“And the decision not to let you fly is based on your leg?”
“My leg…and the loss of peripheral vision in my left eye, and problems with my equilibrium that cause these freakin’ dizzy spells to come on me out of nowhere.” There was a weary edge to the sigh that followed, suggesting what it cost him to even acknowledge those “failings” aloud.
“I’m sorry,” she said, frustrated by the inadequacy of the words. “I understand that there have to be strict standards for pilots, but my God, did they have to force you to retire? Surely there must be something that a man with your experience and knowledge, not to mention courage—”
“Nobody forced me,” he interjected, cutting short her impassioned tirade against the military hierarchy. “They wanted me to head the unit developing test flight plans and procedures for a plane that’s still on the drawing board—the one slated to bring air warfare into the new millennium. Code name Skywalker.”
“Griff, that sounds so exciting. I should think you’d love—”
He cut her off harshly. “Don’t you get it? I love flying. Not sitting on my ass watching others fly. And it’s over for me. For good. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters.”
“You’re right,” agreed Rose. “It does matter. Given what you’ve told me tonight, and the way you’ve chosen to live your whole life, it’s obvious it’s what matters most—and anybody who tries to convince you otherwise is lying.”
He eyed her warily.
“It seems to me that whether it’s something, like flying, or someone, or simply a private dream that you build your life around, when it’s taken away, it leaves the same size hole. That’s size extra-large-to-the-nth, in case you’re wondering,” she added, causing his mouth to quirk ever so slightly.
“To the nth, huh? That’s sounds about as large as this hole feels.”
“I wish I had some words of wisdom to offer about how to go about filling it, but I don’t.”
“Good. If you do happen to come up with any, do us both a favor and keep them to yourself. I’ve had enough advice and words of wisdom dumped on me to last me several lifetimes.”
“Anything help?”
“Not a bit.”
“No surprise there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you can’t advise someone how to do something that can’t be done.”
“Please, spare me,” he groaned. “I’ve been down the reverse psychology path before…with professionals.”
“That wasn’t reverse psychology, you big dope. It was the truth.”
“What is? That my life is nothing but a big hole, so I might as well throw in the towel now? Is that your idea of cheering up a cripple?”
“I’ve got news for you, Griffin, it’s not my job to cheer you up, and the only thing seriously crippled about you is your lousy attitude.” Now he was lucky her hands were clenched on the steering wheel. As long as she was driving, she couldn’t devote her full attention to telling him off. “If it’s anyone’s job, it’s yours…if you want it. If not, you can just go on being miserable.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Forgive me for speaking from personal experience.”
“You flew?” he countered, reeking with disbelief.
“You really are self-absorbed, aren’t you. Look around, Griff. There are several hundred million people sharing the planet with you, and a fair number of them don’t give a rat’s ass if their feet never leave the ground.”
“Their loss,” he muttered.
“Wrong,” she shot back. “That’s the point I was making—or trying to, anyway. That it’s not their loss, it’s yours. There are as many different losses as there are…dreams to lose.”
She was wasting her breath, she thought. Far from “cheering him up,” as he’d accused, all she’d done was poke at what she should have realized was an open wound. She knew for a fact that when your own heart is still festering, you couldn’t care less that you were not alone in your suffering, much less be comforted by the knowledge. Misery may love company, as held forth by another old saying, but only when it was damn good and ready.
It looked to her as if it would be a while before Griff reached that stage, and so it threw her when, after several moments of brooding silence, he turned and said, “So what’s yours?”
“My what?”
“Your loss. You said everyone has one, and you were willing enough to share your personal experience a minute ago, so, what’s yours?”
“Oh. I guess…mine is sort of complicated. I suppose the short answer is my divorce was my biggest loss. At the time, I felt as if I had lost everything—everything I had and everything I ever wanted.”
From the corner of her eye, Rose saw him nod.
“That’s the feeling, all right,” he said.
“I remember waking up the next morning and deciding to take stock. So I took a good, long, hard look at my future, and saw more hole than life. Does that sound familiar, too?”
“I’d say you’ve nailed it.”
“Your circumstances are very different, of course. I didn’t wake up in pain in a hospital bed. But I have to believe that it doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve been through, the hole that looks the biggest is always the one that’s sitting on the path straight dead ahead of you.”
“Okay. Your point being?”
“The point is that you can either sit and stare into the hole for the rest of your life, or find a way to get around it.”
“Damn if I don’t hear the unmistakable pitter-patter of words of wisdom on the way,” he said, striking a note between ridicule and sarcasm.
“Then be damned,” she retorted. “I’m simply saying that if you try to get over that hole by finding something else to fill it, you’re wasting your time. Because even if you did find something as big as what used to be there—that thing you loved and nurtured for years and years, the thing that made that particular hole in the first place—the replacement wouldn’t be the right shape, or color or something. And don’t snicker as if this is some half-baked theory I’m making up on the spur of the moment, because it’s not.”
“You had me fooled,” he said dryly.
“You’re entitled to your opinion, as misguided and illogical as it might be. But I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought and that’s just not the way it works.”
“Really?” He folded his arms across his chest, his tone a mocking drawl. “Then why don’t you tell me how it does work?”
Rose shrugged nonchalantly, smiled smugly, and executed a flawless three-point turn to back the truck into the narrow drive beside the shop.
“It’s simple, really,” she said as she killed the engine. “If you want to fill that hole, you have to chip away at it. You have to try to find lots of little things, or let them find you, and then let them fall into place on their own. In the hole, I mean. Sort of like a box of cereal,” she added with a flourish.
“A box of cereal?”
“Right, you know how they always have that line on the label about it being packed by weight, not volume, and the contents settling during shipping?”
“As much as I hate to admit it, I actually see where you’re going with this.”
He did not sound impressed with what seemed to Rose to be the perfect analogy for one of life’s great challenges.
“Anyway, you have to just keep adding to it, and one day you’ll look and see that the hole is full, or nearly full, or maybe just half full. The important thing is, it won’t be empty.”
Rose turned in the seat and leaned back, unfazed by the fact that he continued to appear underwhelmed and was also beginning to show signs his patience was wearing thin.
“So what? Now all you have is a big hole that’s half full of…who the hell knows what? All shoved in there like crushed cereal, for God’s sake? It’s still a damn hole.”
“Exactly, and it always will be a hole—just not an empty one. It can never be the same
as it was, as perfect as it was, or at least as perfect as you wanted to believe it was.”
He stared at her in silence, in a way that made her think he wasn’t catching on as well as she’d first thought.
“Maybe you could try thinking of it in terms of dentures versus your own teeth,” she suggested.
“No.” He shook his head firmly and grabbed the cane. “I’ve heard enough for one night…more than enough. You can just save the denture part for another session.”
“All right. I do think you’ve grasped the basic idea very well.”
“Oh, I have. Definitely. Completely.”
“And what do you think?”
“What do I think of this…black hole theory of yours? You want an honest answer?”
She nodded.
He sighed, deeply, then in a rush said, “I think it’s the most bizarre take on the whole loss and grieving process that I’ve ever heard.”
“You do get it,” she said, smiling brightly at him.
“And,” he went on, after having again stared at her in what she was beginning to suspect was closer to speechlessness than mere silence, “I think you have the most amazingly beautiful shoulders, and eyes, and smile ever created.”
As he spoke, he drew closer. That’s all it took to make Rose lean toward him in turn. She closed her eyes, felt his mouth barely brush against hers, and everything inside her started to hum.
“And,” he whispered, breathing into her, breathing her into himself, “I think I’m going to have to kiss you again, real soon, as soon as possible, and keep on kissing you, soft and deep and slow, for, say, an hour…or two…or…”
He paused, teasing her with his heat, his tongue, the sweet ache of her own anticipation.
And she let him.
Thanks mostly to Maryann, she was a blind-date veteran and highly skilled at fending off unwanted male advances. She hadn’t given much thought to how to handle a wanted advance in years, however. And it was probably just as well that she hadn’t wasted her time. Because regardless of the strategy, it wasn’t in her at that moment to resist anything about him.
“Or?” she prompted, curling her fingers around his shoulders. The single word encompassed a subtle but complicated blend of feminine teasing, invitation and surrender.
The reply was quick, less complicated, and gloriously, unmistakably masculine.
“Or longer,” he said, at last covering her mouth with his and pulling her with him into a kiss that started recklessly and quickly spun out of control.
Just the way she wanted it.
Chapter Nine
Later, Rose would muse that had it not been for the diligence of the local police, the odds were overwhelming that she would have had sex in a truck for the first time in her life that night. She wasn’t sure if that made Officer Lyle Rancourt’s rap on the window a cause for gratitude or regret, but as she climbed from behind the wheel and slammed the door, she was definitely leaning toward regret.
She and Griff had reacted to the intrusion as smoothly as two kids caught groping in the back seat at a drive-in movie. They lurched apart, lips puffy, clothes disheveled, and their eyes squinting against the brightness of the high-wattage, police-issue flashlight aimed at them through the steam coated window. Griff proceeded to mutter something appropriately adolescent and obscene, while she fumbled to lower the window far enough to reassure the officer that she was experiencing no trouble, engine or otherwise.
The blushing patrolman’s hasty, apologetic retreat did not mollify Griff, who was still muttering, as she unlocked the rear door of the shop and keyed in the code to deactivate the alarm. Turning on only the table lamp near her computer desk, she headed for the bathroom. She needed a moment alone. Not to come to her senses; she knew she was way beyond that. But she would feel better if she had a chance to straighten her clothes and gather her thoughts. Hopefully, it would also allow enough time for Griff to cool off and quit referring to poor Lyle as that “meddling pervert getting paid to harass people.”
It didn’t, but as soon as she logged on and it was announced she had e-mail from Mr. Shippington, his grousing ceased.
“What did he say?” he prodded, impatiently tapping the back of her chair, as she read the London dealer’s response to her offer, twice, wanting to be certain it was merited before she let loose a whoop of excitement.
“He says it’s a deal,” she exclaimed, grinning as she quickly scanned the screen and read important bits aloud. “He says our offer is “fair and reasonable,” and that while he had hoped for a “spot more profit,” he’s done some checking of his own with the friend of a friend…”
“Right, right, go on.”
“In other words, the someone who gave Clare the lead. And he wants you to know he is honored to assist you in your most commendable quest on your aunt’s behalf. Isn’t that sweet?”
“What’s his angle?”
“His angle? Offhand, I would say it appears to be ordinary human decency.”
He hooked his fingers into his front pockets and nodded noncommittally. “I suppose that’s always a possibility. Go on.”
“That’s it. The rest is more or less the fine print about payment and shipment—which I will read and respond to first thing tomorrow,” she promised, logging off. “That’s assuming you’re still interested, of course.”
When he failed to respond to her teasing, she glanced askew at him. “Laugh, Griff—that was a joke.” Then, puzzled, she asked, “This is what you want, isn’t it?”
“Of course, it’s what I want. And of course, I’m still interested…very interested. I’m just surprised it’s happening so fast.”
“Sometimes,” she deadpanned, “that’s the way it happens.”
He tipped his head, acknowledging her appropriation of his own words from the other night. “Touché. Seriously, this is great news. And it’s all thanks to you.”
“And Clare,” she reminded him, “and a whole lot of luck. Believe me, I’m as shocked as you are that our first attempt went this well.” She grinned up at him. “This is so cool. Why aren’t you as excited as I am?”
“I am.”
“Then show it. Smile. That’s an order,” she growled, laughing and coming out of her seat in a playful attempt to tickle his ribs, which somehow detoured into a less playful attempt to hug him. Instantly, the air around them ignited and any hint of playfulness disappeared.
His arms were around her, pulling her hard against him, and it was as if the rap on the window and the time since had never existed. Their bodies remembered precisely where they had been when they were made to stop, and brought them there again, quickly. Their mouths collided in an explosion of heat and longing that left Rose breathless and wanting more…wanting all of him. She clung to his broad shoulders, beseeching without words, and Griff responded with a fervor that made clear his intention to indulge her.
He held her, touched her, his hands everywhere, sliding, memorizing, massaging her shoulders, her breasts, her thighs and the small of her back, and always pressing her closer, until there didn’t seem to be a part of her that was not under his domain.
She welcomed the possession, gloried in the assault of his tongue, parrying and submitting and exploring him in turn. A fresh quickening of desire rocked her, and she felt his strong, hard body tremble in response to the urgency she couldn’t conceal, much less control. This was a reckless brand of passion she had never known. If there was a way to curb it, she had no knowledge of that, either. And no interest in learning. There was too much pleasure raining on her, drenching her senses, overriding old taboos and boundaries.
His amazing hands moved through her hair and down her back, as his warm mouth painted kisses along her throat. Rose was reeling, swept by a strange and wonderful lightness…a sense of pure and utter freedom that engulfed her, body and soul. She felt outside herself, and at the same time, more aware of herself than ever before…of each and every awakening cell and pleasure point.
In yet ano
ther triumph of the impossible, time had warped, leaving her outside its constraints, safely cocooned in the sweetness of the moment…a moment of absolute clarity about who she was and what she wanted.
She wanted this. She understood that with all that was in her. She wanted him. Right there, right now.
If she had ever felt anything close to this before, the memory was lost to her. This was all new, all glorious. She was unfettered, flowing, from someplace deep inside where the only laws to be heeded were as old as the stars and the sea and the miracle that had first set everything in motion. It was not the law of civilization guiding her, but the law of nature and of spirit, and every movement, every response, was as easy and as spontaneous as breathing.
Rose was content to let this fiery desire lead the way, following without qualms or reservation, without a thought for anything beyond the spiral of arousal building within. Griff nibbled on the side of her throat and strummed his thumb across the tip of her breast, and it was like a million silvery strands of pleasure were strung inside, winding tighter, cutting deeper.
His other hand came to rest on her belly, one fingertip slowly tracing the zipper on her jeans, sliding ever lower. When he reached bottom, there was a wild fluttering at her core that radiated outward, racing through her veins in currents so strong that she was certain her knees would buckle if he let her go.
But he did not let her go, and when he tipped her head back and sought out her gaze, the dark and reckless gleam in his eyes made it plain he had no intention of doing so.
Black mirrors, she thought, staring into his eyes for what seemed to be forever. Black magic mirrors, reflecting outward, reflecting his soul and a thousand questions hidden there.
He gave voice to only one. “Tonight?”
It was more texture than sound—gritty, ragged, hopeful.
Rose didn’t think, didn’t need to. She nodded. “Tonight.”
His mouth softened, curved, not so much with pleasure, she thought, as with the same unguarded wonder she had glimpsed in him earlier. It was the look of a man who couldn’t quite believe his own luck.
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