She patted Jake’s soft hair on her way past. He grunted, his eyes fixed on the screen where the wicked stepsisters were browbeating Cinderella. Angela went upstairs, got out linens and made up the bed. This was the room Ben had used as a child, although there was nothing left of his personality here now.
Ben’s childhood was preserved in pictures in Harvey’s study, but the rest of the house had gone on living, closing up the empty space he left behind. Poor Ben, erased as if he had never been. He had never been able to grow up, had abandoned Angela when marriage turned into responsibilities. In the end he had been alone on a freeway in Iowa, and it had been weeks before his family learned of the accident that had killed him.
Angela packed for Harvey, who normally wore a suit only to church. Then she ran herself a deep tub of hot water, drowning out the rumble of voices from downstairs. What on earth did they find to talk about? She had seldom seen two men less similar. Harvey with his work clothes and his weathered face, talking to a man who played games with money and real estate, who probably didn’t even own a pair of jeans. If he owned running shoes, she thought, they would be immaculate and white, and the most expensive on the market.
Charlotte may have fitted into their lives like a breath of fresh air, but he was completely out of place.
Tomorrow he would be gone, flying Harvey to San Francisco. She hoped it would work out, that Charlotte wouldn’t feel desperately cornered when Kent and Harvey turned up to confront her.
Kent. She did not want to think of him like that. Mr. Ferguson. She tried that out, but it didn’t come very easily to her mind. Living on the edge of the water, dealing with sailors and fishermen, there weren’t many times when she called anyone Mister. But it fitted him, fitted the kind of world he lived in, the high-class world of money and stilted manners.
Her parents’ world. Not hers.
She soaked in the tub, trying to settle the crazy pounding of her heart. It must be because she knew Charlotte’s secret that he made her feel so unsettled. He kept staring at her, and she was afraid that if she spent too much time around him, Charlotte’s secret might come out in an unwilling burst of words.
Angela didn’t believe in keeping that kind of secret, but the truth was Charlotte’s to tell. Not Angela Dalton’s business at all, except that the other woman had confided in her.
Charles was five minutes early. He had changed from his daytime suit to more informal trousers and the brown sweater she had once told him she liked. Angela wore a blue Mexican skirt that Charlotte had given her, with a matching blouse that laced together at the front. The skirt swirled around her as she popped her head into the living room. “Charles is here. I’m off now.”
“Have a good time,” said Harvey, smiling.
“I will.” She made herself laugh, as if Charles stirred her blood and her heart. Kent Ferguson stood up and her laughter died as he turned to face her. She would be so glad when he was gone.
His eyes narrowed. In this light his hair looked brown, not that disturbing blondish color. His eyes seemed more black than blue as he stared at her. “Good evening,” he said, his words deliberate. “I’ll see you later.”
Not if she could help it.
As Charles had promised, the play was hilarious. It took a while, but she managed to lose herself in the crazy antics of the absent-minded receptionist onstage who was turning her boss’s psychiatric practice upside down.
Afterwards, Charles held her arm as they walked back to his car. His voice was quiet, persuasive. “I’ve got a bottle of champagne back at my place, and a frozen chocolate cake.”
Trust Charles to remember that she loved chocolate. “I don’t think so,” she said gently. Alone together in his apartment, Charles would put gentle music on. Charles being Charles, the wrestling match would be subtle, but in the end that was what it would come to.
“How about a drink, then?” he suggested. “That bar down on the waterfront?”
“How about a late supper somewhere?” she countered, because she had not eaten and it was too early to go back.
“My place, then.”
“No, Charles. How about McDonalds?”
He shuddered and she laughed, then he took her to a small restaurant in an old Victorian mansion that had been turned into a guesthouse. After dinner, she agreed to the bar. There was music, and dancing, and although Charles would have liked to waltz, she would only dance to the wilder music, keeping out of his arms fairly successfully.
When they left the bar sometime after midnight, he caught her in his arms at the car. “Angela,” he murmured, bending to kiss her neck. “I’ve missed you so much these months apart.”
“Charles—” Damn! This was stupid of her.
“Marry me,” he whispered as he moved his lips against her neck.
“Stop it, Charles! You’re tickling me! I don’t want to get married.”
“Then...” His hand moved suggestively.
She snapped, “I don’t want that either. Charles—look, I just—we’re friends, all right? Just friends.”
It was not all right at all. She had spent three months last year trying to tell him she was not the woman for him, and it was all undone in one stupid evening. A high price to pay to avoid a man whose blue eyes kept watching her. Too high. She could have spent the evening in her room, reading. Alone.
She got Charles into the driver’s seat and he finally agreed to take her home, but in her driveway she had to wiggle her way out of his arms to get out of the car. Luckily the gearshift hampered his attempts to persuade her into his arms.
“Find someone else, Charles.”
“I’ve been dating my new receptionist,” he said slowly.
“Good.” Angela had a vague memory of a girl with dark, straight hair and a frowning face. “That’s good. She’s a lovely girl.”
At least the house was dark, with only the light over the veranda stairs glowing to show her the way home. Kent Ferguson would be in bed, asleep. Angela went quietly up the stairs, opened the door and heard the quiet crunch of Charles’ tires on the drive. Never again. She had forgotten just how exhausting Charles could be.
Inside, the house was beautifully quiet. Barney must have come and picked up Jake hours ago. Angela moved through the entrance without turning on a light. The moonlight drifting in from the living room was enough.
Dark and quiet, all asleep. Upstairs, he would be lying in the bed across the hall from hers. She moved past the arch that led into the living room, along the wide corridor to the kitchen. There she opened the fridge and used the light inside to find a glass. Ice and ginger ale. She sipped it, the bubbles tingling her nose.
She closed the fridge door and darkness floated back in around her. She had left her shoes beside the front door, moving about in her nylon-covered feet, silently, almost a ghost in the big old house that must be filled with the spirits of the Victorian family who had built it.
Too big for just herself and Harvey, but it was the home of Harvey’s happiness, the place where he had loved Anna until she died, where they had brought up their two sons. Anna’s ghost was here, too, but Anna was a gentle woman and had been more of a mother to Angela than her own mother.
She went into the living room, making for the window where moonlight showed the hillside and the mountains across the water from Port Townsend. She could feel the ghosts around her, but it was a comfortable feeling, the knowledge that she was not really alone here despite the darkness and the sleeping house.
She almost dropped her glass when she heard the voice behind her.
Chapter Four
Everything in the room was shadows, black and gray shapes. Angela stared into the room, the moonlit sky at her back, and she finally made out Harvey’s chair. A shadow, a man sitting there.
“Did you enjoy your reunion?” His voice was low in the darkness. His eyes would be hard, watching her, seeing only shadows.
She moved, realizing she was sharply silhouetted against the window. “What reunion?�
�
There was no movement, just his presence in the dark room, and his voice, accusing, “Harvey says you haven’t been out with Charles in months. Why tonight?”
Her fingers curled tighter around the cool glass. She started to say something, anything, but changed her mind and her words, and spoke the truth.
“You know why. To avoid you.”
He stood between her and the archway to the corridor. She would go past him, upstairs, and shut herself in her room. But her legs would not move. What if he rose from that chair, swift and silent, his hand reaching out to stop her? What if he touched her?
Nervous, she whispered, “What does Charles matter to you? What do I matter?”
“Why did you tell me you were married?”
She felt the tightness in her chest. Behind her, a cloud must have passed over the moon, because the world turned dense and dark.
“You let me think Barney was your husband.”
She gulped. Self-defense. He frightened her. “It’s none of your business.”
She heard some sound of fabric on fabric. He was getting up. She jerked into motion, her feet silent on the carpet. She had the advantage over him, knew the geography of this room intimately. She would escape him and—
She gasped and jerked to a halt. He had not touched her, but she could feel his presence, his body there, in front of her, just a denser darkness, not form. She was intensely aware of the darkness, the sleeping house, the size and presence of the man in front of her.
“Let me past.” It should have been sharp, a demand, but her voice was only a breathless whisper.
“No.”
She wanted to step back, to put space between them, but he seemed aware of every move she made, even in the darkness. She was afraid that if she moved, he would reach out and catch her arms in his hands.
She shivered and hugged herself and asked, “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
Could he hear her heart thudding wildly in the darkness? She knew what he wanted, it was true. Insane, impossible, but she knew as if she could see his eyes.
“I don’t like you.” She stepped back, heard his breathing and knew he had moved with her.
“So Jake says, but it’s a lie.”
She tried to deny his words. Anything—anyone who made her feel like this was dangerous.
“Angela, I know damned well that you feel it, too.”
“No.”
His voice was husky. “Yes. Why else lie about your husband? Why run away tonight with the rejected Charles?”
“I didn’t want to be near you. I don’t like you!” She gasped as his fingers brushed her arm and snapped, “Don’t!”
She was even more nervous when he laughed, the sound low and compelling. What was he going to do? Why didn’t she stop him? Why did she feel so helpless, trapped by his words and the feel of his presence, too close?
“I’ll scream.”
“No you won’t.”
His fingers found the side of her face, spread gently over her cheek. She shivered and told her throat to open, but nothing happened except his low murmur.
“You want to know, don’t you, Angela? Just as I want to know...”
“Know?” She could feel his breath. She was shivering, sharply aware that the sun was down and the night cool, the heat turned too low in this big old house. “Know what?”
“What it will be like when I touch you.”
“No...”
His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, found the shell of her ear and explored lightly, slipping gently over the gold stud in her ear, threading through her hair.
“Stop it!” Her scalp contracted with sensation. “I don’t want—”
The fingers of his other hand covered her lips, moving, tracing the shape. He was so close, not touching except for those fingers on her lips, her scalp, but she could feel how near his lips were to hers.
“Then run, Angela.” His voice was low, almost hoarse. His fingers left her lips and she was trembling when his mouth covered hers. A fleeting caress, an exploration, and her lips parted, her breath coming in short pulses that left her chest empty with each inhalation.
His hands slid along the sides of her neck, feeling the chord of muscle that jumped to his touch, tracing the shape of her throat. “Run, Angela. If you don’t want my touch, then go now.”
“I can’t.” Her whole body was trembling. Just his fingers learning the curves of her throat, her neck, her jaw, but she could feel the touch everywhere, a hard knot of tension growing inside her. She wanted to beg him to stop, to walk away, but could not even whisper.
“Neither can I go away.” His hands slid up into her hair and his voice turned husky with emotion. “I knew your hair would be soft...so soft...fiery curls clinging to my touch.”
His mouth sought hers again. She was so tense, her body shaking with the effort of fighting that wild urge to melt into his. Her lips parted, inviting, and his tongue slipped inside to explore the tender underside of her lips, the warm darkness.
So tender. She had not expected gentleness from his lips, his hands. If he had grasped and tried to overpower her, she could have fought him. But this...
She had been hugging herself, for warmth, but he found her wrists with his fingers and unwrapped her arms. With her hands against his chest, she could feel the slow, hard beat of his heart under her palms.
“Come here,” he urged, and she stumbled as he led her.
She whispered, “Oh, no!” but his arms took her with him, down into that big chair of Harvey’s. She struggled then, trying to get up, feeling how much more vulnerable she was now. Standing with his touch gentle on her, all she had to do was step back, if she could force herself to withdraw. But here, she was sitting with his thighs under her legs and her buttocks, her body cradled in the curve of one of his strong arms. Getting up would be so much harder. She was afraid that she would not be able to make that effort to escape him.
He shifted and settled her back into one corner of the chair, still cradled in his arm. He bent and brushed her lips with his, said softly, “Don’t be afraid,” as if she were a child.
“I am.” Her heart was crashing into her ribs. She could feel his hand on her back through the thin cotton of her lacy blouse. One of his fingers, or his thumb, was lying on the bare flesh below her neck and she could feel the touch like a burn.
His lips took hers and she could not stop her head falling back against the softness of the upholstery, her weight leaning on his arm. Lips parted, he took her mouth in a deep, shattering kiss. Her hand, trapped between them, found freedom and slipped around his neck, into the waves of his hair.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
That was crazy, because he was dangerous, sending her pulses wild and turning her mind to jelly. His lips searched the softness of her cheek, the trembling vulnerability of her closed eyelids, her forehead, and she could feel the yearning, the aching woman’s need that had been so long dead inside her.
His mouth traced the line of her throat, the trembling hollow at its base, down to the lacy barrier of the blouse. Such a flimsy thing, the two halves of that light fabric tied together with a long, white cord of lace.
His mouth worried at the two loops of the bow lying at the beginning of the cleavage between her breasts. She slid her hand through his hair, her fingers down along the side of his neck, feeling the muscle that jumped there. He lifted his head. He must have caught the end of the cord between his teeth, because she felt it come undone as he raised his head.
He dropped the lace cord against her flesh. His mouth took hers. She could feel the thud of his heart, or hers, as he pulled her against him, her softness pressed flat against his hard chest. Then he released her and she could feel the waiting, needing, knowing.
He was not wearing his jacket, just the shirt. She could feel the heat of him as her palms moved over the smooth fabric. His chest. The bulge of his male breast. His shoulder. Her fingers curled around
the curve of his shoulder as his knuckles brushed against her skin just above her bodice. He spread the lacy stuff, pulling the untied cord tight. His finger traced the small diamonds of flesh exposed on her midriff, seeming to find the sensitive bare flesh unerringly even in the dark.
“So soft,” he breathed in a shaken voice. His hand continued down, finding the shape of her hip, her thighs through the skirt spread around her and he groaned, “I want to feel you, Angela. Your flesh on mine.”
She heard the whisper of a groan from her lips, as if his words were his touch. Then, in the dark, he slowly found the two ends of the bow he had untied. He pulled on one and it slid through. She could feel it moving, knew what was happening, and she needed his touch on her bare flesh as she would need water if she were dying in the desert.
He dropped the cord somewhere. Then he spread the blouse and she could feel the cool air on her flesh, but she was hot. Her hands were in his hair when he bent over her and she wasn’t sure if she pulled his lips down to the warm curve that was thrust up above her uplift brassiere, but she shuddered when their lips touched.
He traced the swelling, found the barrier of her bra. “I knew you would be like this. Soft and full. Hot.” His teeth found the hard peak of her nipple through the lacy bra and tugged gently.
“Oh!...oh, please...”
Her breathing was sharp, ragged gulps of fire. The front clasp of her bra parted and he closed his free hand around the warm swelling of one full breast. His other hand slid the blouse off one shoulder, caressing the smooth curve of her upper arm as he bared it.
“Kiss me.” Was that her voice? A breathless whisper, needing his touch.
He bent over her. His warm fingers shaped her curves. Then his lips covered the swollen peak as the air left her lungs in a rush, a sound like a whimper in her throat. He explored her with his mouth, drawing her inside, and she twisted in his arms.
“I’ve been aching for you,” he murmured, moving his lips from one swollen peak to another. “You’re a fever in my blood.” His arms shifted to free her from the last entanglement of her bra and he held her, sitting on his lap, his hands sliding along the flesh of her sides as he supported her. His lips moved, seeking in the darkness, found her head dropped back, a pulse beating in her throat.
Angela's Affair (Pacific Waterfront Romances, #13) Page 5