by Sandra Paul
It didn’t make sense to be so physically attracted to him. Logically, she knew he wasn’t the safe, steady man she should want. But her body didn’t seem to be reacting to logic, but rather to the memory of how it had felt to make love with him the last time, to have his hands and lips moving gently over her, leading her to a soaring ecstasy she’d never known even existed.
She moaned. Rolling onto her side, she yanked her pillow from beneath her head and hugged it to her, trying to relieve the sexual pressure peaking her nipples and causing a melting readiness between her thighs. Darn him for reminding her how it had felt to make love. Darn him for showing her that he remembered, too.
Because now she couldn’t forget. She felt restless and tense, filled with the same urgent desire that had driven her into his arms and bed eight months ago.
Sitting up, she gave her pillow a few good whacks, then lay down on it again. He made it sound oh-soeasy. Make love—relieve the itch—and then continue on as if nothing had happened.
She flopped over onto her other side. It just wasn’t possiblem…
Her eyes popped open. She stilled, staring wide-eyed into the darkness. Or was it?
She sat up, absently rubbing the satin edge of the blanket between her finger and thumb as she considered the question. It wasn’t as if she was the naive little fool she’d been before, after all. She knew his job came first with him; she knew that wouldn’t change. But so what? She had plans of her own about the kind of man she wanted and needed for the longterm. She couldn’t get hurt this time because emotionally she was completely over him. All she needed was to overcome this physical craving, too.
She frowned. But maybe she’d been going about this thing all wrong. Instead of keeping him at a distance, maybe what she needed was a good dose of Del. Maybe she should take him—just once more—as kind of a lovemaking inoculation shot Not enough to make her lovesick again, just enough to make her immune.
As he’d pointed out, she was already pregnant—that wouldn’t change. The doctor had said sexual relations were okay; the pregnancy books even encouraged intimacy, saying it was a good method of alleviating stress—and heaven knew, she felt stressed.
So what was stopping her?
She shoved her blanket aside. She’d do it. She’d make love with Del, yet maintain complete control, curing her desire for him once and for all. This time she’d simply refuse to let any emotional nonsense confuse her.
Kicking away the rumpled covers, she started to step out of the bed. Her toes had barely brushed the rose-colored rug when she paused, doubts overtaking her again. She placed a hand on the round ball of her belly. Who was she kidding? Did she really think she had the nerve to waddle into Del’s room, eight months’ pregnant, and ask him to make love with her? Never mind that he seemed to want her, too. He didn’t know how much her body had changed under this prim white nightgown.
She sighed. She just couldn’t do it. She sat there forlornly, her legs still dangling. Suddenly a small furry body with tiny claws scampered over her foot.
Libby’s scream was long, piercing and instinctive. She leapt to the center of the bed. By the time Del pounded his way up the stairs and burst into her room, she was still standing there, clamping her nightgown around her thighs as she alternately covered one bare foot with the other.
“Watch out!” she shrieked, and Del whirled around, muscles tensed and fists up in an automatic fighting stance, ready to take on the unseen opponent hiding in the darkened room.
“No—over there!” she called.
He spun again, biting out, “Where? I can’t see him.”
“I think he ran under the bed.”
About to lunge in that direction, Del paused. “Ran under the bed? What the hell am I fighting?”
“A mouse.”
He stood frozen a moment before the tension eased from his muscles and his fists dropped. He ran a hand through his hair. “Good God, you scared the sh—dickens out of me.”
“Well, he scared me,” Libby said defensively, still standing with one raised foot tucked behind the other, like a disheveled stork. “I can’t sleep in here with him running around.”
“So sleep somewhere else.”
It sounded reasonable. The only trouble was, Libby had developed a distinct aversion to stepping on the floor. Finally, after several attempts to get her down had resulted in no more than a series of squeaks and continued foot hopping, Del literally took matters into his own hands and bundled her into his arms.
He was wearing only boxers, and the smooth skin of his chest and shoulders felt warm against her. Startled, but too relieved to protest, she threw an arm around his strong neck as they began walking. “Wait!” she cried suddenly when they’d made it halfway to the door. “My pillow. The mouse might try to nest in it or something.”
Del obediently turned back to the bed, bending with a slight grunt to enable her to pick up her pillow.
“And the baby’s clothes,” she remembered when they were on their way again. She lunged forward to try to scoop them off the dresser, causing Del to stagger slightly at the unexpected shift in weight. “And—rd;
“That’s it,” he said firmly, heading out the door. “It’s a mouse, for God’s sake, not a rabid wolverine. It’s not going to destroy everything in sight.” He managed to hit the hall light switch with his shoulder. Light flooded the hallway and he started down the stairs, maneuvering his bulky burden around the landing corner, swearing when his elbow hit the railing. Libby’s death grip tightened around his neck. He choked out, “Can you lower the pillow? I can’t see.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Libby’s grip eased and she tried to get down.
But he didn’t want to let her go. She was cuddly and warm in his arms, and her sweet-smelling hair brushed his cheek. Del held her tighter and quickened his pace.
Automatically, her arm curved behind his neck again. He strode down the hall, saying to distract her from his destination, “I didn’t know you were afraid of mice.”
“I didn’t, either,” she admitted. “But I’ve never had one run across my foot like that before.”
He walked into his bedroom. “I’ll trap it tomorrow.”
“Oh, don’t,” she said anxiously, gazing up into his face. “I don’t want you to kill it—just relocate it somewhere.”
“Like a government witness, huh?” he said dryly. “Fine. I’ll try to catch it and relocate it in the woods. But until then, you’ll be safest right here.” He lowered her onto his bed. “Under my…protection.”
11
Libby lay back against the pillows. The sheets were still warm from his body. Trembling with nervous anticipation she pulled the covers up to her chin. “I don’t think we should do this.”
Moonlight filtered in through the window, gleaming off Del’s smooth muscles as he stripped off his boxers and climbed in beside her. “I definitely think we should.”
Libby could see the hungry desire etched on his face as he lay, propped on his elbow, looking down at her. She swallowed nervously and his gaze fastened on her mouth.
He bent, his lips slowly closing over hers as he enveloped her in his warm embrace. Libby’s eyes fluttered shut. Del was such a good kisser. He tasted like coffee and mint toothpaste. He kissed her lightly at first, seeming to savor the taste of her, too. Then his tongue engaged hers in a teasing battle that quickly turned serious. He kissed her deeply, demandingly, until nothing existed except his hungry mouth.
Libby felt dizzy with an exhilarating breathlessness. Her muscles tensed in anticipation while her insides seemed to melt into liquid warmth. She wanted this—she wanted him. But when he reached for the first button on the neckline of her prim nightgown, her hand covered his, stopping him from unfastening it.
His fingers stilled. He lifted his head to study her worried expression in the shadowy darkness. “What is it, Libby,” he whispered. “Don’t you want me?”
“It isn’t that…” How she wished it were that simple.
�
�What, then?” he coaxed. He pressed a kiss against her temple.
“It’s just…” He met her gaze. She couldn’t hold his intent stare. Her eyes shied away. “I don’t look the same.”
He lifted his hand and gently tilted her chin up to meet his gaze once again. He regarded her solemnly. “These big brown eyes look the same,” he said softly, dropping a kiss on her fluttering lashes. “And this nose—” another kiss landed there “—is just as cute as ever.”
His gaze lingered on her mouth. His voice thickened. “These lips don’t taste any different.” He pressed several kisses there, until her lips were swollen and moist, her chest rising and falling with her quickened breaths.
Still kissing her, his hand trailed down to her breasts. Barely lifting his mouth from hers, he murmured, “Now these feel very different.” He carefully cupped a swollen globe, weighing it in his hand. He smiled against her lips. “But it’s not a difference any red-blooded American male is likely to complain about.”
He palmed her puckered nipple and Libby moaned with almost aching pleasure. He smiled again. “You still like that, do you, sweetheart?” he murmured. Bending his head, he dropped a kiss on each peak through the thin cotton.
His hand glided lower over her belly, delicately molding the firm roundness. Through the gown, his finger circled her belly button—once an “innie,” now an “outie.” “This is different, too—much, much different. But this—” his hand moved lower, sliding beneath her gown to nestle in the curls between her legs “—this feels very familiar.”
Libby closed her eyes, writhing a little at the restless yearning growing with his teasing touch. This time when he tugged her nightgown slowly upward, she didn’t resist, but raised her arms to help him.
He tossed the gown to the floor. She lay there beneath his gaze, achingly aroused, achingly vulnerable. His face tautened. “Oh, Libby—” He reached up to cover her breast. “How beautiful you are.”
She wasn’t beautiful, but she felt so under his eyes and hands. He gently kneaded her swollen flesh, brushing his thumb firmly across one taut nipple. She gave a little cry, his touch sending lightning stabs of pleasure along her nerves, increasing the liquid warmth between her thighs. As if he knew, his hand moved there.
Her fingers dug into the hard muscles of his arms to push him away—to draw him closer. She remembered the sharpening need, the rising crest of desirebut had his touch been so tender before? So confidently sure of how to wring the tiny gasps of satisfaction from her lips?
His warm breath flowed across her cheek as he breathed, “Do you like this, Libby? Am I hurting you at all?”
“No,” she moaned, but she was hurting because she had to hold back; she couldn’t get lost in his arms again. His hand swept along the sensitive curve of her bottom, and she clenched her fingers in the sheets to keep from stroking him, too—to keep from becoming absorbed in the salty taste and musky scent of his skin. She fought to ignore the huskily murmured endearments that he groaned into her neck.
“Oh, sweetie, you feel so good, so soft. So tight.”
She moaned again as he explored deeper, her senses spiraling higher and higher. In an urgency of need, she tugged mindlessly at his shoulders, trying to urge him over her, but he rolled onto his back instead, carrying her with him. He gripped her buttocks in his big hands. “Come on top of me, love,” he coaxed, “so I don’t hurt you.”
She did, climbing on him to ride the tightening spiral of desire, his rocking body carrying her upward until the darkness burst behind her eyes in a shower of stars. She cried out. He did, too.
Libby’s body felt weightless, floating down from the heights. For just a little while afterward, she savored the feeling as she lay cradled in Del’s arms, listening to the beat of his heart beneath her cheek. Then she carefully moved out of his hold to lay down on her side, facing away from him.
He immediately curved his body around hers, pulling her back until her bottom rested against his lap. His hairy, muscular leg bracketed her smooth one. His big hand splayed on her belly. This time Libby waited until his deep even breathing told her he’d fallen asleep, before she eased away from his touch again.
She shivered as she moved to a cool spot on the sheets, resisting the urge to snuggle close to his warmth again. She’d done it, she told herself, ignoring the tears that burned behind her eyes. She hadn’t run her fingers through his hair, or traced the contours of his strong back or muscular buttocks. If a tiny part of her had wanted to cling a bit tighter, soar just a little higher, she’d managed to prevent it, to stay in control.
There would be no repercussions this time. No way that she’d get caught.
12
Libby felt hopeful the next day, in control of things again. Her confidence was strong enough that when Del went out to rake the fallen leaves, she did something she’d been delaying for the past seven months.
She went into the silent study. In the corner, Del’s computer hummed quietly. Turning her back on the faceless machine, she picked up the phone and dialed the 213 area code and Liz’s unlisted number.
Nervously twisting the cord around her finger, she waited the prerequisite fifteen minutes from the time the housekeeper answered until Liz came on the line. Liz never came to the phone right away. Ever conscious of her image, she wanted to make sure the caller was aware that she was a very important, very busy woman.
“Oh, hello, Elizabeth,” she drawled in response to Libby’s greetings, a faint hint of disappointment in her voice. The media calls Liz had once been bombarded with were coming fewer and farther between. “I didn’t realize it was you. How are you surviving in the wilds of Oregon?” In Liz’s opinion the only states worth bothering about were the ones with film studios.
“I’m fine, Liz. In fact.” Libby took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”
There was silence on the line. Libby’s stomach knotted and she twisted the cord tighter around her finger as she waited in nervous uncertainty for her mother’s reaction. When Liz laughed, the famous, husky laugh so familiar to her fans, Libby’s throat tightened in disappointment.
“Now that’s something I didn’t expect,” Liz drawled. “If you were sixteen, yes, but twentysomething? I can see our little talk about the facts of life is long overdue.” She paused. “Are you going to.take care of it?”
“If you mean am I planning on an abortion, the answer is no,” Libby said bluntly. She rested a comforting hand on her belly. “But I am planning on taking care of my child myself.”
“How admirable of you, darling. But all alone? Where’s the dear daddy?”
“He’s around. But we’re not involved.” Libby pushed the picture of exactly how involved they’d been last night from her mind.
“Isn’t that just like a man-you can never depend on them. What’s that old saying? Why buy the milk when you can get the cow for free?” Liz chuckled.
Libby discovered she’d wrapped the cord so tightly that her finger was turning white. She loosened the coils, adding, “Yes, well…I just wanted to let you know you’re going to be a grandmother.”
“Oh, my God!” For just a second, Liz’s voice turned shrill with honest horror. “I can’t be a grandmother. I’m only.”
“Forty-nine.”
“Forty-one,” Liz snapped. “Do you think that producer would have called me for the part of a young mother if I’d been that old?”
Libby didn’t bother to argue. Nothing would ever make Liz admit to her real age-or the fact that producers no longer cast her in such a role. She’d convince herself that one had, and then manufacture some “crisis” to excuse herself from taking the mythical part. How complicated it was living in the fantasy world her mother constantly created.
Libby listened to her mother’s monologue about the new film without comment, however, until Liz concluded, “So, you’d better come home.”
“No,” Libby said. “I’m staying here.”
“Darling, be reasonable. I need you.” Liz’s voice a
ltered again, assuming the exasperated yet loving tones of a good parent. She was very convincing in the role, Libby thought idly. After all, she’d been perfecting it before the media for years. “Besides, how are you ever going to be able to take care of an infant on your own?”
Libby refused to let doubt weaken her. “I’m not coming back, Mother,” she repeated.
Liz sighed. “Then my best advice is to make him marry you, darling. You have the perfect weaponguilt. Believe me it can work like a charm. And even if the marriage doesn’t last, at least you’ll seem a little smarter-and you’ll get some alimony.”
“I don’t want a temporary marriage. 1 want the real thing.”
“It’s a little late for that. If he’d wanted to marry you, he would have asked you before you got pregnant, don’t you think?”
Yes, I do, Libby thought, ending the conversation and hanging up the phone. She stared at the screen saver on Del’s computer—colorful little stars exploding on a dark background—while she thought about what Liz had implied. Guilt had made Del offer to marry her, guilt was keeping him in Lone Oak. Before Liz’s reminder, she’d almost been in danger of forgetting that-especially in his arms.
Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have a physical relationship with him.and yet, could she resist? She sighed. She hadn’t managed to so far. She’d simply have to keep reminding herself that this was a purely physical affair.
No love allowed.
Libby was eluding him.
The suspicion crossed Del’s mind with increasing frequency during the next few days.
At first he scoffed at the notion. How could she be? They’d finally made love again—and he planned to continue doing so every chance he could. She slept with him every night. How could she be withdrawing from him, when in bed he held her as close to his heart as any two people could be?
No, he had to be imagining her aloofness.
He maintained the belief without effort on Monday. He felt so content; he didn’t want to let Libby out of his sight. They spent the misty day puttering around the house, going out in the afternoon to the nearby woods to free the little mouse he’d managed to capture.