again. He could do nothing but obey. She pulled the blankets around him and then, still standing by the side of the bed, she bent over him, her face only inches from his.
He reached up, behind her head, found the band that held her braid. He tugged it free and tossed it aside. He pulled her down, so their lips could meet. And as he tasted her mouth again, he worked his fingers into the coiled strands, until it was all free and wild down her back, falling over her shoulders, making a red veil around them as the kiss went on and on.
He wanted her body against him. He cupped the back of her head and tried to bring her down, onto the bed with him. But she resisted, reluctantly breaking the kiss. "Wait. Only for a minute. I'll be right back, I promise…"
He knew a hard flash of stark fear, no less real for its absurdity, that she would vanish—into the bathroom or down the hall—and that she wouldn't come back.
He'd be left alone.
He didn't know why the hell that should scare him. He'd been left alone before. You'd think he'd be used to it by now.
And he had become used to it. Until just recently.
Until Ronni…
Even with Patricia, whom he had loved, it hadn't been like this. He'd never looked into Patricia's eyes and felt that jolt of recognition, that sense that here was someone exactly like him.
Except female.
Gloriously, utterly female…
He wanted to command No, stay here, but then he knew it wouldn't come out as a command; it would come out as the cry of a child, lost in the dark…
She kissed his cheek—and then his mouth one more time. And then she left him. He turned his head away from the sight of her going. He looked at the far wall, closed his eyes.
She didn't take long. Two or three minutes. He heard the soft brushing of her bare feet on the hardwood floor.
He rolled his head to look at her. She had a small box in her hand. She flipped back the top, took out a foil packet and set it on the nightstand. Then she opened the nightstand drawer and dropped the box inside.
He couldn't wait for her any longer. He shoved the covers aside and reached for her, snaring her arm, pulling her down to the bed with him. He kissed her again, and while he kissed her, he unbuttoned her last buttons, pushed the pajama top off her shoulders and down her arms. He threw it on the floor.
And then he cupped one sweet breast, lowered his mouth, and tasted her there as he had when he was holding her high in his arms on the other side of the room.
He slid his hand down her flat belly and under the elastic waist of her pajama bottoms. He felt her stomach jerk, when he reached the warm nest of curls there. She sucked in a gasp, pulling air from his own lungs as she did it, since their mouths were still joined.
He touched her, delving in, feeling the silky wetness, the hot, needful readiness that matched his own. She helped him, pushing the hindering flannel off and down, kicking it away.
He rose up, reached for the foil packet on the nightstand, got the thing free of its covering and slid it on.
And then, at last, he sank down upon her, into her. She welcomed him with a cry.
After that he was lost. She surrounded him, all warm, soft skin and cradling arms. She pushed herself up toward him. He took what she so freely offered, losing himself, forgetting everything but the hungry rhythm of their moving bodies, the red cloud of her hair, and the feel of her hands, stroking him, clutching him, urging him on.
At the last, she stiffened, cried out his name. He felt her climax pulsing around him. That sent him over the edge into the long free fall of total release.
A few minutes later, he eased himself to the side. Then they lay there, facing each other, idly sharing caresses, content, for a while.
But the time did come when he got up and went to the bathroom to throw the condom away. When he came back, she had put on her pajama top.
All at once, he felt just a little too naked. So he got his Jockey shorts from the pile on the chair and pulled them on.
She watched him, crouched on her knees in the center of the rumpled bed. He reached for his shirt.
She said, "You're going?"
He let his hand drop to his side. "I … no, I don't want to go. But I wasn't sure if you—"
She stopped him in midsentence by the simple act of holding out her hand. He went to her, sat on the side of the bed and pulled her into his lap.
She cuddled right up again
st him, looping her arms around his neck, her bare legs to the side, her cute pink feet brushing his calf. He rocked her a little, rocked them both, to be truthful.
She spoke first. "You've hardly said a word about what you've been going through the last couple of days." She chuckled. "But then again, we have been busy…"
He nuzzled her hair. "Way too busy for talking…"
Her tone grew more serious. "But maybe we should talk, don't you think? Or rather, you should talk. And I'll just listen. Sometimes it helps, to have someone to listen."
"It's pretty damn grim."
"That's okay."
He didn't know where to begin—wasn't sure he even wanted to begin. So he just held her, close against his heart, his cheek resting on her curly head.
A sad little memory drifted into his mind.
Ordinarily he would have let it drift right back out. But instead, he heard himself say, "When I was little, I used to have a recurring dream…"
And she made a small, encouraging sound, enough that he continued, "I remember having that dream a lot in the year or two after I lost my parents. Maybe that's impossible, for me to remember that long ago. I was so young. But I do remember."
She snuggled even closer to him, whispered, "Please tell me about it."
So he did.
"It would start with my father. With … the sheer size of him. He was a huge man. Or it so seemed to me. Built like my brother Tanner is now, powerful. Thick through the arms and chest. I'd dream that he would hoist me onto his giant-sized shoulders, and I would feel … just as strong as he was, and safe."
She put her hand on his forearm, brushed it lightly back and forth in a soothing caress. "It sounds like a good dream."
"It was a good dream. At first. I'd see my father, he'd lift me up onto his shoulders. And then I'd hear my mother. Singing to me, the way she always sang to us. An Irish song. 'Molly Malone.' It was my favorite of all of her songs. I thought it had been written just for us."
"Just for you." Her face was resting against his shoulder. He couldn't see her expression. Still, he knew she was smiling. "For the Malones…"
"Yes. And then, in the middle of the song my mother's voice would fade. My father would vanish. And I'd hear a baby crying. I'd look over and I'd see him. The baby. Crying in a crib, lying there all alone, waving his fat little arms, with no one to hear him." He rubbed his chin against the top of her head. "I don't know why I dreamed of a baby. Tanner was three when our parents died. And I was four. We weren't babies then. Not anymore."
A DOCTOR'S VOW Page 8