A MAN LIKE SMITH

by Marilyn Pappano

  Her smile grew a degree or two stronger. "No fair. I was looking forward to learning to swim."

  "Says something about our preferences," he said dryly. "I was looking forward to making love to you under the sun."

  His admission made her smile flicker, then fade, and she turned away again, standing this time so that the wind blew her hair around her face, hiding her expression from him. For a moment he watched her again, judging the stiffness of her spine, trying to read emotions he couldn't see. Finally he broke the silence between them. "Why did you come here tonight, Jolie?"

  She faced him not because she wanted to, he knew, but because that was how she usually approached life: head-on. But it was hard for her this time, hard for her to look at him and answer his question. "I wanted to be with you."

  It was a good answer, but not good enough. He wanted more. "You wanted to talk?"

  "Yes. Later."

  Later. A very good answer. "You wanted to watch the storm?"

  She opened her mouth, moistened her lips, found nothing to say. On her second try, she smiled a sly, shy, lazy smile. "Hell, Smith, I wanted to create the storm."

  Desire, comfortably familiar, curled in his stomach. He couldn't think of any way he'd rather spend a sultry, stormy summer night than making love, couldn't imagine any woman he would rather make love with than Jolie. Still, he didn't move away from the door, didn't approach her, didn't pull her close for a kiss. "I think you could do a damned good job of it." She possessed a brilliance, spark and heat that made lightning pale in comparison, could stir up a maelstrom of need and hunger, could take the very energy from the air and make it crackle, and she could bring relief, damp, soothing, heart-stopping relief.

  Knotting his fingers behind him, he asked one more question. "Why tonight?"

  Jolie had been asking herself the same question ever since she'd left the restaurant and had realized that she was headed for Smith's condo instead of her own little yellow house. None of the answers she had offered herself were particularly satisfying. Because they were adults. Because this was something they both wanted. Because there was no reason to deny their desires. Because, as Cassie had so sweetly pointed out, what were they waiting for?

  The truth, plain and simple, was that she wanted him.

  Plain and not so simple, she needed him. She needed his companionship. His embraces. His sweet kisses. She needed his strength. His understanding. His quiet, reliable, make-her-feel-safe presence.

  She hadn't relied on any man since Nick. When she needed strength, she supplied it herself. If she needed to feel secure, she accomplished that for herself, too. She didn't lean on anyone, didn't ask support of anyone.

  But tonight, in two brief instances at the restaurant, she had realized how much she had come to rely on Smith. When he had first spoken to her there at the aquarium, the pleasure that had rushed through her had been intense. It had been as if her gloomy day, for a few sweet seconds, had suddenly brightened, as if everything had been made right. Later, when he had left with nothing more than that long, disquieting look, a sudden, empty loneliness had settled over her, making her feel bluer than she'd ever been.

  She had desperately wanted to be with him.

  Had desperately needed to be with him.

  At least for tonight.

  Why tonight? he had asked. Why not tonight? she wanted to lightly reply, but she didn't think he would buy the response. He wasn't in the mood for teasing, for flippancy, for smug, pat answers.

  "Because I need you tonight." She waited for his next question, for the question so obvious that she could read it in his eyes. What about tomorrow? Would she need him then, too?

  But he didn't ask it. Maybe he was afraid of the answer.

  God knows, she was.

  Lightning flashed around them, fingers of heat and brilliance arcing across the sky in long jagged trails, and a clap of thunder exploded, making the deck reverberate under their feet. The intensity sent shivers up her spine.

  Or maybe those shivers came from Smith, who was moving a few steps toward her, extending his hand.

  She hesitated a moment. It wasn't too late to turn back, to tell him that she'd been wrong to come here, to rush out the door and save herself.

  Oh, but it was, a small voice whispered. It was far too late to save her heart.

  Moving away from the railing, she placed her hand in his, holding on tightly as he led her inside. Behind them, the rain started, not gentle drops but a torrent falling with such force that even the closed glass doors couldn't block the sound. It softened as they reached the broad hallway, blending now with the quiet hum of the air-conditioning, then picked up in intensity again as they entered the bedroom.

  He didn't reach for the light switch as they passed. The little bit of illumination that came from the lamp down the hall, coupled with the lightning outside the wall of windows, was more than adequate. It showed Jolie all she needed to see: the big bed that dominated the room.

  And Smith.

  He released her just inside the door, and she stayed for a moment where she was. She had never been nervous about making love—except for the very first time, when she hadn't expected pain but had gotten it, and the second time, when she had expected it but didn't get it—but she was nervous tonight. Not uncertain or having doubts—no, she was very sure that she wanted this—but nervous.

  But she had never made love with a man so important, so sweet, so special.

  She had never made love with a man like Smith.

  He was waiting beside the bed, unrolling his sleeves, doing it slowly to give her time, she thought with the beginnings of a little smile. Not to entice her. Not to arouse her. Not to make her admire the way he moved, the way his long fingers folded the fabric down, smoothing it bit by bit, stroking over it. Not to make her jealous of a damned piece of cotton because he was touching it and not her.

  As he finished with the second sleeve, she moved a few steps closer. He was looking at her now, watching her watch him. He began unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers finding the buttons by instinct, again taking his own sweet time at working each one free. It was such a simple act to be so erotic. To spread such heat through her. To fire such need.

  When the last button was undone, before he could move to remove the shirt, she spoke. "Wait." Her voice was husky, the word thick and hoarse, but he understood. Standing motionless, saying nothing, he waited.

  She was only a few feet away, but it seemed to take forever to close the distance between them. Reaching up, she slid her fingertips beneath the shirt, making only the smallest of contacts with his skin until her palms glided across his shoulders. She pushed the shirt away, following it with her caresses, sliding across his chest and down his arms, brushing feather light across his back. She touched him far more than was necessary to remove the shirt—and far less than was necessary to satisfy herself.

  When at last she held the shirt in her hands, she wrapped its folds around her fingers. It was soft, damp from the humidity outside, warm from his body, and smelled of cologne—rich, sexy, designer named, but uniquely his own fragrance.

  Smith gazed down at her, watching as she focused on his shirt, resisting the urge to draw her attention back to him, to pull the shirt from her hands and toss it to the floor, to add her own clothing to it in an untidy heap. He knew already that she was a sensory sort of person. She paid attention to details, to the way things felt and smelled, to the way they looked and sounded and tasted.

  Moving with the leisurely grace he associated with runners, she laid the shirt aside and turned back to him, touching his arms, his shoulders, his throat, never breaking contact until her hands cupped his face. She had to stretch onto the tips of her toes to kiss him, and even then her lips brushed his throat, not his mouth. She was so forceful, so dynamic, that sometimes he forgot how short, how slender and delicate, she was. Tonight, facing the prospect of making love to her, of drawing her beneath him on the bed, of literally joining his body with hers, he found it
too easy to remember. It made him feel big and clumsy.

  And incredibly aroused.

  She gave him a second kiss, and he bent his head to meet the third. Details. Yes, he could share her pleasure in them. Her skin was softer than he had imagined—as soft, he would wager, as a baby's. Her hair was like strands of cool satin, fine enough that the tangles from the wind fell right out. She tasted of something sweet and creamy, laced with the richness of chicory-blended coffee, and she smelled… Angling his head to deepen the kiss, he drew a full breath of wind and rain, of heat and need. Of hunger.

  Jolie's hungry, Michael had told him one hot Saturday afternoon. Damn right she was—and tonight she was hungry for him. For the next few hours, maybe the entire night, her passion was for him. Not her career, not her ambition, not the damned Pulitzer prize she wanted so badly, but for him.

  He wanted a lifetime of these nights.

  But he would be satisfied—would pretend to be satisfied—with whatever he could get. With whatever she would give him.

  While they kissed, she touched him. She stroked him, teased and tickled and tempted him. Her hands were small, her touch delicate, sometimes fleeting, sometimes tantalizingly slow. Her nails scraped across his stomach, just above his belt, making his muscles clench and ripple. When one hand slid lower, his breath caught in his chest. When she brushed her fingers in a lazy, lingering, tormenting caress across his arousal, a groan shook through him with a rumble that equaled the storm's fiercest, most intense thunder.

  Ending the kiss, he raised his head and, by lamp light and lightning, for a moment he studied her upturned face. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, her expression one of desire, need … and the slightest hint of fear. There was nothing he could do about the fear, no assurances he could offer, no promises he could make, because he knew it wasn't him she was afraid of. It was herself—what she wanted, what she needed and, most of all, what she was feeling. She didn't want to be feeling things for him. After all, she was Jolie I-don't-need-a-man-in-my-life Wade, Career Woman.

  And she was discovering—really discovering—that she did need him.

  He wished he could be sympathetic … but he was too damned grateful. Too damned pleased. Too damned much in love.

  After a long moment under his scrutiny, her eyes fluttered open, and she gave him a seductive smile. "In case you were wondering," she began in that husky voice that made his muscles twitch and his heart beat a little faster, "I wouldn't be offended if this first time was wicked, wild and quick."

  He grinned as he began unbuttoning her blouse. "And miss out on touching you and seeing you and kissing you all over?"

  "There's always the next time. And the next. And the next…" Her voice trailed off as he slid his hands inside the open shirt, filling them with her breasts, stroking them through the thin lace of her bra. Her nipples were hard, and his little caresses through the lace made them even harder—made him even harder.

  Her suggestion, to make it wild and quick, was gaining appeal with each contact they shared, with each kiss, with each brush of her body against his. His muscles were taut, his body achingly stiff. Even her most casual touch sent sensation, edgy and hot, rippling through him … and there was nothing casual about the way she was touching him. Nothing casual about the way her hair brushed his arm or the way her breasts were pressed against his chest. Nothing casual at all about the way her fingers lightly stroked his arousal.

  When she unfastened his belt, unzipped his trousers and wriggled her small fingers inside, he swore fiercely and caught her hand in his. He didn't push her away, though. For one torturous moment, he pressed her hand closer, molding her fingers more intimately to him; then, swearing again, he pulled free, stepped back and began removing the rest of his clothing. "You want wicked, wild and quick?" he asked, his voice little more than a growl.

  She gave him a slow, languid smile as she slipped out of her own clothes. "This time," she murmured. "Next time we'll take it slow and easy."

  Out of his clothes first, he helped her with the last of hers, then pulled her down to the bed with him. "What if we don't last next time, either?"

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she drew him close for a kiss, all heat and hunger. "Then we'll keep trying," she whispered, sliding her hands down his spine, silently guiding him between her thighs. "Until we get it right."

  His own voice was as weak, as whispery. "Even if it takes all night?" Probing, he found his place, pushing against her, pushing into her, until they were intimately joined. His groan was low and strained and almost overpowered her own soft, satisfied little sigh.

  It did overpower her softer, littler words. He wasn't sure what she actually said, but he knew what he thought he heard.

  "Even if it takes all our lives."

  * * *

  Jolie lay on her side, her head resting on Smith's arm, the burgundy comforter tucked around them. They were lying close, his chest against her back, his arm over her ribs, his arousal softening now against her hip, and they were watching the storm. It had been more than an hour, and it hadn't abated.

  They had made love twice, and her need hadn't abated, either.

  She had been right when she'd thought that Smith's bed—and Smith's arms—would be a wonderful place to watch a storm. The openness of the glass walls served to bring nature's fury right up close and personal, but she had never felt so secure. She had never known such certainty that she was safe from harm.

  That certainty should be setting off every self-defense mechanism she possessed, but she felt too sleepy, too warm and satisfied. Maybe tomorrow morning she would be alarmed, but not tonight.

  Rain lashed the windows, the only way she knew for sure that the fierce winds still blew. If they were at her house, in her bed, they could hear the branches of old oaks and magnolias scraping against the siding. They could see the limbs swaying wildly, sending fantastic shadows dancing across the bedroom walls. They could hear pinecones torn free and dashed to the roof and could see the slender crape myrtles bending nearly to the ground under the onslaught. When they went outside the next morning, they would find broken flowers fallen in the mud, leaves blown everywhere, small branches torn from trees and scattered across the yard.

  Lightning lit the room with a brilliance that made her instinctively shield her eyes. It was followed by a muted explosion, and the light from down the hall disappeared. The air-conditioning shut off, and the red-glowing numbers on the bedside clock went black.

  "It's a good thing you came over tonight," Smith said, his voice a sleepy murmur in her ear. "You couldn't have gotten home before the storm broke, and this rain would have swept you and your little toy car away."

  "And you law-and-order guys would have declared a day of celebration at finally getting that thorn out of your side," she teased. "But sooner or later, you would have missed me."

  "Honey, I already miss you. Every day that you're not with me, every night that you're not lying beside me…"

  She tried to ignore the lump forming in her throat. "Don't try to sweet-talk me, Smith. I've been too smart to fall for lines like that since I was seventeen."

  "Was that when the man you were in love with left you?"

  Jolie drew a deep breath. She had come here to talk about Nick—at least, that had been part of her reason—but she had wanted to discuss Nicholas Carlucci, lawyer, crook, Falcone attorney and federal Grand Jury indictee. Not Nicky Carlucci, teenage friend, sweetheart, lover and heartbreaker. "Yes," she admitted. "It was."

  He was quiet a long time, quiet and still. She wished he would say something. When he didn't, she did. "You're probably thinking that, at seventeen, I was too young to know what love was."

  He moved his hand, tucked underneath her between her ribs and the mattress, and began gently stroking her stomach. "I don't think you were ever young, Jolie. I think from the time you were a small child, you had grown-up needs, grown-up worries and grown-up understanding. If you say you were in love at seventeen, I believe
you."

  She didn't need his faith. She knew. No matter how young seventeen was, she knew what she had felt for Nick. She knew it had been real and special. But in accepting her word, in trusting her to know her own feelings, Smith had just moved her a step closer to something even more real, something even more special. How different, she wondered, was a teenage girl's love for a teenage boy from the love of a woman for a very special man?

  How much more could it hurt when it ended?

  "What went wrong?"

  She shrugged and, in doing so, snuggled back a little closer to him. "You just said it—he left me. He fell in love with someone else, someone who made him happy in ways I didn't."

  "Were you planning to get married?"

  "I thought so. We had talked about it. But after he was gone, I realized that I was the one who had done the talking. He had simply listened, nodded and agreed, then changed the subject." Nick had never encouraged her dreams of marriage, but she'd had them anyway. After all, he loved her—he told her so every night they went out, every time they made love. Didn't that mean he wanted to marry her? Wasn't that what people in love did?

  She had been such a fool. Nick hadn't loved her. He had loved being loved by her. He had loved having someone to count on and being important to someone. He had loved the effortlessness of their relationship, had loved the way she put out so easily, requiring no effort or real commitment on his part. They had been the only teenage couple among all their friends with a regular sex life, which had made him look important to the guys—and had made her look cheap.

  "Were you willing to have children with him?"

  Her chest growing tight, she injected a note of warning into her voice. "Smith…"

  "Valery and Susannah are both pregnant. Michael and Remy are going to be fathers. I just found out this evening."

  The tightness extended into her throat, making her sound hoarse instead of flippant. "Give them my sympathy."

  Lifting his hand, he brought it down with a sting on her hip. "Don't be a smart ass, Jolie." After a brief silence, he spoke again. "Tell me one thing, would you?"