by Diana Palmer
“Something wrong?” he asked.
She shrugged and picked up her own cup. “You used to hate that.” She indicated the artificial arm.
“I hate pity even more,” he said flatly. “It looks real enough to keep people from staring.”
“Yes,” she said. “It does look real.”
He sipped coffee. “Even if it doesn’t feel it,” he murmured dryly. He glanced up at her face and saw it color from the faint insinuation in his deep voice. “Amazing, that you can still blush, at your age,” he remarked.
It wouldn’t have been if he knew how totally innocent she still was at her advanced age, but she wasn’t sharing her most closely guarded secret with the enemy. He thought she and Charles were lovers, and she was content to let him. But that insinuation about why he used the prosthesis was embarrassing and infuriating. She hated being jealous. She had to conceal it from him.
“I don’t care how it feels, or to whom,” she said stiffly. “In fact, I have no interest whatsoever in your personal life. Not anymore.”
He drew in a long breath and let it out. “Yes, I know.” He finished his coffee in two swallows. “I miss you,” he said simply. “Nothing is the same.”
Her heart jumped but she kept her eyes down so that he wouldn’t see how much pleasure the statement gave her. “We were friends. I’m sure you have plenty of others. Including Jill.”
His intake of breath was audible. “I didn’t realize how much you and Jill disliked each other.”
“What difference does it make?” She glanced at him with a mocking smile. “I’m not part of your life.”
“You were,” he returned solemnly. “I didn’t realize how much a part of it you were, until it was too late.”
“Some things are better left alone,” she said evasively. “More coffee?”
He shook his head. “It keeps me awake. Wally called and offered me the attorney general’s post,” he said. “I’ve got two weeks to think about it.”
“You were a good attorney general,” she recalled. “You got a lot of excellent legislation through the general assembly.”
He smiled faintly, studying his coffee cup. “I lived in a goldfish bowl. I didn’t like it.”
“You have to take the bad with the good.”
He looked at her closely. “Tell me what happened the night they took you to the hospital.”
She shrugged. “I got drunk and passed out.”
“And the pistol?”
“The mouse.” She nodded toward the refrigerator. “He’s under there, I can hear him. He can’t be trapped and he’s brazen. I got drunk and decided to take him out like John Wayne, with a six-shooter. I missed.”
He chuckled softly. “I thought it was something like that. You’re not suicidal.”
“You’re the only person who thinks so. Even Dr. Gaines didn’t believe me. He wanted me to have therapy,” she scoffed.
“The newspapers had a field day. I guess Jill helped feed the fire.”
She glanced up, surprised. “You knew?”
“Not until she commented on it, when it was too late to do anything. For what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “I don’t know many people who believed the accounts in her cousin’s paper.”
She leaned back in her chair and stared at him levelly. “That I did it for love of you?” she drawled with a poisonous smile. “You hurt my feelings when you accused me of killing my husband,” she said flatly. “I was already overworked and depressed and I did something stupid. But I hope you don’t believe that I sit around nights crying in my beer because of unrequited passion for you!”
Her tone hit him on the raw. He got slowly to his feet and his eyes narrowed as he stared down at her.
She felt at a distinct disadvantage. She’d only seen Simon lose his temper once. She’d never forgotten and she didn’t want to repeat the experience.
“It’s late,” she said quickly. “I’d like to go to bed.”
“Would you really?” His pale gaze slid over her body as he said it, his voice so sensuous that it made her bare toes curl up on the spotless linoleum floor.
She didn’t trust that look. She started past him and found one of her hands suddenly trapped by his big one. He moved in, easing her hand up onto the silky fabric of his vest, inside it against the silky warmth of his body under the thin cotton shirt. She could feel the springy hair under it as well, and the hard beat of his heart as his breath whispered out at her temple, stirring her hair. She’d never been so close to him. It was as if her senses, numb for years, all came to life at once and exploded in a shattering rush of physical sensation. It frightened her and she pushed at his chest.
“Simon, let go!” she said huskily, all in a rush.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. The feel of her in his arms exceeded his wildest imaginings. She was soft and warm and she smelled of flowers. He drank in the scent and felt her begin to tremble. It went right to his head. His hand left hers and slid into her hair at her nape, clenching, so that she was helpless against him. He fought for control. He mustn’t do this. It was too soon. Far too soon.
His breath came quickly. She could hear it, feel it. His cheek brushed against hers roughly, as if he wanted to feel the very texture of her skin there. He had a faint growth of beard and it rasped a little, but it was more sensual than uncomfortable.
Her heart raced as wildly as his. She wanted to draw back, to run, but that merciless hand wasn’t unclenching. If anything, it had an even tighter grip on her long hair.
She wasn’t protesting anymore. He felt her yield and his body clenched. His cheek drew slowly against hers. She felt his mouth at the corner of her own, felt his breath as his lips parted.
“Don’t…” The little cry was all but inaudible.
“It’s too late,” he said roughly. “Years too late. God, Tira, turn your mouth against mine!”
She heard the soft, gruff command with a sense of total unreality. Her cold hands pressed against his shirt-front, but it was, as he said, already too late.
He moved his head just a fraction of an inch, and his hard, hot mouth moved completely onto hers, parting her lips as it explored, settled, demanded. There was a faint hesitation, almost of shock, as sensual electricity flashed between them. He felt her mouth tremble, tasted it, savored it, devoured it.
He groaned as his mouth began to part her lips insistently. Then his arm was around her, the one with the prosthesis holding her waist firmly while the good one lifted and traced patterns from her cheek down to her soft, pulsing throat. He could hear the tortured sound of his own breath echoed by her own.
She whimpered as she felt the full force of his mouth, felt the kiss she’d dreamed of for so many years suddenly becoming reality. He tasted of coffee. His lips were hard and demanding on her mouth, sensual, insistent. She didn’t protest. She clung to him, savoring the most ecstatic few seconds of her life as if she never expected to feel anything so powerful again.
Her response puzzled him, because it wasn’t that of an experienced woman. She permitted him to kiss her, clung to him closely, even seemed to enjoy his rough ardor; but she gave nothing back. It was almost as if she didn’t know how…
He drew back slowly. His pale, fierce eyes looked down into hers with pure sensual arrogance and more than a little curiosity.
This was a Simon she’d never seen, never known, a sensual man with expert knowledge of women that was evident even in such a relatively chaste encounter. She was afraid of him because she had no defense against that kind of ardor, and fear made her push at his chest.
He put her away from him abruptly and his arms fell to his sides. She moved back, her eyes like saucers in a flushed, feverish face, until she was leaning against the counter.
Simon watched her hungrily, his eyes on the noticeable signs of her arousal in her body under the thin silk gown, in her swollen mouth and the faint redness on her cheek where his own had rubbed against it with his faint growth of beard. He’d never dreamed that he
and Tira would kindle such fires together. In all their years of careless friendship, he’d never really approached her physically until tonight. He felt as if he were drowning in uncharted waters.
Tira went slowly to the back door and opened it, unnaturally calm. She still looked gloriously beautiful, even more so because she was emotionally aroused.
He took the hint, but he paused at the open door to stare down at her averted face. She was very flustered for a woman who had a lover. He found himself bristling with sudden and unexpected jealousy of the most important man in her life.
“Lucky Charles,” he said gruffly. “Is that what he gets?”
Her eyes flashed at him. “You get out of here!” she managed to say through her tight throat. She pulled her robe tight against her throat. “Go. Just, please, go!”
He walked past her, hesitating on the doorstep, but she closed the door after him and locked it. She went back through the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom before she dared let the tears flow. She was too shaken to try to delve into his motives for that hungry kiss. But she knew it had to be some new sort of revenge for his friend John. Well, it wouldn’t work! He was never going to hurt her again, she vowed. She only wished she hadn’t been stupid enough to let him touch her in the first place.
Simon stood outside by his car in the misting rain, letting the coolness push away the flaring heat of his body. He shuddered as he leaned his forehead against the cold roof of the car and thanked God he’d managed to get out of there before he did something even more stupid than he already had.
Tira had submitted. He could have had her. He was barely able to draw back at all. What a revelation that had been, that a woman he’d known for years should be able to arouse such instant, sweeping passion in him. Even Melia hadn’t had such a profound effect on him, in the days when he’d thought he loved her.
He hadn’t meant to touch her. But her body, her exquisite body, in that thin robe and gown had driven him right over the edge. He still had the taste of her soft, sweet lips on his mouth, he could still feel her pressed completely to him. It was killing him!
He clenched his hand and forced himself to breathe slowly until he began to relax. At least she hadn’t seen him helpless like this. If she knew how vulnerable he was, she might feel like a little revenge. He couldn’t blame her, but his pride wouldn’t stand it. She might decide to seduce him and then keep him dangling. That would be the cruelest blow of all, when he knew she was Charles Percy’s lover. He had sick visions of Tira telling him everything Simon had done to her and laughing about how easily she’d knocked him off balance. Charles was Tira’s lover. Her lover. God, the thought of it made him sick!
He could see why Charles couldn’t keep away from her. It made him bitter to realize that he could probably have cut Charles out years ago if he hadn’t been so blind and prejudiced. Tira could have been his. But instead, she was Charles’s, and she could only hate Simon now for the treatment he’d dealt out to her. He couldn’t imagine her still loving him, even if he had taunted her with it to salvage what was left of his pride.
He got into his car finally and drove away in a roar of fury. Damn her for making him lose his head, he thought, refusing to remember that he’d started the whole damned thing. And damn him for letting her do it!
Chapter Six
After consuming far more whiskey than he should have the night before, Simon awoke with vivid memories of Tira in his arms and groaned heavily. He’d blown it, all over again. He didn’t know how he was going to smooth things over this time. Jill called and invited herself to lunch with him, fishing for clues to his unusual bad humor. He mumbled something about going to the opera and having an argument with Tira, but offered no details at all. She asked him if he’d expected Tira to be there, and he brushed off further questions, pleading work.
Jill was livid at the thought that Tira was cutting in on her territory, just when things were going so well. She phoned the house and was told by Mrs. Lester that Tira had gone shopping. The rest was easy….
Tira, still smoldering from the betrayal of her weak body the night before, treated herself to lunch at a small sandwich shop downtown. Fate seemed to be against her, she thought with cold resignation, when Jill Sinclair walked into the shop and made a beeline for her just as she was working on dessert and a second cup of coffee.
“Well, how are you doing?” Jill asked with an innocent smile. “Just sandwiches? Poor you! Simon’s taking me to Chez Paul for crepes and cherries jubilee.”
“Then why are you here?” Tira asked, not disposed to be friendly toward her worst enemy.
Jill’s perfect eyebrows arched. “Why, I was shopping next door for a new diamond tennis bracelet and I spotted you in here,” she lied. “I thought a word to the wise, you know,” she added, glancing around with the wariness of a veteran intelligence agent before she leaned down to whisper, “Simon was very vexed to have found you sitting next to him at the opera last night. You really should be more careful about engineering these little ‘accidental’ meetings and chasing after him, dear. He’s in a vicious mood today!”
“Good!” Tira said with barely controlled rage. She glared at the other woman. “Would you like to have coffee with me, Jill?” she asked, and drew back the hand that was holding the cup of lukewarm coffee. “Let me introduce you to Miss Cup!”
Jill barely stepped back in time as the coffee cup flew through the air and hit the floor inches in front of her. Her eyes were wide open, and her mouth joined them. She hadn’t expected her worst enemy to fight back.
“My, my, aren’t I the clumsy one!” Tira said sweetly. “I dropped Miss Cup and spilled my coffee!”
Jill swallowed, hard. “I’ll just be off,” she said quickly.
“Oh, look,” Tira added, lifting the plastic coffeepot the waitress had left on her table with a whimsical smile. “Mr. Coffeepot’s coming after Miss Cup!”
Jill actually ran. If Tira hadn’t been so miserable, she might have laughed at the sight. As it was, she apologized profusely to the waitress about the spilled coffee and left a tip big enough to excuse the extra work she’d made for the woman.
But it didn’t really cheer her up. She went back home and started sculpting a new piece for the gallery. It wasn’t necessary work, but it gave her something to do so that she wouldn’t spend the day remembering Simon’s hard kisses or thinking about how good Jill would look buried up to her armpits in stinging nettles.
The next day she was asked to serve on a committee to oversee Christmas festivities for a local children’s shelter. It was a committee that Simon chaired, and she refused politely, only to have him call her right back and ask why.
She was furious. “Don’t you know?” she demanded. “You had Jill rub my nose in it for—how did she put this?—chasing you to the opera!”
There was a long pause. “I asked Sherry to give you the ticket to the opera, since she couldn’t use it,” he confessed, to her surprise. “If anyone was chasing, it was me.”
She felt her heart stop. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said curtly. There was another pause. “Work with me on the committee. You’ll enjoy it.”
She would. But she was reluctant to get closer to him than a telephone receiver. “I don’t know that I would,” she said finally. “You’re not yourself lately.”
“I know that.” He was feeling his way. “Can’t we start again?”
She hesitated. “As what?” she asked bluntly.
“Coworkers. Friends. Whatever you like.”
That was capitulation, of a sort, at least. Perhaps he was through trying to make her pay for John’s untimely death. Whatever his reason, her life was empty without him, wasn’t it? Surely friendship was better than nothing at all? She refused to think about how his kisses had felt.
“Is Jill on the committee?” she asked suddenly, wary of plots.
“No!”
That was definite enough. “All right, then,” she said heavily. “I�
�ll do it.”
“Good! I’ll pick you up for the meeting tomorrow night.”
“No, you won’t,” she returned shortly. “I’ll drive myself. Where is it?”
He told her. There was nothing in his voice to betray whether or not he was irritated by her stubborn refusal to ride with him. He was even more irritated by Jill’s interference. He’d made a bad mistake there, taking out Tira’s worst enemy. He’d been depressed and Jill was good company, but it would have to stop. Tira wasn’t going to take kindly to having Jill antagonize her out of sheer rivalry.
Tira went to the meeting, finding several old friends serving on the committee. They worked for three hours on preparations for a party, complete with an elderly local man who had agreed to play Santa Claus for the children. Tira was to help serve and bring two cakes, having volunteered because she had no plans for Christmas Eve other than to lay a trap for that mouse in the kitchen. Another woman, a widow, also volunteered to help, and two of the men, including Simon.
He stopped her by her car after the meeting. “The boys are having a Christmas party Saturday night in Jacobsville. They’d like you to come.”
“I don’t…”
He put a big forefinger across her soft mouth, startling her. The intimacy was unfamiliar and worrisome.
“Charles can do without you for one Saturday night, can’t he?” he asked curtly.
“I haven’t seen Charles lately. His brother, Gene, is in the hospital,” she said, having forgotten whether or not she’d mentioned it to him. “Nessa isn’t coping well at all, and Charles can’t leave her alone.”
“Nessa?”
“Gene’s wife.” She wanted to tell him about Nessa and Charles, but it wasn’t her secret and letting him think she and Charles were close was the only shield she had at the moment. She couldn’t let her guard down. She still didn’t quite trust him. His new attitude toward her was puzzling and she didn’t understand why he’d changed.