by Diana Palmer
His fingers moved gently into the soft hair at her temple, coaxing her eyes up to his. "We'll keep it platonic, if that's what you want," he growled. "God knows it's true that I'm too damned old to set my sights on a child like you!"
"You're not to old, Cal," she whispered, stung by the tone. Involuntarily, her hand reached up to touch his face and froze as her mind registered the intimacy of such an action.
"What's the matter?" he asked, capturing the small hand to lay it gently against his hard, warm cheek. "Are you afraid to touch me?"
She cringed mentally at the tone. "It's not that. I...I don't know you very well...."
"Not in a physical sense, you mean." He searched her eyes deeply, quietly, until the intensity of his gaze made her blood surge like a riptide. "That can be remedied very easily. Put your hands on me, little one. Like this." He drew her slender hands up and placed them against his hard chest, moving them over the bronzed muscles sensuously.
He bent, and she felt his mouth touch her forehead, her closed eyelids, her cheek, the corner of her soft mouth. His hands went under her back to press gently against her shoulder blades, lifting her body up against his.
He felt the involuntary rigidity of her slender body, and nuzzled his face into her throat. "Just relax, don't stiffen up on me, little innocent.," he murmured sensously. "This is just an apertif, not a five-course-meal. I know precisely how far I can go without hurting either one of us."
The feel of him against her was like a narcotic, she wanted more and more, she wanted to be closer. Her cheek moved restlessly against his temple, his cool, dark hair.
His mouth moved against her throat, up to her jaw, her chin, and finally, to brush against her mouth in a slow, whispery tasting that seemed to start a fire burning.
"Cal..." she whispered unsteadily, being slowly driven mad by persistent, lingering touch of his mouth that was relentlessly causing her's to part in anticipation. The hunger she was feeling was new and strange and shocking. She didn't want to give in to it, but she couldn't help herself.
"I won't rush you, not in any way," he murmured against her lips. "Easy, now, don't fight me...."
Her cold fingers touched his cheek, and her eyes closed again. "Cal, I wanted this..." she admitted on a sob.
"So did I, from the very beginning, but you weren't ready then."
"Kiss me," she whispered brokenly, clinging to him unashamedly, "really kiss me...!"
His mouth went down against hers with a pressure that made her yield instinctively to an ardor like nothing she'd ever experienced. She let him fold her closer, pressing her slender body against the length of his, so close that she could feel the heavy slam of his heart as if it were beating in her own chest. The kiss burned into her blood, her soul, a tasting that brought a delight bordering on madness. Her fingers tangled in his thick, dark hair, and not once did she think, could she think, of the differences between them.
His big hand ran over the soft curves of her body, lingering against her hip, to turn and move softly, excitingly, back up to her shoulder. She trembled at the mastery in that caress, and he drew back, his eyes dark with triumph, and something less definable.
"Was it like this with him, Burgundy?" he whispered, his teeth nipping gently at her lip,
"Did you burn for him the way you're burning for me?"
He brought the memories back, hazy and far away, and she tried to remember how it had been when Phillip kissed her, but her mind, like her body, was in flames. "I don't remember," she whispered shakily.
He laughed softly, dangerously, as he bent his head. "Never mind, honey. Don't think," he bit off against her mouth, "just feel...!"
He took her mouth again, harder this time, rougher, as if the yielding young body in his arms was making shreds of his will power. "Kiss me back," he whispered huskily, "like this, Burgundy, like this...!"
She obeyed him weakly, following his lead, learning the first lessons of passion, feeling the instant response in the big, warm body her arms were wrapped around, dazed at the power she suddenly found in her trust.
With a hard groan, he drew back a breath. "Woman, I want you like hell on fire, and I'm not used to stopping. I think you'd better sit up an d sip your ginger ale before I yield to my baser instincts."
Her eyes closed on a tremor, and she took a deep, slow breath. "Help me up," she whispered.
He turned, easing her into a sitting position, his lips brushing her closed eyelids briefly, tenderly. "You go to my head, love," he whispered. "I can't trust either one of us right now. Here," he handed her the ginger ale.
She took a swallow of her drink and almost choked. Her face was red and her breathing quick and erratic. She felt cold and empty and lost without the comfort of his arms to warm her.
He finished his own drink in two large swallows and stood up. "Come on, honey, I'll walk you over."
She put the glass down on the table, trying to keep her eyes away as he tucked his shirt back into his trousers. She picked her shawl up off the carpet where his restless hands had tossed it.
She held the flimsy covering tight around her during the short walk in the nippy night air. Cal walked apart from her, not touching her, and she began to feel a twinge of guilt, of shame, at the way she'd responded to him. She was only one in a crowd, a faceless crowd of woman, and the knowledge stung.
"About...about this weekend..." she began quietly.
He turned to her under the carport light and pressed a long finger against her swollen lips. "Come with me. I won't touch you again if you don't want me to."
She dropped her eyes. "It isn't that. I just feel...."
He leaned forward, and she felt his lips press slowly, warmly, fiercely against her forehead, his hands coming forward to hold her shoulders in a vicelike grip. "Did I go too far with you tonight, is that it? Or did I make you wake up and see that your great love affair was as lukewarm as a baby's milk?" he growled.
"That's unfair!"
"No, it isn't." He held her away and looked down into her mutinous eyes. "Or don't you remember who called the screeching halt when we were on the couch?"
Her lower lip trembled. "You brute!"
"I'm that, all right. My God, I must have been out of my mind tonight," he breathed roughly. "I never stooped to cradle robbing before."
"I'm not a child!" All the anger went out of her, all the love she was trying so hard to submerge came back with killing force. She reached up and touched his dark hair which in the moonlight seemed to have more silver than usual. And you're not an old man, for all that you're doing your best to convince me your are. Shall I make you a glass of warm milk, Mr. Forrest?" she teased.
At the sound of his name, something flashed in his eyes for an instant, flinched in a muscle in his firm jaw. He sighed deeply.
"One day, soon," he said quietly, "we're going to have a long talk."
"About what?"
He smiled gently. "Warm milk, maybe." He brushed a careless kiss across her forehead. "Sleep well. We'll leave for the airport about six A.M. tomorrow. Too early for you?"
She shook her head with a smile. She'd have thought nothing about getting up two a.m., if it had meant spending time with him. "Casual clothes this time?"
"Jeans and tops and at least one long-sleeved blouse and sneakers. I'm taking you to a place where only fish live," he said menacingly, "and sandflies."
"Sandflies bite," she recalled.
"Like hell. Inside. I need my beauty sleep."
"Is that what it is?" she asked from the doorway. "Doesn't help you much, does it?"
She closed the door on his violent reply.
Chapter 6
It was dark when they got into the Mercedes with their luggage and started for the airport.
"It's only going to be overnight, isn't it?" Madeline asked, feeling comfortable in her jeans and navy blue blouse. "I left plenty of water and food down for Cabbage, but only for a day and a night. She's such a glutton, she eats it all in the beginning."
> "Just like my dog," he chuckled. "They'll be all right. Do you have a fishing license?"
"Nope. See how efficient I am? See why old McCallum loves me so?" she teased.
"If the truth were known," he told her, "I'll bet old McCallum loves you like hell."
"Worships me from afar, you mean?" she laughed, enjoying the early morning, the ride, his company. In his own jeans and a worn knit shirt, he looked every inch a fisherman, and she wondered absently why he insisted on pretending he had money. It didn't matter to her one way or the other. It was the man she loved. Loved. She leaned her head against the seat with a sigh.
"McCallum worships the corporation, honey," he said gruffly. "Didn't you know? It's his life."
She cut her eyes to the distant Atlanta skyline, brilliant lights over the sleepy little outsprung communities. "That crash must have been terrible for him," she said quietly. "And the little boy...."
He switched on the radio, tuning it to a station with soothing music. "We'll make it to Columbus in about thirty minutes, with luck. I hope you filled your stomach up before we left," he added.
"I did. And I brought some seasick tablets along, too," she said smugly. Where he couldn't see, she crossed her fingers with a silent prayer. If she got airsick this time, it was going to be a very long flight.
❧
There was something magic in the sleek lines of the red and white Cessna 310. It had the grace of the big twin-engine bird it was, and Madeline loved the feel of it in the air.
Sitting there, strapped in beside Cal, she felt as safe as any seagull.
"I love it!" she said aloud, watching the clouds sail above in fluffy white sculptures.
He glanced sideways at her and smiled, his eyes never leaving the controls for more than an instant. "Cessnas have a good safety record," he told her. "And sexy lines—like a woman."
She watched his long-fingered hands at the controls, and saw the ease with which he mastered the big plane. It had been like that with her, leisurely expertness in the way he mastered her struggles and her fears....
She turned her eyes out the window and watched the small towns appear and grow large on the horizon as they approached. Everything was misty with haze, and the houses and cars looked like toys from that altitude.
❧
In no time at all, they were landing in Columbus. Cal checked in with the fixed base operator and bought her a Coke from the machine snack bar.
"Dan and Merry should be here any minute," he told her, easing his big frame down next to hers on the wooden bench as he munched on a cracker. "I called them before we left Atlanta. You'll like them. Just plain people, no frills."
She snatched one of his crackers and nibbled at it. "You told them I was coming?" she asked, delighting in the cool soft drink that eased the suffocating heat.
"That's why Merry's coming to meet us," he grinned. "I've never brought a woman here before. She's curious."
"Knowing you, she probably expects a blonde in a red satin dress," she teased wickedly.
His dark eyes narrowed, dropping suggestively to her mouth. "Wait till I get you alone, little cat," he threatened.
She stared at her ragged cracker with great interest. "What will you do?" she asked.
"Bruise that soft mouth until it opens under mine, the way it did last night," he murmured deeply.
The blush went all the way to her hairline. She finished the rest of her cracker and washed it down with a swallow of the soft drink, avoiding the howling amusement in his eyes.
"Here they are," he said, rising as a new yellow Lincoln town car pulled up a few yards away.
She gaped at the car. "Just plain folks?" she croaked.
"That's what I said." He took her arm, picked up the two suitcases under the other arm and marched her off to meet the newcomers.
He was tall and thin and dark, she was small and blonde and fair, and Cal introduced the middle-aged couple as the Colmans.
"We're so glad to meet you," Merry said with a radiant smile at Madeline. "I didn't know there were many women left who liked fishing."
"Actually," Madeline said with a smile, "I'm better at drowning worms than anything else, but I like the excuse of a fishing pole to sit on a bank and think."
"Don't we all," Dan Colman laughed, his leathery skin crinkling in the sun. "Well, if you're ready, let's get home. I'd like to show Miss Blainn around the place before you head for the pond."
Madeline's first impression was of softly rolling green pastures lined by tall, straight pine trees and dotted with hardwoods and Jersey cows.
"We have three-hundred and fifty cows, all Jerseys," Merry was explaining as they rode in the comfort of the air-conditioned Lincoln. "And we sell every bit of our milk locally."
"Dan's golden idea," Cal chuckled. "He processes and bottles it in gallons here on the farm and sells most of it in a little retail outlet adjacent to the dairy. He doesn't lack for customers."
"It's a living," Dan grinned.
The tour took about an hour. It was a big farm, and Madeline's head was whirling with cows and barns and milking machines and increased production figures when they finally arrived at the sprawling white-frame farmhouse.
"You've got fifteen minutes to freshen up, and then we're going," Cal called after her as she followed Merry toward the bedroom down the hall.
"Yes, sahib!" she called back.
"Men," Merry laughed. "There's no dealing with them." She pointed out the bathroom and linen closet. "Anything else you need, just call. I'm glad you came. You know, he laughed today," she said seriously. "I haven't seen him do that in years, not since...."
Madeline only smiled. "I'm glad he has friends like you," she said gently. "He's a man who needs them very much."
"Are you just a friend?" Merry asked quietly. "Forgive me for asking, but the way he looks at you...."
"We're both finding our feet right now. I...care for him very much," she admitted gently.
Merry touched her arm lightly. "Freshen up. I'll pack some fried pies and a thermos of coffee for you to take along. Cal won't quit for lunch even if the fish aren't biting."
"Thank you," Madeline called after her.
The fried pies were delicious three hours later as she sat beside Cal on the banks of the pond, literally smeared with insect repellent and starving to death. On the string submerged in the water was one fish, a hand-wide big mouth bass that Cal had pulled in himself. Madeline's count so far was ten worms drowned and nothing to show for it.
"Why don't I just toss the worms into the water?" she asked as she munched the delicious apple pie with its tasty brown crust. "I'd accomplish the same thing."
He glanced at her in amusement. "Quitting?"
She stiffened. "Never. I never quit!" "That makes two of us. Pour me a cup of coffee, honey."
She poured the thick black liquid into a mug and handed it to him. He took it, brushing her fingers with his in a gentle caress.
"You're good company," he remarked, laying the fishing pole aside to grab an apple pie and take a bite out of it. "No chatter."
She smiled. "My uncle taught me that fish don't like noisy conversation. What he didn't teach me was to hold my mouth right."
"So the fish would bit, you mean?" he asked, finishing the pie and swallowing it down with the coffee.
"Ummmm," she said, her eyes drifting lazily over the ripples on the pond, the lazy brush of the green limbs where the sultry breeze touched them and the trees far away on the horizon.
Cal's big arm went around her unexpectedly, and he pressed her down against the soft grass on the bank, looming over her.
She laid her hands against his broad chest and gaped up at him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to show you how to hold your mouth," he said with a dark, wicked grin, and bent his head.
"No...fair," she whispered as his hard mouth moved slowly, relentlessly onto hers.
"In this, anything is fair," he murmured roughly, and his mouth was suddenly hot a
nd hard and insistently demanding.
She stopped trying to think and reached up, drawing the full weight of that massive chest down against her while she returned the kiss with a hungry, burning eagerness.
The sudden blare of a car horn came between them. She pulled away and sat up, her mouth red and swollen, her face like fire as the Lincoln pulled up in a small dirt turnaround by the pond's edge.
"Sorry to interrupt," Merry called from the driver's seat, "but we're going over to see the Little White House at Warm Springs. If the fish aren't biting, want to come?"
"You'd better say yes," Cal warned her in a husky, strange voice. "Because if we stay here, my mind is n't going to be on the fish any longer."
"We'd...love to!" Madeline called breathlessly, and began to gather up the picnic items scattered around them.
"Hellcat," Cal teased as he helped her and then stood up, drawing her with him. He looked deep into her misty, yielded eyes. "You set fires in my blood, woman. Do you know that? What were you trying to tell me with that kiss?"
She pulled her eyes away from his. "I...I enjoyed the fishing."
"Oh God, honey, so did I," he whispered huskily. "Let's go."
Dan drove, and Cal sat in the front seat with him, leaving Madeline an d Merry to talk in the back seat. It was only a few miles to President Franklin D. Roosevelt's famous Little White House, and Madeline was looking forward to her visit.
The grounds were immaculate, green and cool and quiet, a refuge for a busy man. Nestled in the trees was the small white house where Roosevelt died, roses climbing up two of the four columns on the front porch, shutters at the windows.
The wood floors were spotless, highly waxed, and they echoed with every footstep. Inside it was like a shrine, even to speak seemed a sacrilege. Everything was as the late President had left it, from his favorite chair to the sparsely furnished bedroom where he drew his last breath.
Quietly, they moved outside to the walk of state stones and flags, and with quiet sighs they moved among the colorful flags.