by Francis Ray
“What is it?”
She shook her head, refusing to look at him. Strong, unrelenting fingers lifted her chin. “Eleanor, I love you. If you’re having second thoughts, I may want to chew nails, but I’d understand. If you need more—”
She turned her head aside. “It’s my stretch marks and I–I haven’t been exercising lately.”
Jonathan gave thanks that she wasn’t looking at him, because she would have seen his incredulous expression and his fighting to keep from smiling. Then he felt like kicking himself for not realizing it himself. Women might desperately want children but not the stretch marks or the thickening of their waistline.
“Eleanor, you could never be anything but beautiful to me. I’ve loved you forever, wanted you forever. No, you’re not the same size you were thirty-nine years ago, and neither am I. You’ve matured, but ...” He turned her face back “You’re my Eleanor. I didn’t fall in love with a great pair of legs, although you do have a great pair, or the sashay of your hips, but come to think of it, I try to watch them every chance I get, or your breasts, but I have imagined my lips on them. I fell in love with a woman whose beautiful spirit on the inside shone just as brightly as her beautiful spirit on the outside, and I’ve waited years to tell you.”
Eleanor quivered. Between her thighs she felt the liquid heat of her desire. She wanted him, and she trusted him. Releasing the jacket, she lay back and opened her arms. “You don’t have to wait any longer.”
“Eleanor.” Her name was a whisper, then a sigh as his lips fitted over hers. His tongue mated with hers, leaving both of them breathless. Lifting his head, he pulled her camisole over her head in one smooth motion.
Not giving her a chance to get nervous again, he kissed her again at the same time he undid the front fastener of her bra. Instantly his hands closed over the round globes, his thumbs grazing against the turgid nipples. His head bent and took one rigid point in his mouth. With teeth and tongue, he suckled and licked.
Beneath him, Eleanor shuddered and moaned. She was incredibly responsive. He’d been right about the passion hidden within her. And he had to have more.
Sitting up, he tore at his clothes, then with only slightly less restraint pulled off the rest of hers. When he finished, his mouth went back to hers. His hand swept down and found her wet and hot. His finger stroked her with the same maddening rhythm as his tongue in her mouth. The twin assaults drove each to the breaking point.
He released her, then lifted himself over her, his eyes glazed with desire. “I love you, Eleanor,” he said, then slid into her welcoming warmth. He sighed with the rightness of it, the snug fit of her around him.
“Jonathan.”
He moved slowly at first, allowing her body to adjust to his; then he quickened the pace as she moved beneath him, taking him deeper into her body and making her own demands. He eloquently answered each one.
As she cuddled up next to Jonathan, uneasiness crept over Eleanor. “Kristen can’t know.”
He stiffened and angled his head down. All he saw was the top of her head. “Are you ashamed of what happened between us?”
“Of course not,” she answered, hurt that he thought she would be. She lifted her eyes to his. “Never, but she won’t understand. She loved her father desperately. You know how lost she was after his death. She won’t accept the idea of any man, even a man she admires and loves, courting me.”
The anger went out of Jonathan’s eyes. He pulled her closer. He couldn’t lose her now. He couldn’t. His kiss was hard and possessive. “I still can’t believe you’re actually here with me, that we made love.”
Eleanor flushed, but she didn’t lower her eyes. “Then perhaps you need a reminder.”
“Perhaps I do.”
The house was as breathtaking on the outside as Wakefield Manor. The two-story Mediterranean-influenced house with red tile roof and stucco sides gleamed like a multiprism jewel in the floodlights surrounding it. Palm trees lined the driveway.
“You certainly can pick ‘em,” Lilly said once they were inside the beautifully furnished house. Her gaze wandered from the oak-beamed ceiling to the lighted pool and gazebo that could be seen from the tiled entryway. Cushy upholstered pieces in shades of bone and wheat and African-American paintings created a welcoming atmosphere in the adjoining living room. “Very nice.”
“Glad you like it. My room is up the stairs to the left. I have a second office next to it, besides the one downstairs. The guest bedroom is in the other wing. I’ll show you.”
“Do you want anything before you go up?”
“No.” Taking her arm, they mounted the black wrought-iron spiral staircase. He stopped at the first door to the left of the stairs and opened it, then stepped aside. “My housekeeper wasn’t expecting me, but she usually keeps things in good shape.”
Lilly didn’t look inside the room. All her attention was on Adam. She could look at him to her heart’s content. Notice the laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, the twin lines that ran across his forehead when he was deep in thought, his sensuous lips. “All I need is a bed.”
“You sure?” He frowned. “Maybe I should have waited until morning, but I wanted to spend the night here.”
“Adam, I understand,” she quickly assured him. He was testing his boundaries, regaining his independence. Knowing he wanted her with him while he did so delighted her beyond measure. “I’m happy you wanted me to come.”
He smiled and her heart turned over. “We’re a team, remember?”
“I remember. Good night.”
Entering her room, she flicked on the light. The room, furnished in earth tones with splashes of green as crisp as a celery stalk, could have been lifted from the pages of an interior design magazine. The deep contrast in their worlds had never been more evident, and soon she’d have to return to hers.
She couldn’t get used to flying in chartered jets or riding in limousines or eating on $500 place settings.
Before long, Adam wouldn’t need her. Even as the thought filled her heart with happiness, the thought of not seeing him, not being with him, caused an unbearable sadness to course through her. She had to prepare herself for that day, no matter how much the thought broke her heart.
They were young and gifted, talented and wealthy, armed with degrees from an Ivy League college and backed by their influential families. The world lay before them like a bright red marble. All they had to do was reach out and grasp it.
But first they had some partying to do. After four years of studying and hard work they deserved a night on the town. The six Stanford graduates were making it a memorable one, and no city was more beautiful than San Francisco by night.
Kristen had more to celebrate than the rest. The honors and distinction were nice, but as she had told her Uncle Jon, learning came easily for her and if she liked the subject she soaked up the information like a sponge. It was when the books closed that she had trouble.
As she watched Eric slow-dance with one of their friends, the sexually suggestive gyrating movements, now that was impossible. He teased her constantly about her prudishness. Yet unlike the other men she had dated, he kept coming back. She took a sip of her wine. Tonight she had planned to finally show him she wasn’t prudish. They were going to make love. She hadn’t told him yet. She loved him. What woman wouldn’t?
He was gorgeous, with eyelashes longer than hers over slumberous gray eyes and a mouth that she loved to kiss. The music stopped. Disappointment went through Kristen as Eric and Sharmane remained on the floor, this time dancing at a fast tempo.
“Kristen, girl, you better watch Sharmane,” Candace warned in a hushed whisper, shaking her braid-covered head. “She goes through men like a rat through cheese.”
“They’re just having fun. Besides they’re only dancing,” Kristen said. Can-dace, an economics major from Detroit, tended to be almost as serious as Kristen. That was one of the reasons they got along so well. Her boyfriend, Michael, a pre-med student, was th
e exact opposite. He was the practical joker of the bunch.
“Humph. If they were horizontal I’d give it another name.”
Kristen didn’t say anything, but she was glad when Sharmane’s date, Howard Beacon, returned from the men’s room and pulled Sharmane into his arms. Sharmane plastered her body to the latest man vying for her attention. Candace was right in that respect. Sharmane, who was rich and planned to marry richer, made no secret that she wouldn’t buy a pair of shoes without first trying them on. Men like Howard, who was from an old Southern family with banking connections, eagerly got in line.
Eric slid into the booth beside her, smelling of Sharmane’s cloying perfume. He leaned over to kiss Kristen. Automatically she pulled back.
His handsome face harshened. “I forgot. Thou shalt not touch.” Before she could explain, he picked up his glass and drained the contents. “Waitress. Another.”
Concern knitted Kristen’s brow. He’d had drinks with dinner and three vodka collins since they arrived at the club. One was usually his limit when they went out. “Perhaps you shouldn’t drink anymore.”
He turned and stared at her. “It’s either that or I tear your clothes off, then take a whip to you before I mount you from behind.”
Kristen’s eyes widened. Her mouth gaped.
Eric laughed, but it was a hollow sound. He plucked the drink from the waitress’s hand and downed half the contents, all the time watching Kristen with cold, narrowed eyes.
Silently Eleanor slipped from Jonathan’s arms. On her hands and knees, she tried to find her clothes in the dark. Light flooded the room. She gasped and glanced over her shoulder.
Jonathan stared down at her, a slow sensual grin on his face. Then he threw back the covers and got out of bed, not at all uneasy about his nakedness. “I’m willing to try anything.”
Eleanor blinked, then gasped. “Jonathan!”
Chuckling, he squatted beside her. “Just kidding.” His hands swept the curve of her back and over her buttocks and squeezed. “Although you are a tempting woman.”
Air fluttered out of her lungs. “I–I was looking for my clothes.”
His hand swept upward, his eyes never leaving her. “Why didn’t you turn on the light?”
Heat followed in the wake of his hand and centered in the core of her womanhood. “I…I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“Proper Eleanor. I like knowing how improper you can be.” His voice had dropped to a warm husky purr.
“Jonathan, I have to go. Kristen will be back soon.”
His hand paused at the slope of her spine. “And she can’t find you here, is that it?”
“Please, Jonathan.”
He stared into her eyes for a long time, then lifted his hand and picked the white camisole from the carpet a few inches in front of her. “I guess I can wait until tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” Eleanor repeated.
“Unless you have some objections?”
Eleanor stared at Jonathan, her gaze sweeping over his body, his virile manhood. She licked her lips. “No. No objections at all.”
“Good, because I just might have to act improper and change your mind.” While Eleanor was trying to decide if she should be indignant at his assurance, he gathered her clothes. “All present and accounted for.” He held up a lacy bra. “Since I helped take them off, I feel I should help put them back on.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He grinned. “You will.”
He was dreaming…in color.
He was lying on his back in a field of vibrant red and yellow flowers. He heard the drone of bees, the babble of a creek, the neigh of a horse. Con-tentment lay upon him like a blessing. He blinked, then blinked again at the sun’s brightness shining in his eyes. He turned over and the brightness followed. He lifted his hand to block out the irritating light.
Adam roused from sleep slowly and opened his eyes; his right arm lay over his eyes. Despite his blindness he’d continued to dream in colors. A curse or a blessing, he had yet to determine. He moved his arm. The brightness remained.
He didn’t move for a long moment, afraid he was still dreaming; then he lifted his hand in front of his face as he had done every morning since his accident and waved his fingers. Shadows swayed.
His breath caught. Afraid to hope, to believe, he did it again. His heart pounded in his chest. The shadow shifted.
“Oh, my God. Lilly! Lilly!”
Sitting up in bed, he waved his hand in front of his face again and again, laughing, unaware tears were coursing down his cheeks. The veil of darkness had lifted from his right eye. Shadows moved in the nebulous of blackness.
“What is it?” Flinging his door wide, Lilly rushed into his room.
“I can see shadows out of my right eye.”
“Oh, Adam!” She was across the room in an instant, climbing on the bed with him. “Can you make me out?”
“You’re a shape in a fog bank,” he said, laughing with unrestrained happiness.
“Oh, my goodness! This means the hemorrhage is clearing.”
Laughing, he hugged her to him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Laughing just as happily, Lilly hugged him back, then discovered her unbound breasts pressed against the naked wall of his wide chest. She had rushed into his room without a robe. Again. Caught between being embarrassed and enjoying being in his arms, she debated her options for all of two seconds before hugging him harder. She felt the rasp of his beard against her cheek, the strength of his arms holding her, the long fingers splayed on her back.
“I’m going to see again!” he said, boundless delight ringing in each word.
“I’m calling Eleanor and Kristen.” Pulling away, Lilly went to the phone and punched in the number.
Adam stood and headed for the shower. “Tell them to pick us up and we can go see Dr. Scott right away.”
Lilly dragged her gaze from the ripple of muscles in Adam’s back and shot a quick glance at the clock. “It’s only seven-fifteen. The doctor won’t be in his office.”
“Just tell Jonathan. He’ll get him there.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dr. Louis T. Scott was one of the country’s foremost neuro-ophthalmologists, an ophthalmologist who had additional training in neurological diseases. He looked more like an absentminded professor. He barely reached five feet, and no matter what he wore, he always appeared rumpled as he did now, wearing a white lab coat over a white shirt, black bow tie, and dark slacks. His snow-white hair was perpetually spiked over his head, but his eyes were sharply intelligent behind his gold wire-rimmed glasses. He was a patient, thorough man. Too much so in Adam’s opinion.
“Well, Louis?” Adam said restlessly.
Dr. Scott lifted his head from studying the back of Adam’s eye through a lens light. “There’s definitely clearing of the hemorrhage.”
“I didn’t need you to tell me that. I want to know how long you think it will take for the hemorrhage to completely dissolve so I see again,” Adam said.
“You can sit back.” Louis moved the refractory light back. He didn’t look at Jonathan, who stood to the left of him. “I don’t know.”
“How can you say that? You must have a clearer picture of the vitreous.” Adam waved his hand in front of his face again, then cursed beneath his breath. “Put some Rev-Eyes in. I’ve gone long enough without seeing.”
“You certainly haven’t forgotten how to give orders.” The elderly man stood and reached for the bottle of eyedrops to reverse the dilation.
“He certainly hasn’t,” Jonathan said dryly.
“Hold your head back,” Dr. Scott ordered and proceeded to put one drop in each eye, then handed Adam a tissue.
“What’s next?” Adam dabbed at the excess medicine running down his cheek.
The doctor flicked on the overhead light. “We need to do an optho-ultrasound to be certain, but the iris muscle is functioning in the right eye and I believe the optic nerve is intact.”
>
Adam stilled and closed his eyes. “Thank God.”
“Hold on, Adam; I said I think.” Folding his arms, Dr. Scott leaned against the counter to Adam’s right in the small exam room in the ophthalmology outpatient clinic of the hospital. “Let’s get the ultrasound and I can tell more. There’s still the question of whether there is retinal detachment due to the hemorrhage,” he cautioned.
Adam’s hands gripped the arms of the chair. Waiting had been a risk, but so had surgery. Instead of voicing his fear, he asked another question: “Only a couple of techs can perform the test. Is one available?”
The elderly man patted him on the shoulder in reassurance. “Romero is coming in to do the test personally.”
Richard Romero was the head of Radiology and a friend. He was also one of the many people Adam had cut from his life. “Thanks for calling him.”
“You’re one of our own, Adam. We take care of our own. But I don’t want you to expect too much from the tests,” Scott warned.
“I’m going to see again,” Adam said flatly.
The other two men in the room traded worried glances and remained silent.
Lying on the table, Adam couldn’t relax. There was too much at stake. The Rev-Eyes had done its job. He now saw vague shapes and shadows out of the right eye. He’d see again. He was sure of it.
“Let me help you sit up.” Romero took Adam by the arm and assisted him off the table and to a straight-back chair.
“Well?” Adam asked, aware that his throat was dry, his heart pounding. Romero could read the results while doing the test. “Is there detachment?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“I knew it,” said Adam. “I knew it.”
“Hold on, Adam,” Dr. Scott said quietly, too quietly.
Adam whirled toward Dr. Scott, who could read the tests as well as Romero. “What did you see?”
“It’s what I can’t see.” Dr. Scott pulled a stool in front of Adam and straddled it. “I know we agreed to try and let the hemorrhage clear up on its own, because new studies showed there was less risk of permanent damage to the optic nerve or retinal detachment afterward.”