by Cindy Kirk
She lowered her lids but not soon enough to shield her reaction. It had been something he’d said. But what could it have been? He searched his memories but came up empty.
“I can see in your eyes I was to blame.”
“You weren’t to blame.” Her sudden vehemence had him pulling back, but her hand remained in his. “Don’t ever think you were to blame.”
“Tell me.” He kept his voice soft, inviting confidences. “Please.”
He wasn’t sure if it was the please that did it or perhaps it was simply that the time had finally come for this truth to be revealed, but Sylvie expelled a shuddering breath.
When she attempted to pull her hand back, he kept hold, gently stroking her palm with his thumb.
“I’m not angry.” Andrew’s gaze remained focused on her face. “I simply want to understand.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
He was just about to reassure her again when she began to speak.
“I never felt close to your parents.” Her voice held a tremor. When he started to speak, she hurriedly continued. “They were always cordial to me, always. But I knew I wasn’t what they hoped for in a daughter-in-law.”
She held up a hand. “Please let me finish. Despite their...reservations... I could see that you were a close family, a loving one. I was happy for you.”
As he watched her blink back tears, hot anger spurted. The anger not directed at her, but at those sorry excuses for parents who’d walked out on a child, leaving her to fend for herself.
“I overheard the conversation between you and your father in the library.”
A sick feeling took up residence in the pit of Andrew’s stomach. He recalled that conversation vividly, and his father hadn’t minced words. “You heard what my father said? All of it?”
She nodded. “I heard what he said and what you said back to him.”
Andrew frowned. He’d defended her. Stood up for her.
“You said he had to accept me, welcome me, or—” She swallowed hard as if there was something in her throat. “—or he was out of your life.”
“That’s right,” Andrew said. “You were to be my wife. He needed to respect that decision, and you.”
“I couldn’t come between you.” Tears, as plentiful as the raindrops on the window, slipped down her cheeks. “He’s your father. You love him. He loves you.”
Suddenly it all made sense. Okay, maybe not all, but a good portion. “You left because you didn’t want to come between me and my father?”
“I know the importance of family. I also know the kind of bond that you and your father share isn’t something to be tossed away lightly. It’s something to be treasured.” She lifted her drenched eyes. “Especially not over something that might not last.”
“My father and I argue all the time. Those threats were common occurrences. But we didn’t mean them.” He was reaching for her, wanting to comfort and soothe, when her last comment registered. “You didn’t believe we’d last?”
He saw indecision waver on her face and wondered if truth or lie would win the battle.
She lifted her chin. “No. We are so different.”
“And everyone in your life that you’ve loved has left you.”
Her sharp intake of breath told him the arrow had hit its target.
Andrew didn’t mean to cause her pain, but he didn’t need a psychiatry specialty to realize the abandonment she’d experienced as a child was at the root of all this. What he felt most guilty about was that he hadn’t thought about that fact until this moment.
“I love you, Sylvie.” He hadn’t known he was going to say the words until they left his lips. “I never stopped loving you.”
“I never stopped loving you, either.” Her voice was so soft that for a second he feared he’d only imagined the words until he saw the emotion in her eyes. “But it doesn’t change anything.”
“We don’t have to decide that tonight.” He stood and tugged her to her feet. “For now, just knowing that is enough.”
He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, simply holding her close. After a second, she relaxed, resting her head against his chest.
They stood there for the longest time, not speaking, drawing comfort from the closeness.
“Will you come to bed with me, Sylvie? Will you let me show you how much I love you?”
“Loving doesn’t change—”
He covered her mouth with his, silencing the words. Perhaps realizing that she still loved him wouldn’t change all that had happened between them. But she was back in his arms, and for the first time since she’d left, all was right in his world. That was enough for now.
* * *
The only threat to Andrew’s happiness in the next twenty-four hours was a report from Seth that they’d discovered more blood clots in Mrs. Whitaker’s legs. The treatment that had been ordered was appropriate, but Andrew hated being so far away.
He called Fern and spoke with her for a long time.
“What’s the matter?” Sylvie asked, setting a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
Though he’d begun to pace, he abruptly dropped down on the sofa and blew out a harsh breath. “One of my patients back in Boston isn’t doing well.”
It was ridiculous, he told himself, to be so upset. Mrs. Whitaker was receiving the best medical treatment. She’d also lived almost nine decades on earth.
“She was my first patient when I started my concierge practice.” He smiled, suddenly recalling how she’d told all her friends having such a wonderful—and handsome—doctor was well worth the monthly fee. “She wielded a lot of influence in Boston. I owe a lot of my success to her.”
Sylvie sat beside him on the sofa, their shoulders touching. “You care about her.”
“Of course I do,” Andrew asserted. “She’s my patient.”
“You care about her,” Sylvie repeated.
He leaned his head back against the soft leather. “I do.”
With gentle, soothing fingers, she pushed a lock of hair back from his face. “That’s why you’re such a good doctor. You really care.”
Andrew said nothing, reveling in the sweet touch and the lilt of her voice.
“I think you need a distraction, something to make you forget your troubles for a few hours.”
“We were going to watch a movie.” Even as he said the words, Andrew knew the action flick they’d planned to watch was unlikely to hold his attention. Still, it was worth a try.
“I wasn’t thinking of a movie.”
Something about the sultry edge to her voice had him turning his head.
“Put your arm around me.”
It was an easy order. He looped his arm around her shoulders. When she snuggled close, he felt some of the tension ease from his body.
“Did you ever make out with a girl on the sofa when you were growing up?”
“Sure,” he said, intrigued by the direction the conversation had taken. “Make-out sessions is practically a teenage rite of passage.”
“I never did.”
“You’re kidding me.” Even as he spoke, his fingers began playing with her hair.
“I’ve told you my background.” She gazed up at him through lowered lashes. “I was in foster homes. Most of them were fairly strict.”
His lips curved slightly. “What made you think of youthful indiscretions?”
“You.”
Andrew wasn’t sure if it was the glass of wine he’d had with dinner or simple fatigue, but he was having difficulty following this conversation. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re wearing jeans.”
He glanced down. It was strange how he’d quickly grown so comfortable being casual. “What does that have to do with anything?”<
br />
“You look incredibly sexy in denim.”
For a second he thought she was joking until he saw the heat in her eyes.
“You’ll look incredibly sexy out of those jeans, too.” She trailed a finger down his thigh.
Andrew inhaled sharply, and need for her surged, fast and strong.
He leaned in, his face so close that if she turned her head ever so slightly, their lips would meet. “You smell so good.”
Her body quivered and she arched her neck back, giving him full access to the creamy skin of her neck. Her skin tasted as sweet as candy and he wanted to devour her.
“You missed some vital parts of your education living in foster homes,” Andrew said before taking the lobe of her ear into his mouth and sucking gently.
She gasped. “I—I hardly think kissing someone on a sofa would be considered vital, much less educational.”
Seeing no need to argue, Andrew stroked her back, smiling when he felt her begin to tremble—not with fear, he knew, but with need. Need for him. “I’m glad some randy teenage boy never kissed you on the sofa.”
“Why?”
He captured her hand and brought her fingers to his lips, kissing each of them, spacing out each word with kisses. “Because you’re mine.”
“I wasn’t yours back then,” she pointed out.
For a second he reveled in the fact that she’d accepted that she was his, and he was hers.
Andrew trailed a finger down her cheek, his eyes on hers. “You were always mine. Even before we met, even before we got to know each other and fell in love, you were mine.”
When she opened her mouth as if to protest, he closed it with a kiss that had her sighing. “And I am yours. Tell me that you’re mine. I want to hear the words.”
“You know how I feel about you,” she murmured, trying to distract him by trailing kisses up his neck.
“Tell me, Sylvie.” His voice held an intensity that even he didn’t fully understand. “Tell me you’re mine.”
Her arms were woven around his neck, and before she rested her head against his chest, he saw her eyes close.
“I’m yours,” she whispered. “For now.”
He frowned, but before he could say anything more, she was kissing him with a heat that had fire coursing through his veins. Her hands were everywhere, tugging and pulling as she fought to rid him of his clothes.
It was a battle she was destined to win, but that didn’t mean they had to race to the finish line. They had all night.
Lifting her hands from his belt buckle, Andrew cupped her head and closed his mouth over hers. The kiss started out sweet and gentle. Sylvie leaned forward and he felt the remaining tension leave her body. When he continued to kiss her as if they had all the time in the world, she wrapped her arms around his neck, sliding her fingers into his hair.
They kissed until he felt drugged with sensation. The only thing he knew was her. The only thing he wanted was her.
The kisses turned hotter, grew more intense until the fire in his blood burned as hot as the one in the hearth. He didn’t just want his mouth on her—he had to touch.
The hands that had been traveling up and down her sides as they kissed moved upward, cupping her breasts through the thin cotton shirt. Through the fabric Andrew felt the hard tips as she pressed against his palms.
The next time his hands moved up, they slipped beneath her shirt, pushing aside the scrap of lace fabric. When his thumbs began to tease the tips, Sylvie moaned.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice, low, husky and filled with need, sounded foreign to his own ears.
“We still have too many clothes on for what I want,” she murmured.
He laughed, delighted with her honesty. “On that point we totally agree.”
Giving her a hard, swift kiss, he began flinging off his clothes. “Race you.”
She appeared to embrace the challenge. In a matter of seconds, her clothes lay on the floor in a heap beside his. Though he wanted to fill her, to be as close to her as was physically possible, he didn’t rush.
Andrew nipped and kissed and took his time refamiliarizing himself with every inch of her body. When he finally did enter her, it was as if they were coming together for the first time.
Still, he didn’t rush, but continued to make love to her until the pleasure broke over her with such force she cried out. Only then did he take his own release, following her over the edge while calling her name.
Spent and content, they lay there on the sofa, her body curled into his while his hand gently stroked her hair.
“It’s like before,” he murmured. “We can’t seem to keep our hands off each other.”
“Uncontrollable lust appears to be our cross to bear.” She delivered the words with a straight face and made him laugh.
“I’ll never get enough of you.” The moment he said the words, he knew they were true. Now he just had to figure out how to make the second chance they’d been given work.
Chapter Sixteen
Sylvie considered attending the Wild 100 Artist Party at the National Museum of Wildlife Art a horrendous waste of money. The entry fee for the event was one hundred dollars. Certainly it would be fun to view the art and mingle with the artists before the sale, but the cost of attending was way out of her price range.
“Are you still upset I purchased the tickets without discussing it with you first?” Andrew took her elbow as they navigated the steps to the museum.
“What makes you think I’m upset?”
“You get quiet.” His tone was easy and conversational. “That’s what you do when you’re upset. You barely spoke on the drive here.”
She wasn’t sure why she was making such a big deal out of nothing. Two hundred dollars was pocket change to an O’Shea. Maybe because it reminded her that, despite the past few days, they came from two different worlds. “You think you know me so well.”
“I believe I’m getting to know you.” He reached around her to open the door.
For a second Sylvie forgot all about the conversation as she inhaled the scent of him. She loved the way he smelled, of soap, shampoo and that subtle, expensive cologne. Tonight, even dressed casually, he looked as good as he smelled.
Though he’d considered wearing a suit, she’d convinced him that from everything she’d read, casual attire was de rigueur. He’d settled for jeans but had topped them with a sport coat and a cotton shirt. Her filmy dress with colors that brought to mind a Monet painting seemed to meet with his approval.
“If something is bothering you, you need to tell me.” His tone was equitable, but some of the light that had filled his eyes when he heard his patient back in Boston was doing better had dimmed.
“I’m sorry.” She shifted her gaze from the brochure she’d been handed. “It was kind of you to get the tickets. Thank you.”
He took her arm and she leaned into him, brushing her lips across his cheek.
“Who are you?” A tiny smile hovered at the corners of his lips. “What have you done with my Sylvie?”
She rolled her eyes but shoved her sense of unease aside, determined to have a pleasant evening. “When I get stressed, I tend to get quiet. I don’t know why. It probably has something to do with not wanting to let my emotions show.”
Andrew grabbed a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Sylvie. “What’s wrong with letting your emotions show?”
She shrugged and sauntered over to a painting of several red foxes. “This is very nice,” she said to the artist, then moved on.
“You like red foxes,” Andrew said. “You liked that other painting at the gallery. That was of a fox, too.”
“I like the gallery one better.” Sylvie lowered her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard. The last thing she wante
d was for the artist to think she was dissing her painting, which really was quite good. “That’s just a personal preference thing. When I looked into the other one’s eyes, it was almost as if I could read his thoughts.”
She gave a little laugh. “Silly, I know.”
“Not at all.” His eyes softened. “Paintings speak to us.”
His gaze settled on the one on permanent display, the wild-eyed buffalo he couldn’t help noticing during the Sweet Adelines event. “It’s like his gaze is following me wherever I go.”
Sylvie glanced around. “Who?”
Andrew jerked his head in the direction of the bison. “Mr. Crazy.”
Her gaze settled on the portrait and she laughed. “Yeah, definitely crazy eyes.”
It was pleasant, Sylvie thought, strolling with Andrew through the gallery, chatting with artists. Several of those displaying paintings had stopped by her booth at the Taste of the Tetons and remembered her.
Warmth coursed through her veins like warm honey at the thought of being accepted as an artist in her own field in this vibrant community.
“I’m having fun tonight.”
Andrew brushed a kiss against her hair. “You sound surprised.”
“I used to believe I wasn’t good at these kinds of events, but I’m starting to see that maybe I was mistaken.” She let her gaze slide around the large room and realized with a shock that she recognized many in attendance. “I never thought I’d find a place where I belong, a place that felt so much like home.”
The last of her words were drowned out by the rock classic blaring from Andrew’s pocket.
He grimaced. “I forgot to silence it.”
But when he pulled the phone from his pocket and his thumb moved to silence it, he paused instead, frowned, before bringing the phone to his ear. “Dr. O’Shea.”
Not sure if this conversation was something she should overhear, Sylvie moved to the hors d’oeuvres table to study the selection. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but it always paid to study the competition.
She’d just selected a grilled scallop wrapped in prosciutto when Andrew walked up. The light that had been in his eyes only moments earlier had vanished.