by Sandra Brown
'For years after his accident, the protagonist was mad at the world, even madder at himself for screwing up his life. He went through the motions of living, but just like Rhett Butler, he didn't really give a damn. He worked hard at making everybody around him as miserable as he was himself. He got drunk often, slept with nameless women, picked fights."
"Fights?"
He shrugged, now toying with the buttons on her gown again by lightly plucking at them. "To prove to himself that the accident hadn't emasculated him. He wasn't a strutting jock any more."
"Athletic prowess has never been the true measure of a man."
"Sell that theory to your average American male."
She lifted her shoulder in semi concession, a move that caused his knuckles to make a dent in the inner slope of her breast. "How will the story end, Judd?"
"Ah, that's what's hanging me up. I'm up to the part where he finally settles into a well-paying job, which he goes through the motions of doing, expending as little effort as possible. He's got everybody but himself buffaloed into believing that what he's doing has merit. But what eventually becomes of this guy, who still resents like hell that he blew his one big chance in life?
'I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit," Stevie remarked in a soft, sympathetic voice. "It takes a tremendous amount of talent to turn out a newspaper column every day. Being prolific is certainly no small thing when journalism is your occupation. Your columns haven't always pleased me, but they're never stale or… What's the matter?"
He was no longer touching her with subconscious, intimate familiarity. His eyes had turned as stormy as the night sky. "Have I said this story is about me?"
His sudden mood shift stunned her. "Well, no, not specifically," she stammered, "b-but I… assumed…"
"The character in my book is dissatisfied with his life. Do I look like a guy who's dissatisfied with his life?"
He stood up, practically dumping her onto the floor. She staggered backward in an attempt to regain her balance. When she did, she glared at him with contempt and fury. He had told her his sob story, but when it came time to accept her compassion, he had turned stupidly, defensively macho.
'What you look like is a joke of a journalist, who is finally getting around to hacking out the dreary novel that he's been claiming for years to have burning inside him to anybody dumb enough to listen to that drivel."
"You don't know anything about me, Miss Cute Buns," he said with a dangerous scowl.
"I know that you're too insensitive to write copy for sardine cans, much less a novel about human emotions and life's disillusionments.
Speaking of which," she sneered, gesturing down at the table, "I think the subject matter of your book is self-indulgent and boring."
He took the steps necessary to close the distance between them. Through his clenched teeth he said, "Not if I detail the character's interactions with women."
"In that case, add disgusting to self-indulgent and boring and you've got my critique!"
On that outstanding exit line, she stamped from the room.
It was still raining the following morning, but it wasn't the sound of thunder that awakened Stevie. It was the cramping in her lower abdomen.
The twinges were like menstrual cramps, only more localized and more severe, particularly in her right side.
She got up and took two of her pain pills. Back in bed, she turned onto her side and drew her knees up close to her chest. Eventually the cadence of steady rainfall induced her back to sleep.
She must not have been sleeping very deeply, however. When she awakened again, Judd was speaking her name in gentle inquiry. She felt the mattress dip beneath his weight as he lay down behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Stevie, what's the matter?"
"Nothing." She lay unmoving, her eyes remaining closed.
"I could hear you moaning all the way in my bedroom. You woke me up."
"I apologize."
He swore beneath his breath and muttered something derogatory about the female psyche.
"I don't care about missing out on some sleep," he hissed. "Are you in pain?"
"A little."
"Damn."
"Only a slight cramp. Don't worry about it.
It'll go away."
"Where are your pills? I'll get them for you."
"I already took two."
"When?"
"I don't know. Not long ago."
"Why aren't they working?"
"They haven't had time."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing." ' 'Why are you keeping your eyes closed?"
"Because I'm sleepy." And because she knew, intuitively, that he had come to her bed as he slept in his-naked. "Go on back to bed. I'll be alright."
"Where do you hurt?"
Impatiently she snapped, "Where are my tumors?"
"What would help?"
"My heating pad might."
"Where is it?"
"I didn't bring it."
"Great."
He didn't say anything else, but he didn't go away, either. Stevie could feel him staring down at her. Abruptly, as though he suddenly made up his mind about something that had him in a quandary, he slid his arm around her waist, fumbling through bedding and cotton nightie before his hand found skin.
"Judd! What are-"
"Shh, shh. Lie still. I want to help."
"You can't."
"Maybe not, but I want to try."
"Why?"
"Because I was rough on you last night. I yelled at you and you didn't deserve to be yelled at."
"That doesn't matter. This isn't necessary."
"Look, this Good Samaritan gig is new to me, so give me a break and help me along, okay?
Now, where do you hurt? Here?" He placed his warm hand over her lower body, applying just the right amount of pressure.
"Hmm." A soothing heat spread through her, melting away the pain, ironing out the cramps. It felt wonderful.
"Is that better?" He waited. "Stevie?"
She was already asleep.
When she woke up the third time, the weight of his arm was lying heavily in the hollow of her waist. His hand was still palming the area between her hipbones. The pain was gone.
The fingers of his other hand were ensnared in her hair where it mingled with his on the pillow they shared. If he was going to invade her bed, the least he could have done was bring his own pillow, she thought.
Her peevishness was a ruse she employed to convince herself that she didn't like feeling his solid presence along her back, touching from shoulders to toes, nor the warm, damp gusts of his breath against her nape.
She tried telling herself that his body was heavy and intrusive, when actually she relished the feel of it against hers. So much so that she reflexively snuggled closer to him.
Her eyes opened wide when she was alarmingly reminded that Judd's sleeping attire had been chosen for maximum comfort and left no doubt that she was in bed with an extremely virile man. Hoping that she wouldn't awaken him, she turned her head slightly.
He snuffled, stirred and opened his eyes. Their faces were very close. Stevie felt as though the bizarre occasion called for something. A thank-you.
A tension-breaking laugh. A reprimand.
She neither said nor did anything, only lay there staring into a rugged, well-lived-in, beard-roughened face that was becoming distressingly dear to her.
When Judd finally moved, it was only to spread wide his fingers against her abdomen and to press it gently with the heel of his hand. Then, moving that hand to the curve of her waist, he slowly drew her onto her back.
His eyes went on a silent tour of her, touching everywhere: her hair, which he was lazily sifting through his fingers, her eyes, her mouth, her throat. He smiled with amusement as they roved down the prim bodice of her girlish nightgown to the satin bow that made it seductive. Gradually his gaze made its way back up to hers.
He moved again, this time to b
racket her shoulders with his elbows. He used them to prop himself inches above her. He pressed one of his legs between hers, smooth flesh against rough.
His thigh lay warmly and heavily in her cleft.
He took her face between his hands, sliding his fingers up through her hair and curving them around her head. His thumbs made light passes across her lips. They parted. The point of separation seemed to intrigue him, and he investigated it with the tip of his thumb.
Then he lowered his head and replaced his stroking thumbs with a kiss as soft as the summer rain falling upon the leaves of the trees outside.
Reflexively Stevie's arms went around him.
She splayed her hands over his broad back.
Gaining confidence, she rubbed them up and down, eventually going as far as the dimples in the small of his back.
He released a low, primitive groan and pressed his tongue between her lips. His lips slanted across hers to achieve the best fit and ultimate satisfaction. His tongue probed deeply, master fully, but unhurriedly. It was a tranquil, sleepy, rainy morning kiss.
It was delicious.
When it was over and they pulled apart, they gazed at each other with drowsy complacence.
Strands of her hair had become enmeshed in his stubble. She reached up to pull them away, but he caught the tip of her finger between his teeth and nipped it, then bathed the ball of it with his soft, damp tongue.
She investigated his face with her hands, as one blind, ghosting over the rough, masculine features with curious fingertips. She tried in vain to smooth out the dense eyebrows, though she thought they were incredibly attractive just as they were.
He bent his head and kissed her bare shoulder.
She slipped her arms beneath his again and gave him a hard, urgent hug, wanting to feel his weight pressing down on her again.
He granted her wish, readjusting his body against hers for an even more tantalizing match, then slightly rocking them together. His mouth tenderly ate at hers, giving it kiss after kiss-open, hot, wet and deep.
Slowly, taking it one small button at a time, he unfastened her nightgown. When he got to the satin bow, he raised his head and watched as his fingers pulled on one end of the ribbon until it came free. He moved the cotton aside.
Stevie gauged his reaction with trepidation, but there was nothing glowing in his hazel eyes except admiration and desire. His tanned fingers curved around her paler skin, cupping her breast. His expression grew as soft as the flesh he was gently supporting.
But Stevie didn't see that. By now her eyes were closed, and, between parted lips, her breath rushed in and out on shallow pants. Judd nuzzled the breast he held, rubbing it with his nose, his chin, his lips, lightly scratching it with his bearded cheeks. Stevie murmured with want and need, and responsively pressed her thigh against his, tilting her hips up and forward.
He kissed the very center of her breast, then took it between his lips and drew it into his mouth. After suckling her with tempered fervency, he kissed her raised nipple. He flicked it rapidly and lightly with the tip of his tongue.
Sensations exploded in her belly like holiday sparklers. She gave a glad, wordless cry. Judd pressed her femininity with his knee and made a grinding motion against it. She clutched his back, digging into the hard muscles.
He sent his hand beneath the sheet, beneath the nightgown, beneath the brief silk panties to caress softness and warmth and woman.
That's when they heard the knocking on the door downstairs, urgent knocking that couldn't be ignored.
The first words with which Judd greeted the new day were precise and profane.
He practically tore the front door off the hinges getting it open. A sodden delivery man, wearing a dripping yellow slicker, didn't look any happier to be there than Judd was to have him there.
"Took you long enough," the man complained.
"I was in bed."
"Hope you appreciate me coming all the way out here in this." He indicated the downpour that had made a quagmire of the clearing surrounding the house. Stevie's valiant little plants were lying vanquished in the mud like victims of a sea battle.
'Oh, yeah, I'm thrilled to see you," Judd mumbled sarcastically as he scrawled his signature along the dotted line of the receipt.
The delivery man handed him the plastic-wrapped overnight letter, hunkered deeper into his slicker and ran down the porch steps to his waiting van. Judd slammed the front door.
"Who was it?" 'A delivery for me.''
"From whom?"
In his querulous mood, he hadn't even thought to check. When he read the return address, he cursed. "Mike Ramsey."
"What is it?"
"How the hell do I know? I haven't opened it. yet."
He'd never been this frustrated in his life.
There they'd been, in that cozy, rumpled bed, kissing like crazy, temperatures rising, things progressing nicely, and now this. He could gladly murder Ramsey for unwittingly interrupting.
He was none too pleased to see that Stevie had quickly dressed. Her eyes looked enormous in her wan face, her expression a blend of apprehension and guilt.
Damn! He still had the taste of her mouth and the feel of her breast on his tongue. Even as enraged as he was over the interruption, all he could really think about was resuming where they'd left off.
But instinct told him that it wasn't going to happen. That's why he was so angry. Given a chance to think about it, to reconsider, to let her passions cool, she had backed out.
There was always an outside chance, however, that he was wrong, Judd thought optimistically.
He took a step toward her where she stood poised, as though for flight, on the bottom stair.
He looked at her longingly and spoke her name in a hoarse, aroused voice. "Stevie?"
Wetting her lips nervously, she said, "I'll put on the coffee," and headed toward the kitchen at a pace that could fairly be classified as a run.
Judd waited to follow her until he'd exhausted his repertoire of obscenities. Having spent a majority of his adult life either in a locker room or newsroom, that file cabinet of his vocabulary was extensive.
Wearing only the shorts he'd pulled on before going downstairs to answer the door, he went into the kitchen. Flopping into a chair at the table, he ripped open the cardboard envelope while Stevie stood waiting for the coffee to finish perking.
Judd read the one-page, single-spaced, typed letter, then balled it up and stuffed it into the pocket of his shorts. "How long before that coffee is ready?"
"A few more minutes. What did your editor say?"
"Nothing of importance."
"Then why are you looking so surly?"
"Because I haven't had my coffee yet." He sounded testy even to his own ears. But it wasn't Stevie he was aggravated with. It was Ramsey, the situation, his aroused body that refused to relax. "There are other more…pressing reasons for my crankiness, but I don't think you really want to hear the details, do you?"
She gave a quick, negative shake of her head.
'I didn't think so," he said in an undertone.
'Is Mr. Ramsey begging now? Is he as low as a slug and groveling?"
"No."
"Then what does he have to say?"
"Not much."
"What's in the letter?"
Her outcry took him by surprise. Shifting his attention from his straining sex to her, he saw that she was drawn up as tight as a high-octave piano wire and obviously none too pleased with his reticence. "Alright, you guessed. The letter was about you."
The instant he confirmed it, she dropped into the chair opposite his. "What did he say?"
"He informed me that you are missing," he said with a wry smile. "He told me that I was losing out on the hottest sports story so far this year. All any sports fan is talking about these days is Stevie Corbett's mysterious disappearance following her collapse at Lobo Blanco."
The light on the percolator blinked on, indicating that the coffee was ready. Stevie hadn't not
iced it, so he got up. Returning to the table with two steaming mugs, he set one down in front of her and sipped at his own before continuing.
"Mike urged, strongly urged, that I stop pouting and come back to work immediately. He says that with my network of sources, I should be able to track you down before anybody else gets warm." Smiling into his steaming mug, he added, "He seems to have conveniently forgotten that he fired me."
"What are they saying?"
"Who?"
"All the sportswriters. Surely there've been theories on my disappearance."
"Ah, let's see, Mike mentioned something about suicide and-"
"Suicide?"
"That's one rumor, yes, but since your body hasn't been found…" He shrugged. "Another hypothesis is that you're secretly hospitalized somewhere. And there's been mention of an exclusive and revolutionary cancer treatment center in the Bahamas. I've been instructed to forget my novel for the moment and find out which guess about the 'Corbett broad'-and that's a quote-is right."
"He knows about your novel?"
"I've mentioned it off and on."
She had hit the nail on the head during their shouting match the night before. For years he had been telling anybody who would listen about this terrific sports novel he was going to write someday. But someday had just never got around to happening.
Until now. It was here. After many false starts over the years, he was finally into the novel and loving every minute of it. It was gut-wrenching, head-splitting, nerve-racking, ego-deflating work, but the prospect of having to set it aside indefinitely was unappealing.
On the other hand, he had financial obligations – like his expensive European car-that his checking account could cover for about another two weeks, and that was stretching it. He had to make a living to support his writing habit.
The solution to his problem was sitting across his grandma's oak table.
He was right on top of a hot sports story that he could sell to the highest bidder. With that nice, fat nest egg to fall back on, he could kiss Ramsey and the Tribune column goodbye, at least temporarily, and work full-time on the book he had to expunge from his system whether or not it was ever published.