by Robyn Carr
TEMPTED
Robyn Carr
Copyright © 1987 by Robyn Carr
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Cover design by Natanya Wheeler
For more information, please visit http://www.RobynCarr.com
For Jim, who never gives up on me, even when I'm at my worst.
For Brian and Jamie, who love me for myself.
And, for Mrs. Traina, whose friendship has introduced me to possibilities within myself that I had not seen.
Chapter One
Bev brushed her short brown hair, looked closely at herself in the mirror and decided to add some color to her cheeks. Going out. A big evening. It should make her feel better about herself. When a widow was going out it should buoy her spirits. It should mean progress. Bev felt like she was sliding back. Way back.
“I sure hope I look as good as you when I'm thirty-five,” Terry, her youngest sister, said. She was pretty, twenty, and in love.
“I'm not thirty-five.”
“Almost.”
“Not almost. I'm not even thirty-four.”
“Almost.”
“Okay, almost to that, but don't rush me.”
Terry smiled. “Steve's coming over. You don't mind, do you?”
“Not as long as you behave yourself.”
Terry looked indignant. “Bev...” she said in a warning tone. Bev was closer to Terry than to her other sisters, and it sure was nice that Terry appreciated an opportunity to baby-sit.
“Sorry. Sure, Steve can come over. But watch yourselves. I have two little boys to think about.”
“Bev!”
Beverly softened. Terry was a sweet girl. She smiled at the little sister who was not so little anymore.
Coming home was one of the hardest things Beverly had ever done. At first, she had thought it wise and strong to go on living in the house she and Bob had built. There were good friends in Dallas, the neighborhood was familiar, and the house was large and comfortable. Yet, their friends were couple friends, and Bev had learned quickly what that meant. They were good people, one and all, thoughtful and kind down to the very last Christmas card, but no matter how you looked at it, Bev was on her own.
And there were the boys. They needed a father figure of some kind. That meant one set of grandparents or the other. Bev didn't think there were fatherly role models in her family for Mark and Chuck, but moving near Bob's parents so the boys could pattern themselves after their grandfather seemed cruel... or bizarre. Bob's parents would have felt obligated to take care of her; she would have felt obligated to be wonderful all the time. Impossible all the way around.
Bev's dad was a fine man and she loved him, but he was in his late fifties now and wasn't up to much beyond talking to the boys about their sports. He wouldn't roughhouse with them the way their father had. Coming home had shattered the final illusions. They had no father. They had no father figure. They were on their own. And they weren't really home; they had only moved.
But the boys had each other. She was a little grateful now for that horrifying accident she had had when Mark was only three months old. She had wanted to kill herself at the time, when she found out that breastfeeding wasn't the only reason she didn't have her period. And that it was only one of the reasons she was so tired. Not long after she decided not to kill herself, Chuckie was born. And then she knew tired.
In the fall Bev watched Mark and Chuckie both go off to public school for the first time. The old pro, Mark, came home and told her about it.
“I'm the only kid in my class whose dad is dead,” he said.
Bev shuddered. “Swell.” They must have interrogated him.
“There's a bunch without dads though. Divorce, y'know.”
“I know.”
“What's the difference?”
“The difference is that in divorce the mother and father stop living together because they stop loving each other. Daddy loved us very much and I would give anything to have him back. Anything.”
“Me too,” Mark said meekly.
“I'm sorry, Mark. Sometimes I miss him so much.”
“Me too.”
She had clutched her little boy, the image of Bob as a child, close to her chest, hugging him fiercely as if begging for something secure, something to claim, some reason to live, anything...
“Will Bonnie have a man all lined up for you tonight?” Terry asked.
“Oh, sure. It's her duty as a friend to see if she can't rescue me from my loneliness with a stray bachelor. We're in good shape if it's a real bachelor. Some of these acquaintances neglect to mention their marriages.
But by accepting the invitation I've given silent permission to let myself be set up.”
“Is it that bad?”
Bad. But Terry wouldn't understand. And she wouldn't really want to hear it either. Since Bob's death Bev had been the victim of her friends' good intentions many times. It usually was some unattached bachelor who worked with a friend, or a cousin, or a “fella from the club.” And she would feel obligated to be charming for the sake of some well-meaning matchmaker. “No, honey. It's just not usually much fun, that's all.”
“It's good you're going out, Bev. Bob's been gone for... well, it'll be two years....”
“A little over a year. One year and five months. Seventeen months. I wonder how many days that is.” Same as the number of nights, Bev.
“You seem to have lost interest in that guy from work you were going out with. What was his name? That beautiful blond hunk...”
“Chet?”
“Yeah. What happened to him?”
“He's around. We're only friends.”
“Oh, boy, I'd try to improve on that friendship. He's beautiful. Really nice too.”
Beverly looked at her sister and grinned. “Yep. Heck of a nice guy.”
“So? I had really high hopes when I met him. Something wrong with him?”
“Nothing at all,” Bev said, her eyes twinkling. “I got a little excited myself—for about two hours.”
“Well? He isn't married, is he?”
“Not exactly. He's gay.”
“Oh.” Terry sighed. “Oh, nuts.”
Beverly giggled. She couldn't help herself. Actually, Chet was about the nicest man she had dated.
“That's really too bad,” Terry said.
Yes, Bev thought. But for her, not him. She had been terribly disappointed, hurt, in fact, when he told her. She had let herself become optimistic for the first time. Chet was the marketing director for one of the department stores where she had worked. They had had several entertaining conversations at the store when he asked her to join him for a bite to eat. Later, they made plans to go out to dinner and she was frankly charmed. He must have noticed that she was beginning to feel romantic toward him. It was a very clumsy moment. Instead of graciously and quickly accepting the friendship he offered, she had delayed, feeling resentment well up in direct ratio to how her high expectations were crushed. “C'est la vie,” she said at last to Terry.
“Maybe this will be 'it,'“ Terry said.
“'It' what?”
“The man. Maybe this time you'll meet someone you really like.”
“Maybe.” But highly doubtful, Bev thought, mostly because she didn't have much interest. It was everyone else's interest that kept her going out. Like the coming-home party at her mother's.
Beverly had relented and allowed her mother to have a fall picnic at her house to welcome her home. Stephanie and Barbara, her two sisters from out-of-state, came with their husbands and babies and everyone was together. Delores didn't mention that on her daughter's behalf there would also be old high school friends an
d half the congregation from her church.
There were questions like: “Is it nice to be home?” that sounded to Bev like: “Had enough of being strong?” And introductions like, “I'd like you to meet John Smith,” that sounded more like: “I'd like you to meet someone available.” And Bonnie had been there, looking only ten pounds overweight when Bev knew it was a solid forty, who had asked if she would like to go with the whole gang to Lindy's, a new restaurant near their subdivision.
“Oh? I've heard of that place.”
“There's this guy—”
No way. “I think I'd better pass. Maybe some other time.”
Bev couldn't help feeling that some of those people had come to the picnic to see how much Bob's death showed on her. She had always been pretty, lively, and enthusiastic. She knew the sparkle was gone. It hadn't aged her face or packed twenty pounds on her hips, but it was there. If she could feel the weight of it, others could see it in her expression. And she didn't much want to bear scrutiny.
“How's work going?” Terry asked.
“Going, that's about all. I haven't had many calls.”
“It's a bad time of the year.”
“It's fine with me.” She thought her job was ridiculous. She had been shopping one day, when a buyer from the store asked her if she modeled. She had never even considered such a thing. The woman encouraged her to try it by working in a luncheon fashion show. They needed more women in their mid-thirties to add a dash of maturity to their in-store shows. They hired her to walk around the store next. Then they pushed her toward an agency so they could hire her for some pictures for advertising for a sale. The whole silly thing had turned into a part-time job for which she was paid fifty dollars an hour, plus she received a twenty percent discount on clothes. Since she wasn't doing anything else, she modeled. She could choose her schedule, her jobs. But it did seem silly... meaningless.
“I'm thinking about going back to school,” Beverly said. “I just can't decide what I want.” You wanted to be a wife and mother. So you're a mother.
“I hope you have a good time tonight, Bev.”
“Thanks, honey. It's a night away from the kids and they can use the breathing space as much as I.”
“Bev, you don't think... I mean, you haven't given up on the idea that you could fall in love again, have you?”
She already had been in love again, that was one of the problems. Oh, it wasn't like it had been with Bob, but then, love came in all sizes. Guy was an old friend of Bob's from army days. Bev had known him for years. He was attractive and funny and Bev let him fall right into a routine. He was welcome in her home. He was a man in the house and that had come to mean a lot. When she saw his true colors, though, she ended it easily by moving away. He didn't cry while she packed. He didn't even say, “Awww nuts.” She had come to think of it as her second bout with losing someone dear. “No, Terry, I haven't given up on the idea.” Just disregarding it for a while. “Want to have a drink with me before I go?”
“A little wine maybe.”
Bev poured scotch over ice for herself and a small glass of wine for Terry. She didn't really drink more now that Bob was gone; it was just one of those things she really enjoyed. A good drink. A good scotch. Her mother thought if you ever indulged it was a problem worthy of prayer. Mother might be right tonight, Bev thought, because she needed this scotch to get herself up enough to go to the party.
The “unattached male” lined up for Bev was a good-looking man about forty years old and he didn't seem to be disappointed in his albatross for the evening. He put her at ease at once.
“Do you know any of these people?” he asked.
“No, do you?”
“Most of them. I'm the only unmarried man here. I imagine it's a coincidence that you're the only unmarried woman.”
“Coincidence, my eye.”
“That's what I say. What should we do now? Have a drink?”
“Please, and listen, don't feel obligated—”
“I don't. For once Bonnie did me a favor.”
About that time Bonnie shot a few careful glances in Bev's direction, apparently to make sure she wasn't mad, and when she was finally convinced, she came over and owned up to having played Good Samaritan. Bev learned she had told Bob Stanly that Beverly was a “nice” woman, mid-thirties, and widowed, with two little boys. Bev winced at how her vital statistics had been offered—about five-foot-six, a slim size ten with a nice—there was that word again—figure and short brown hair. It couldn't have sounded very exciting... just average, boring, dull average. She could have turned out to be a real dog. And that was exactly what Bob Stanly had said, Bonnie told her, but her husband, Phil, had quickly assured Bob that Beverly was a real looker. So good old Bob had decided to bite.
Bob was headed back, drinks in hand, and Bonnie faded away... fast. After some small talk, Bev confessed, “My husband's name was Bob.”
“My wife's name was Susan. Want to tell me about yours and I'll tell you about mine?”
“Are you a widower?”
“Divorced.”
“Then we don't have as much in common as I thought.”
“Maybe. Susan died last year. I have the girls.”
“Oh, that's rich. I have boys. I'll bet Bonnie has started sending out the invitations already.”
They laughed. This was at least unique: the very first time Bev had laughed with a man over a blind date. It was a comfortable change. She was beginning to think they could be friends, talk about things. She liked his manner, his easy style. He was fun. She had a flicker of an emotion she scarcely recognized and had learned to greatly fear—optimism.
It was the little bit of snow at the temples and the tired look around his eyes that relaxed her. “I wonder if I could ask... no, never mind.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Well, I hope you don't misunderstand, but I wonder... was it so bad, losing your wife when you were already divorced?”
“I guess not,” he said. He seemed to know about the gray and the tired eyes. He blessed her with a very sympathetic look that said he wasn't in love with his wife when she died. “I'm mourning my gain more than my loss, Bev. It isn't easy.”
“I know,” she said in a way that sounded more like a breath than words. They quickly went for another drink. A change of subject and some more anesthetic for them both.
Bob Stanly seemed safe, sober, and kind. Beverly actually had a good time. The fact that he was from Richmond and regularly drove to Columbus on business was even better. She could think about this possibility for a while. It eased some of the pressure.
The hours slipped away. It was past midnight and she didn't want to be the last to leave. Everything was very nice, she told Bonnie. Yes, Bob Stanly was a lot of fun. No, he wasn't taking her home, she drove her own car over. No, he didn't ask her out again. Yes, if he did ask, she thought she might see him again. God, but she hated the way these things ended. She genuinely hoped Bonnie would have the good sense to leave Bob alone.
“You're sure I can't drive you home?” he asked.
“No, I drove over. It's only a few blocks.”
“I'll walk you out to your car and take off myself.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Downtown. The Hilton.”
“Wow. Expense account?”
“Believe me, I wouldn't be staying there out of my own pocket. I'm doing all right, but I'm not rich. Why don't you invite me over for a drink, Bev?”
“Sorry, maybe some other time. My sister is babysitting and she's staying the night.”
“I can take you downtown, buy you a drink at the Hilton.”
“Thanks, anyway, but it's late. I have to take the kids to church in the morning.”
She stopped when she unlocked the car door and he held it open for her while she climbed in. She would have expected some nice, friendly farewell just before closing the door, but that was not his style. “Move over.”
She wondered for a long time
after why she so quickly obliged him. She moved over. “What are you doing?”
“I don't want to stand in the street and make out like a schoolboy. You can spare a kiss good night, can't you?”
She could. It wasn't obligation or conscience. She liked him. Her lips trembled. It seemed so false on a thirty-some-year-old woman. It was hardly her first kiss.
His hands slid under her coat and around her waist to pull her closer. Her lips no longer trembled. She fit to his mouth and they kissed and kissed and kissed. It felt good. She couldn't remember when she had been kissed last. Probably Guy, since Chet certainly did not like to kiss women. It was delicious, weakening.
Her arms went around his neck to hold him close. His hands were gliding along her back, caressingly, pressing her chest more firmly against his. She loved it. He leaned back and she leaned forward, enjoying the feel of his nice, lean body. It's the kind of thing you can get used to, learn to love, and find terribly hard to resist, she thought. She no longer thought of Bob or Guy or anyone. She thought only of Beverly and how good she felt, how comfortable and natural and sensual.
She kept reminding herself that she must stop him and send him on his way, but something in her went totally deaf. While he made no more demands, she couldn't bring herself to break the magic moment. Then his hand slid over her breast and she gasped in delight. She mustn't let him go further for his own good.
“No, Bob. Stop now. No more.”
“Am I hurting you?” he asked courteously.
“No, of course not. Please, let's not get ourselves any more worked up. I have to go home now.”
“Don't,” he muttered, kissing her ear, her neck, her shoulder. The night was no longer cold. She could feel the warm blood surging through her and she wanted everything. And she couldn't.
“Stop, Bob. It's going to be harder if you don't stop now.”
“Too late,” he whispered, drawing her hand to his already erect member. “Come with me, Bev. You won't be sorry.”
“No, Bob. Now, stop. I'm not going with you.” She added a dash of firmness to her voice. It didn't register. His hands were moving and soon would find that secret place that was so vulnerable. “No. Now stop that!”