by Sandra Paul
couldn’t believe the fine, silky material would benefit
by being wadded into a corner of the suitcase the way
Christine had done. She laid the now neatly folded dress in the case. Why would he still be interested in her when Susan—with her slim, blond good looks—was available? He’d accepted that Libby wanted a husband who was around all the time; she’d accepted that he wasn’t going to give up his job. No, like he’d said. He was simply staying for a little while for the baby’s sake.
She maintained that belief on Monday, since nothing changed much with Christine gone other than Del’s sudden interest in her eating habits. He arrived to oversee her consumption of “the proper nutrients” at breakfast, lunch and dinner, but otherwise left her pretty much alone while he fixed various things around the house. In the evening, when she sat down with her knitting before the television in the parlor, he disappeared into the study, saying he had reading to catch up on.
On Tuesday, he caught her standing on a chair, while she searched for a mixing bowl in a high kitchen cupboard. He lifted her down and handed her the bowl along with a few choice remarks. She’d simmered with anger the rest of the day, but arrived at the conclusion that no man who claimed a woman was a “little idiot” could possibly be interested in her.
On Wednesday, the firmness of her conviction wavered a bit when he unexpectedly brought her roses—huge, beautiful pink blooms. “The color matches your cheeks,” he said, thrusting the fragrant mass into her arms. Her suspicions rising, she might have accused him of flirting with her if he hadn’t added, “I always pick a bunch up for Christine when I’m in town. She gets a kick out of them.”
Okay, so he equated her with his sister. That thought reassured her through Thursday—until their childbirth class that evening. Libby sat through a video of an actual birth in growing alarm. Thank goodness Del wouldn’t be around long enough to really go through the process with her. She’d never let him see her looking sweaty and desperate like the woman on the screen. Why, Libby wondered, had she never noticed before how big babies’ heads were?
She expected Del to be disgusted by the film; instead, he was fascinated. The cheerleading couple, who’d originally answered all the teacher’s questions, could barely get a word in edgewise between Del’s quick replies. Did he spend all his time reading pregnancy books?
Later, as they went through Amelia’s “relaxation massage,” she glanced covertly around. None of the other coaches’ touches seemed to affect the women the way Del’s affected her. Under his hands her skin flushed and tingled, her nipples hardened with excitement. Was it her imagination, or did his fingers linger as they stroked her legs, climbing toward her hips and buttocks? When he massaged her arms, she glanced sharply at his face. Had she imagined the brush of his thumb against her breast? The innocence in his expression seemed genuine.
And she believed that up until Friday night, when she returned from a long evening walk and an unexpected run-in with Mrs. Peyton. By the time Mrs. P. had grilled her on her weight gain, eating habits and even more personal topics, Libby had been more than thankful to escape into the house.
Unsuspectingly, she walked through the kitchen and pushed open the dining room door. She froze, looking into the shadowy room.
There were candles on the supper table.
Flames danced atop the slender white tapers, casting a flickering golden glow over the table set for two. No light shone from the electric chandelier. Only candlelight glinted off the silverware and the creamy white china. A single yellow daisy nodded lazily in a glass of water.
Libby tried to swallow. Her mouth felt dry. She’d seen this scene before. Her mouth felt dry and her palms grew damp. Even the delicious smell of roasted chicken was familiar. Her heart began thumping in slow, painful beats. This was the exact same scene she’d created the night she’d decided to make love with Del.
“Hello,” he said behind her.
She whirled around. He was standing close-too close.
“Oh! Hello. I didn’t see you there,” she stammered, taking a nervous step away. “Let me get the lights.”
She lunged for the switch on the wall.
Click. Click—click. Nothing happened.
She stared at the switch. “It seems to be out,” she said, her voice hollow.
“So it does. Good thing I got out the candles,” Del said cheerfully. “Come on and sit down, while I bring in the food. I have everything ready.”
He did. Roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. Sweet green peas and baby carrots. Even a luscious double-chocolate cake for dessert.
“More chicken?” he asked, politely proffering the platter.
“No, thank you.” She could barely finish the piece she had. He’d cooked the bird perfectly, roasting it to a smooth golden brown. Much better than the slightly burned one she’d made for dinner months ago that they’d laughingly demolished with their fingers.
“How ‘bout carrots?”
“Love them,” she said brightly. They hadn’t had carrots at the other dinner—the only vegetables she’d been able to find in the pantry were canned green beans. Del loved green beans; she hated them. But she’d eaten one off his fork when he’d coaxed her to and been rewarded with a slow, lazy smile that had made her breath catch.
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Umm, thanks.” She pushed them around, sculpting a small mountain on her plate. Not one lump! He’d claimed her lumpy potatoes were full of “substance.”
She refused the cake, ignoring his lifted eyebrows. He knew she loved chocolate. She’d insisted on making ing “s’mores”—gthe one talent she’d emerged with after a two-year stint in the Girl Scouts—and had piled the chocolate bars high between oozing melted marshmallows they’d toasted in the fireplace. The marshmallows had dripped on to her fingers. Del had sucked the stickiness off each one.
“Are you sure you won’t try a piece?” he asked. He forked up some cake, gooey with icing, and held it temptingly close to her lips.
“Well.” She hesitated. It did look good. The thick icing swirled around the top of the rich, moist bite of forbidden pleasure.
Her lips parted.
“It’s delicious,” he murmured. “Susan brought it over.”
Libby’s head jerked back. The fork wobbled. Icing plopped down on her breast. “Oh, no!” Libby said, staring down at the glob.
Quickly, Del reached over. Scooping the icing up, he popped it in her mouth with his finger. Her lips closed automatically over the tip. His skin felt excitingly rough against her tongue. Her nipples puckered.
His eyes, staring into hers, dilated.
Pushing his hand away, Libby jumped up, scrubbing furiously at the spot with her napkin. “I told you I’m not hungry!”
“At least not for food,” Del murmured. His eyes were half-shut, filled with a slumberous satisfaction as he leaned back in his chair.
Libby threw down her napkin and fled to the parlor. Night had fallen in earnest now, and only a few small candles glowed in the darkened room. She considered snatching one up and going upstairs, but reluctantly abandoned the idea. It would look too much like fleeing. She didn’t want Del to know how his presence alarmed and—oh, all right!—excited her, too.
She hurriedly reached into the sewing basket by the chair, arming herself with her knitting. She’d keep the conversation impersonal—no more suggestive comments.
Del strolled casually into the room. Barely sparing her a glance, he went over to the fireplace, crouching down to light the logs piled on the hearth. The tangysweet scent of pine filled the room.
“The days are getting chilly again,” he said.
“I know. I’ve started putting extra blankets on the bed.” She bit her tongue. Why did she have to mention bed, when that was the last subject she wanted brought up?
Sure enough, he turned her way. Worse yet, he rose. Libby’s pulse quickened as he slowly walked toward her. He looked big and broad—and dangerously sexy outlined by the g
rowing glow from the fireplace behind him.
He leaned over her. Funny how in the darkened room her other senses felt heightened. She could feel the warmth of his body, hear the steady hush of his breathing, smell the enticingly musky scent of his skin.
It had been like this before—during the blackout. The same, almost painful awareness had shivered through her body, tightening her nipples, flushing her skin. She held her breath.then released it with a gasp as he reached into the basket next to her chair. He pulled something out and dropped it in her lap.
Libby picked it up. Pink booties. She frowned in confused surprise. “They’re darling. Did Christine make these?”
“I did.”
“You!” She stared at him in shock. “I didn’t know you could knit.”
“There’s a lot,” he drawled, echoing her words, “that you don’t know about me.”
Libby studied his handiwork. The rows were neatly even, the corners straight. “How did you learn to knit so well?”
He dropped into the wingback chair next to hers, slinging a long leg over the plump arm. “Mom taught me one winter along with Christine-probably to keep us from tearing around the house so much. She fooled me into thinking we were tying fancy knots. By the time I realized it was ‘sissy stuff,’ I’d already learned the basics.”
“Christine’s never mentioned it,” she said faintly.
“I swore her to secrecy as a kid-under the direst of penalties.” His eyes narrowed. “I guess I’ll have to swear you to secrecy now, too,” he said softly.
Her fingers clutched the booties. She didn’t want to share a secret with him. She didn’t want to share anything with him.
Her face must have revealed her thoughts, because he leaned closer, his eyes reflecting tiny flames from the fireplace. “Do you swear?” he whispered menacingly. “Or do I have to tickle you into compliance like I did with Chris when she was six?”
“I swear,” she promised hurriedly.
He grinned and moved away a little. She lifted her chin, recovering her composure. “Like I said, these are very nice.” She added kindly, “Too bad they’re pink. I’m having a boy.”
“A girl.”
“A boy!”
He eyed her thoughtfully, then suddenly reached over and plucked her knitting from her hands.
She gave a startled squeak. “What—”
“I think you need a break,” he said, smoothly overriding her protest. Standing up, he grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s practice that relaxation massage Amy taught us.”
“No, thank you. I am relaxed,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to loosen his grasp.
“This will help you even more,” he promised. He pulled her over to the fireplace, grabbing a couple of pillows to put down on the rug. “Sit down—”
“I don’t—”
“Sit down.”
She sat down. “You’re so bossy,” she said as he hunkered down behind her. He began to work her shoulders. She stiffened at first but soon relaxed a little. He was massaging just the right spot. To hide her pleasure, she added in a grouchy tone, “I knew thatyou would be.”
“And you’re pretty irritable. You should have eaten more.”
She bristled, hunching her shoulders under his hands in annoyance. “I dideat. I just haven’t been very hungry lately.”
He kept rubbing rhythmically until she relaxed again, her tension easing. “I know you haven’t been hungry,” he said. “Which is why you might consider taking two prenatal vitamins-like the doctor suggested-instead of only one.”
Libby glowered at the fire. She hated those horse pills. They made her gag, they were so big. She opened her mouth to tell him so and he added, “For the baby’s sake.”
She subsided. “Okay,” she said grudgingly. He knew that she’d do anything for the baby.
Silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the burning pine logs. Del continued the massage. As his warm hands stroked her skin, drugging relaxation seeped through Libby. Her insides felt as if they were melting, but her nipples tightened into aching peaks. She stared into the fire, her eyes drooping half-shut.
He gave her a little push, silently urging her to lie down. Libby obliged, curling on her side with an arm beneath the pillow under her head. He shifted position, lifting her foot into his lap. His thumbs firmly stroked the pad of her foot through her sock. Warmth from the touch of his hands on her sole seemed to travel up to her thighs. When had he taken off her shoe? she wondered.
She shifted, planning to ask him, when a yawn caught her by surprise. She patted her mouth, saying, “Oh, pardon me.”
“I noticed you’ve been pretty tired lately,” he commented. “Maybe you should consider taking a nap in the afternoons.”
Libby frowned. She didn’t like to sleep in the daytime; she never had. She started to tell him so, when he added, “For the baby’s sake.”
His thumb stroking the arch of her foot felt so good. Libby decided not to argue. “Okay,” she mumbled, “for the baby’s sake.”
The fire glowed warmly on her face and stomach. Del’s strong, warm fingers dug into her calves, chasing away the tightness there. She blinked lazily at the fire. It was getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open.
“Libby.”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve noticed you’ve been tense lately. I can hear you pacing at all hours.”
His thumbs softly rubbed the sensitive skin behind her knees, and Libby stirred, his touch causing a corresponding tingling achiness between her legs. He started on the back of her thighs, pushing aside the hem of her jumper to stroke her bare skin. Libby sighed. She hadn’t realized how much she ached there. She didn’t want him to stop. The firm circular motion was turning her muscles into mush. His hands moved higher.
He added, “The books I’ve been reading say a wholesome physical relationship is the best cure for stress.”
“Um-hmm…” His hands felt so good on the top of her thighs. She stirred again. Unconsciously parting her legs a little, she shut her eyes, concentrating on the melting sensation his touch invoked.
“So I think we should make love…for the baby’s sake.” His hands moved higher. He massaged her buttocks.
“Okay.” She moaned. “For the—” Her head jerked up. She glanced swiftly around. “What did you say?”
10
His hand still rested on her bottom. Suddenly becoming aware of that fact, Libby scooted out of reach,
picking up a pillow to hold in front of her.
He watched her calmly. “You heard what I said.”
She clutched her pillow tighter. “I don’t want to make love.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” She stared at him. “It’s obvious why not.”
“Not to me, it isn’t.” Reaching out, he took her hand in his, gently toying with her fingers. “So tell me.”
“Because, ah.” The reasons were obvious-so much so that she couldn’t remember them for a moment. She was distracted by the feel of his thumb, rubbing her wrist in small delicate circles. Was it the candlelight that softened his expression so? If only he’d stop staring at her with that tender yet intent look in his eyes. “What was the question again?” she asked vaguely.
The tenderness crept into the small smile he gave her. “I asked why you don’t want to make love,” he repeated patiently.
Libby blinked. “Oh, that’s right. Well, because I’m pregnant for one thing.”
“So? Pregnant women make love all the time. The doctor even told you it was okay.”
“But think about what happened the last time.”
His grip on her hand tightened. “I am thinking about it.”
The hungry note in his voice caused Libby to think about it, too. Heat burned under her skin from her breasts to her cheeks. “I’m talking about the fact that I got pregnant.”
“Which is something we certainly don’t need to be concerned with this time.”
She said weakly, “It wouldn’t be right…”
“I’d make it right.”
The hard certainty in his tone made the muscles in her stomach clench. Her fingers tightened on his. He would make it right—like he’d done the first time when he’d lured, demanded and cajoled her body into responding to his. By the end of their lovemaking, she’d been limp with satisfied exhaustion.
A woman couldn’t ask for a more caring and experienced lover—during the limited time he’d be around.
“No,” she choked out and yanked her hand out of his.
She headed almost blindly toward the door, only to be brought up short by his firm, “Wait!”
She hesitated instinctively at the command in his voice, then watched him uncertainly as he strode over to the light switch on the wall. He flicked it up and the lights in the hall and parlor blazed on.
Libby’s eyes widened. “I thought we had another power outage!”
“Nope, just a loose bulb in the chandelier.”
Her hands fisted at her sides. “You tricked me!”
He shook his head. “I never said the power was out. You just assumed it.”
“Neglecting to say something can be as big a lie as telling an untruth.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I agree.especially in view of what you haven’t said.”
She didn’t want to ask the question-something in his expression told Libby she’d regret it—but she couldn’t stop herself. “What do you mean?” she demanded
His eyes held hers. “I mean in your entire list of reasons why we shouldn’t make love, never once did you say that you didn’t want me.”
Libby fled up the stairs.
Three hours later, lying alone in the darkness, Libby finally admitted the truth: Del was right. She wanted him.
A light rain pattered outside. She turned over, trying to find a comfortable position in the big bed. Her sheets felt hot and wrinkled, the covers too heavy. Her skin felt sensitized and she rubbed her wrist, as if the feel of Del’s callused fingertips lingered there.