BABY MAGIC

by Marion Smith Collins

  "I didn't mean to wake you. I was going to hop in the shower."

  The white shirt dipped in front and back to cover her modestly, but the sides left her beautiful thighs bare. He thought she looked luscious. "Why don't you hop back in here instead?" he asked with a slow smile. He held up the covers invitingly as he'd done at 3:00 a.m.

  "I can't, Jake," she answered with a real regret. Her expression was diverting—half pout, half smile. "The baby is awake."

  Jake decided it was for the best. He'd lost control last night, and that had scared the hell out of him. He'd never lost control under the force of passion.

  And now he was surprised at the frustration he felt when she refused to come back to bed. They'd made love three times. He would have thought the edge would be off his appetite for her. But it wasn't. If anything he was more eager than ever.

  "She's in the playpen in the living room," Natalie went on, unaware of his thoughts. "I thought I'd bathe while she's dry and full. Neither condition will last very long."

  "Okay." He was still sitting there when she disappeared into the bathroom. In a moment he heard the sound of the shower. At last he flung the covers off and got to his feet. He dressed quickly in his wrinkled clothes.

  When he was ready he knocked on the bathroom door. "Natalie? I'm going upstairs to dress," he called out.

  He thought he heard a response. As he left, he paused in the living room to look down at the baby. Natalie had stretched something that looked like a miniature gym across the rails and she seemed to be batting at it.

  All activity ceased when he came into view. The baby became very still, her wide dark eyes fixed on him. Lisa's eyes, he saw again. She smiled, showing her toothless gums, but he had already left.

  He was back in an hour, showered and shaved and dressed in clean jeans and a white cotton sweater. He carried a bag from the doughnut shop. "Breakfast," he said, holding up the bag.

  Natalie had been equally fresh after her shower, but her shirt had already been splashed when she gave Annabelle her bath. It had dried but was wrinkled. "Good. I'm hungry," said Natalie, putting out her hand for the bag.

  "Me, too." He held the bag out of her reach and curled an arm around her waist. He took his time giving her a long kiss that left her breathless. Then he handed her the bag.

  "Is this a reward?" she asked with a wry smile.

  "Of course," he said with an unrepentant grin. They ate sticky buns and drank coffee and shared the Sunday papers while Annabelle had a morning nap. She woke around twelve and had a bottle. Not long after that she was ready for an afternoon nap.

  "Is that all she does?" asked Jake when Natalie returned from putting Annabelle down. He had followed her into the kitchen where she assembled the things she would need to prepare formula. "Eat and sleep?"

  Natalie caught her breath. It was the first time he had asked a direct question about his daughter, the first sign of interest or curiosity he'd shown. "Yes, pretty much," she answered, striving to keep her attitude light. "She's beginning to stay awake for intervals, but they don't last long."

  "During the next interval, I'll assemble the crib Mary wanted put up."

  "Oh, drat. I forgot about that. We'll have to move some stuff. I guess my computer will have to be brought into the living room," she said.

  Jake came up behind her and put his hands on her hips. "In the meantime, an afternoon nap sounds like a wholesome, healthy thing to do. Why don't you and I have one, too?" His hands slid around to rest warmly on her stomach and he nibbled on her neck.

  Natalie felt the shivers begin. She bent her head to give him better access. "Wholesome, huh? Mmm, that feels good," she said huskily. "Are you sure a nap is what you had in mind?"

  He chuckled and bit her earlobe. One hand came up to squeeze her breast lightly. "Well, for what I had in mind, you take off your clothes and get into bed. Does that qualify?"

  Natalie turned in his arms and raised her arms to wrap them around his neck. "It's close enough."

  * * *

  Natalie struggled to keep from laughing and put her hands over Annabelle's ears. "Jake, such language! And in front of the baby."

  "Whoever wrote these instructions was either an idiot or a sadist," he complained.

  It was early evening and he'd been working on the crib for an hour. But Jake's discomfiture was a result of more than the length of the job or instruction booklet that had been taped to the long box.

  While he had been grappling with the baby bed, Natalie was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the guest room bed with the pajama-clad baby propped against her stomach. Natalie talked to the child nonstop, teasing, baby talk, that grated on his nerves for some reason.

  But the thing that bothered him the most were Annabelle's dark eyes. They seemed to follow every move he made.

  He returned to his task, reaching for the screwdriver and an oddly shaped piece of metal that had been left over. "This must be the piece I was looking for that raises and lowers the rail." He frowned and glanced at the booklet again. "Although it bears absolutely no resemblance to the picture."

  Annabelle began to squirm and whimper. Natalie uncrossed her long legs and got to her feet. "I guess she's ready for her next bottle."

  He was relieved when they left the room.

  A short time later, Natalie laid the baby in her bed, arranged the crib bumper around the edge of the mattress and tied the small strips to the rails. "There. Isn't that nice, Annabelle? You have lots of room to stretch your legs."

  Jake packed his tools away. He picked up the extra screws and brads, the useless booklet and various assorted unidentifiable fragments. He put them all back in the plastic bag they had come in. "What do you want to do with this big box?" He was ready to get out of here.

  She turned from where she was leaning over the crib. "The box? Gosh, I don't know. I guess I should save it for when we move."

  He looked at the box, then at the closet door. "If I laid it on its side it should fit into the closet."

  "That's fine. I don't use that closet, anyway."

  He opened the louvered doors.

  At the same moment, Natalie remembered what was in that closet. She straightened with a jerk and whirled in time to see his whole body stiffen.

  "What the hell—"

  "Jake, please. I can explain," she said in a rush. When he turned, his eyes were filled with the wild, tumultuous pain that she hadn't seen since the funeral. In his hands was the portrait. Lisa's beautiful face smiled at them.

  He seemed to have grown taller and menacing in his anger. He spoke in a caustic, grating voice. "What is there to explain? I gave orders that this portrait was to be destroyed. Was this Andrew's idea or yours?"

  "It was my idea. Andrew didn't know." She clenched her fingers together at her waist. "It's a beautiful painting. I thought that after you had a chance to think, to heal a bit, you might regret destroying it."

  His broad shoulders rounded slightly as he stared at the smiling woman. Slowly his anger was replaced by a more anguished emotion. "How could you—after—I can't believe you would do this to me, Natalie," he said in a low, broken voice.

  When he raised his head she saw a parade of expressions cross his face, the most obvious of which was his pain. She saw the guilt, too. They had spent the last night and day making love to each other. Now he couldn't look at her. She had destroyed more than a blossoming relationship. She had destroyed his trust.

  She shook her head. Her vision blurred. Oh, God! Why hadn't she found another place for the portrait? Why hadn't she remembered in time?

  He set the frame down carefully, propping it against the wall. Then he shoved the box in the closet and shut the door. "I'll see to it myself," he said.

  "Jake, don't do this. If you don't want the portrait let me have it. For Annabelle. Someday she may want to know who her mother was." She was speaking desperately, in a rush.

  "You are her mother," he said in an awful, dead voice. He picked up the portrait and headed
for the back door.

  "Jake, please. Please," Natalie cried, going after him.

  He had to set the portrait down again to open the door. She grasped his arm but he shook her off and turned, his eyes like icy steel. "No!"

  She let her hand fall to her side. Under that gaze, she was as cold as death.

  "It was too soon. I knew that. But I couldn't seem to keep my hands off you. Now I have to live with it."

  * * *

  If it hadn't been for Mary, Natalie would have left Savannah immediately. When the older woman arrived on Monday morning, she knew that something was terribly wrong. Patiently she got much, though not all, of the story out of Natalie.

  Mary managed to talk some practical sense into her. "You want to run? Okay, run. But I think you're a coward. You're in love with him, aren't you?"

  Natalie nodded miserably.

  "Then be patient. Give him some more space. He can't forgive you right now. But there will come a time when he'll see that you're right. Besides, the adoption isn't final. You have to stay here. Now you sit yourself down in front of that computer and get to work."

  Patience. She wondered.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Natalie left the French doors ajar so she could hear the baby and walked out into the garden where daylight lingered. A late-afternoon shower had left the air clean and amazingly fresh for August. She ambled along the paths, through the roses with their rich, heady scent. A comforting breeze skimmed her bare shoulders. The off-the-shoulder cotton dress was as cool as its white color. The lightweight fabric of the skirt brushed against her bare legs.

  Summer had arrived. The garden had become her favorite place, especially at this time of day. She could relax here, listening to the sounds of the crickets, the birds settling for the night, the rustle of the breeze through the leaves, watching as the darkness slowly sucked the color from the garden.

  It was becoming a habit, this waiting for Jake at the end of the day. A habit she was loath to break, no matter how smart it would be to do so.

  At first, they had barely spoken, usually just a casual, "Hello, how are you?" At first, he came through the gate and went directly upstairs. But the contact, no matter how small, was a contact with him. He was working long hours; the expansion was in full swing. He was thin and haunted looking.

  Then once or twice he hesitated, lingered for a short time. If the weather didn't cooperate, if it was too humid and hot or if it rained, she was anxious and edgy until she saw him again.

  Natalie broke off a white peony with a soft pink center and put it behind her ear. Her manuscript was complete; she had mailed it two weeks ago. She longed to talk to him about it, about how proud she was of the finished product, and how she was chewing-her-nails nervous. What if it wasn't as good as she thought? But he wasn't ready for that kind of conversation.

  Like the Southern summer, the time they spent together had evolved into a period of relaxed and easy, slow and warm comradeship. It was a time of trying to redevelop trust.

  And then one day just a couple of weeks ago, she realized that, like the temperature of a Southern summer, the temperature between them was rising steadily. It was a time of growing awareness, a tense and dangerous time.

  She recognized the signs in him, signs of physical awareness, because they so perfectly mirrored her own. The casual touch that lingered a bit too long, the meeting of eyes that made her forget what she was going to say, the sudden sideways glance that caught him focusing on her breasts, her legs. When that happened one or the other of them would usually find an excuse to break off the contact.

  She knew she should put an end to this daily tête-à-tête. She should decide to have other plans one evening. Ask Mary to stay late, go to a movie, out to dinner, anything that would send a clear signal. But she kept postponing that.

  He had never mentioned the portrait again, of course. And neither had she.

  She had to remind herself, constantly it seemed, that they were two very wary people who had hurt each other, living in close quarters for a limited time. There were too many walls, too many hurdles between them. Lisa. Jake's reserve when he was around Annabelle.

  As far as Natalie knew he had not touched the baby since the day she was born. That worried her. She'd caught him looking at Annabelle with a curious light in his eyes, but he'd never asked to hold her or shown any affection. Natalie had realized weeks ago that since the adoption was final now, Annabelle was legally her daughter. But Annabelle would someday need this man in her life.

  Her feelings scared Natalie for more reasons than the obvious ones. Her agent had called to tell her she'd sent the manuscript to an editor at a publishing house. He'd promised a quick decision. Once Natalie had heard from them, she would have to leave. She would have no excuse for staying longer.

  And excuses were what had kept her here, kept her waiting each evening for Jake's arrival, kept her from having other plans. Excuses. And the rise in temperature.

  Again Natalie tried to convince herself to be patient.

  Suddenly she heard his car. Despite her good intentions she couldn't control the anticipation that engulfed her. She smoothed her skirt, touched her hair, moistened her lips.

  He entered through the gate and closed it behind him. "Hi," he said softly when he saw her. As he came down the path, she noticed that his white shirt was wrinkled, his tie was pulled down and his shirt unbuttoned. His jacket was hooked over his shoulder on two fingers. He looked tired and unbearably sexy.

  "Rough day?" she asked.

  Instead of answering, Jake came to a halt in front of her and studied her for a silent heartbeat. His free hand rested lightly on his hip. His hooded eyes revealed nothing.

  Then he smiled, held out his hand. Without a thought, she laid her hand in his and he grasped her fingers firmly. She felt the tingling all the way to her toes. He pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her waist, bringing her softness into alignment with his hard body. She looked at him with raised brows and circled his waist, but loosely, only for balance. Not holding on to him. Not leaning on him. So she told herself.

  He rocked them gently from side to side. His coat slapped lightly against her bottom. "Hell of a day," he said huskily. "The construction foreman broke his leg, and the longshoremen are threatening to strike. The steel that's supposed to go out tomorrow is caught on a railroad siding somewhere in Alabama, so it doesn't matter a hell of a lot. How was yours?"

  She smiled and attempted a casual shrug, which wasn't easy in this position. Their clothes rustled slightly; she could feel her breasts swell at the contact with his hard chest. "I would have said my day was very busy, until I heard about yours."

  Her last word caught, came out on a puff of air as she felt his growing arousal nudge the juncture of her thighs.

  His eyes darkened; he tossed the coat away and cupped her bottom in his big hands. "Yes." His voice was rough. "Yes, I want you again. Quite desperately, as you can tell. Seeing you waiting here for me—right or wrong, I want you." He bent his head to her bare shoulder. His lips moved to her neck, while his hands pressed her hips closer, moving their bodies together. "I remember everything about the night we made love. I know your skin is like silk. Sometimes, when I see you in the fading light like this, I'm shocked by my own fantasies. I want to throw you down and rip off your clothes. I want to touch your beautiful breasts, kiss them. I want your gorgeous long legs wrapped around me, your nails digging into my back. I want to bury myself in you again, deeply, and hear you moan."

  "Jake?" His name was a stunned whisper on her lips, escaping just before his mouth covered hers. His tongue drove into her mouth, sweeping over her teeth, tasting, exploring.

  "Jake." She wrenched her head to the side. "No."

  "Isn't this what you want, too?"

  She could not deny the obvious. "It wouldn't be right. Not like this. There is still too much—"

  "It isn't right that we should please each o
ther? That we should have warmth and understanding and physical satisfaction with each other?"

  "No, you said it yourself. It's still too soon. Maybe it always will be."

  "Do you know what next week is?" he demanded.

  She hesitated, thought for a minute. Then she said, "Yes."

  "The anniversary of Lisa's death," he said, just so she would be sure.

  Her head fell forward. "Yes," she whispered. "And she always will be here. If it isn't her birthday or your anniversary—"

  He interrupted, changing the subject, confusing her. "Do you feel guilty for making love with me?"

  "I didn't at first. But … yes. I suppose I do."

  "I made you feel that way." He sighed. Suddenly all the tension drained out of him, leaving him weak. "You're still feeling guilty over something else, too, aren't you? The scene in the hospital when Joseph was sick.

  "Natalie, we both know that nothing would have come of that, ever. If either of them were alive today we would never have betrayed them. But you know I wanted you that day I held you in my arms. Just as you know right now." His voice took on a wry tone. Despite her good intentions she was listening.

  "I felt the guilt, too. Don't think I didn't. And it was hell for a while. I couldn't look Lisa in the eye. And all we'd done was hold each other. We hadn't even come close to being unfaithful."

  "We'd thought about it, though."

  "Yes, and don't you see? That was our strength. We're grown-ups. Instant gratification is not an imperative need, not if it would hurt someone we loved. We would never have done anything to distress them, either of us. But they're gone now."

  "Are they?" All the fight seemed to go out of her at once; she slumped against him. "You're still set against having a family again, aren't you?"

  "Don't make me out to be some kind of emotional cripple, Natalie," he cut her off shortly. But he didn't release her. "Yes, it's going to be hell getting past the anniversary of her death. Just as it was rough getting past her birthday and Christmas, and every other day that was special to us." His voice dropped to a low purr. "But I am healing, Natalie. I put pressure on the wound too quickly, and you were caught in the aftermath. But I've begun to want to live again. You knew Lisa for years. You should know that would be the way she'd want it. She wouldn't want me to crawl into the grave with her—" This time he cut himself off.