"Nothing," he lied. Just Rosie.
* * *
"Annmarie missed you," Patty said to Rosie at the bedroom door. "Both of you, actually. Her conversation has been all about Mr. Ian this and Aunt Rosie that."
Rosie reluctantly stood up from the edge of the bed where she had simply watched Annmarie sleep. Next to the bed Sly was plopped on the floor, once again looking like a rug instead of a fierce protector.
"It's been quite the time, these last couple of days."
Rosie managed a smile. "Things will return to normal soot enough." She followed her mom out of the bedroom and down the hallway that led back to the living room.
"Tell me about this sling," she said.
Rosie experimentally rolled her shoulder and wiggled her fingers. She was glad for the sling's support, but thanks to Ian's care, her shoulder felt surprisingly good. "Just a simple dislocation of my shoulder. This just helps things be more comfortable for a few days."
"And what about you and Ian Stearne?" Rosie's mom asked with her usual forthrightness, heading for the kitchen. Important conversations always took place there, usually over a cup of herbal tea and homemade lefse.
Rosie felt her face color as she continued to follow her mother—somehow she always followed, even when the topic was one that she didn't really want to talk about. "What about us? Lily sent him up here with Annmarie, and—"
"And the man is crazy about you."
"Mom."
"And it doesn't take a blind woman to see that you're in love with him."
"I—" Rosie stared at her mother, then past her to the mural on the kitchen wall, unable to finish the denial. Rosie remembered the days she and her sisters had helped their mom paint the mural—a lighthouse framed against a brilliant sunset. It was then Rosie and her sisters had learned about sex and love and being honest about what you feel—another of those important conversations disguised within the work project, that had kept them from realizing how much of themselves they had revealed to their mother.
Was she in love with him? Rosie finally met her mother's gaze. "It's complicated."
Her mom laughed. "It always is with you. You might try taking a page out of Lily's book for once. It's simple when it's the right man. Just like I knew with Dane. Just like Lily knew with John."
Rosie swept a hand over her forehead. "I'm way tired. You're making too much sense." Lily had the good fortune of meeting John during her very first day of college, and they had married during Christmas break. Her mom had long been telling the story of meeting Dane during a dazzling Seattle summer day where she had taken one look and known "her burly fisherman was her destiny." Rosie had never had that kind of luck, much less believed in destiny, and, for that matter, neither had Dahlia.
Recalling that first morning she met Ian, Rosie shook her head. Their paths crossed because of Annmarie. Soon Ian would be heading home. She liked him, respected him. Wanting him didn't mean he was her destiny. Not even close.
Her mom gathered her into another of her warm, dependable hugs. "Ah, my daughter. I love you. Now get some sleep." She let go of Rosie and pointed her toward the stairs leading to her old bedroom.
She stopped halfway up the stairs, intending to ask where Ian was, but her mother had already turned off the kitchen light. Rosie could hear her open, then shut the door of the bedroom at the back of the house. Rosie came to a stop at the closed door at the top of the stairs, suddenly sure she knew where Ian was. Inside.
She stood there long moments, torn between going in and going back downstairs and sleeping on the lumpy couch. Love? Was that the name of this terrible achy feeling that filled her chest and made her feel too small for her body?
Beneath her fingertips, she felt the doorknob move, and in the next instant the door opened. Ian stood framed in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his lean waist. He smelled of soap, and he looked better than she could have ever imagined.
"I thought I heard you." He stood to one side. "Are you going to stand there or come in?"
She went into the room, and he closed the door. She glanced at the bed—this bed that she and her sister used to tell secrets in—and then at Ian. In addition to showering, he'd shaved. She was so used to his three-day stubble, he looked almost strange to her without it.
"What are you doing here?" Ian finally asked.
She didn't look at him as she said, "My mother thinks we're lovers."
When Ian didn't answer, she crossed the room and pulled out a nightgown from the bureau drawer. He still hadn't said anything when she reached the bathroom door. Somehow, that made her mad. Surely the man would have something to say about that. She closed the door, then leaned against it.
God help her, she wanted him to make love to her—she wanted them to be lovers. After what happened the other night, she undoubtedly had as much appeal as a dead mackerel, which is why he'd just looked at her without saying one damn word.
Unbidden, the sensation of his kiss this afternoon at Eva's feathered across her lips. A lover's kiss. Not a simple lip-to-lip kiss of relief between friends. But since they'd left Eva's house, he had held her hand only to help her in and out of the plane.
Irritated with the train of her thoughts, she levered herself away from the door. Her quick shower didn't help her come to any conclusions. When she opened the door to the bedroom again, she felt as unsure of herself as she had the very first time she had made love.
Ian was sitting in bed, his chest bare and the sheet pulled up around his waist. From the doorway she could see the waistband of his shorts, and she didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed that he was wearing them.
He pulled back the covers and patted the sheet next to him.
"Come on to bed," he said.
She turned off the light to the bathroom.
When she remained standing at the doorway, Ian frowned. "Just come to bed, Rosie. I'm too damn tired to—"
"You're tired?" She hated the question the instant it left her mouth.
"Yes, I'm tired. I've had maybe two hours of sleep during the last forty-eight. We can talk about what your mother thinks later."
She crossed the room and gingerly sat down on the bed. She remained there, near tears and wanting. What, she didn't know, but something…
"Oh, for pity's sake," Ian said, his voice rich with disgust. He got out of bed—sure enough, he was wearing shorts—and came around the end of the bed. He swung her feet onto the bed and gently pushed her down onto the mattress. Then he climbed back into bed and turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
He hauled her close to him, curling his warm body around hers.
"Is your arm okay? Or do you need to be on your other side?"
"This is fine," she whispered.
"This is about sleep," he said against her hair. "That's all, just sleep. Got it?"
"Yes." In truth, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
"And if you feel my erection, that's because all you have to do is walk into the room, and I get hard. I can't help it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to jump your bones after you've fallen asleep." He sighed. "I didn't think the day would ever come, but I'm too damn tired. You're safe, Rosie, I promise."
"I know," she whispered, not at all sure she wanted to be safe in the way he meant, feeling that very erection prod against her bottom. Heat flooded through her.
"Good."
And, between one breath and the next, she felt his body subtly relax and knew that he had fallen asleep. Within moments she fell asleep, too.
She felt as though she had just fallen asleep when she heard the crescendo from an opera. Her dad was up, and she was reminded why she liked the peace and solitude of her own house. As a child the loud opera music that reverberated through the house was comforting—a reminder that her dad was in the house rather than on his fishing boat, and that all was well. She pulled the pillow over her head.
"What the hell is that racket?" Ian asked.
"Some opera—I don't know
which one." She rolled to her back and looked over at Ian, no longer sleepy. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and for the first time since she'd known him, he looked boyish. "My dad—he's in his workshop at the back of the kitchen—he plays it loud so he can hear."
"He's never heard of earphones?"
Rosie chuckled. "We tried that—it didn't work."
Ian settled back into bed, turning onto his side to face her. "Are you feeling better?"
"Almost human," she murmured.
He chuckled, and she reached out to brush his hair off his forehead, then touch his cheek. He covered her hand with his and turned his head to press a lingering kiss against her palm.
Her breath hitched.
Ian watched her eyes widen. They remained like that for a long moment, just staring at each other. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but not now. Now he just held her hand against his face and wondered how the hell not to screw things up. How did he make the first move without scaring her, without making her remember an act of violence instead of the love that he needed to show her. She sighed again and moved closer to him.
Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with so much longing and hunger he was lost.
"You want this?" he asked when they came up for air, doing his best to hang on to his sanity.
"This?" She nibbled against his chin, eased her fingers into his hair.
"Make love."
"Absolutely." She leaned back to look at him. "It's daylight, and I can see you." Her smile faltered. "Unless this is still about sleep."
He grinned. "This isn't—" he kissed her "—about sleep."
"Good." She sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it on the floor. Color stained her cheeks, but she faced him, and her expression became serious. "I know you have a life back in California—"
"Rosie—"
She pressed her fingers against his mouth. "Let me finish. You want me." She swallowed. "And I want you." She met his gaze. "I want to be normal again. That's all. I'm not asking for any long-term commitments or anything like that." She smiled and raised her hand to his cheek. "We'll have this, and then you can go back to your life in California."
He wanted to throttle her for thinking she had all the answers, for making it clear that sex was all she wanted from him when making love to her … for the rest of his life … was what he wanted from her.
His luck had finally run out.
"Okay," he said, reaching for her. "We'll have this." Then he kissed her, showing her all the love he had for her in the only way she seemed willing to accept.
* * *
Chapter 17
« ^ »
The instant before his mouth came down on hers, Ian had looked so fierce, so stern, Rosie felt a momentary clutch of fear despite her bravado. What if she did have another flashback?
His touch dissolved that thought. His kiss coaxed her to relax, to respond, to stop thinking. And she did. His big hands trailed down her arms, then up again. So featherlight, his touch was more imagined than felt. When he reached her hands, he clasped both of them in his. For the longest time they just sat like that, holding hands and kissing. Not even touching except for that. Time suspended within that endless moment.
Reassured, she relaxed and felt herself melt a little more inside. Somehow, the clasp of his callused hands around hers was just as erotic as his kiss.
Ian held on to her hands as though they were an anchor. If he held her hands he just might get through this without his self-control shattering into countless hurtful shards. Even though she melted a little more with each kiss, he wasn't sure he was ready for this—not deep in his heart, no matter how urgent the stirrings of his body. What if he failed her?
So he simply sat with her, absorbing the heat and texture of her mouth, the play of tongue against tongue that made him want to sink his body into hers. In time, he cautioned himself, reaching for a depth of control that he'd never once exercised.
On and on the kiss went, as though nothing else existed, as though nothing else was important. Beyond this room a wild crescendo of music rose, and a deep baritone voice resonated through his chest. Against his cheek, he felt tears. He broke the kiss long enough to look at Rosie. Tears streamed from beneath her eyelids.
"What is it?" he whispered. He couldn't have hurt her already.
She opened her eyes, luminous and so beautiful. "It was never like this—never so wonderful as this." She lifted her face toward him. "If it's this good just kissing…"
She leaned into him until at last they touched, her soft breasts skidding along the wall of his chest. She was right. It had never felt so wonderful as this.
She let go of his hands and wrapped her arms around him. He longed to clasp her as tightly, but settled for skimming his hands along her sides and down her back. If he had ever touched softer skin, he didn't remember it. The softest of all was on the inside of her thigh. When she trembled, he brushed his hands back up her back, sure that he'd moved too fast.
"Open your eyes," he whispered between the heated kisses. He had to know that she was seeing him, somehow trusting him that he would never, never hurt her.
So close, he could see each separate shard of light within her eyes from tawny amber to darkest brown. Her lashes were long, and he wondered why he had never before noticed. Her study of his face was just as intense.
She traced a line across his eyebrow. "You're the most beautiful man," she whispered.
That surprised him, and his gaze dropped to her breasts. He grew even harder. "You're the beautiful one."
She leaned closer, until they touched again. Breast to chest.
"Oh." She shivered again, and she lifted his hands to her breasts.
He felt as though he'd just been given a precious gift. Taking greatest care, he supported their weight, caressing and gently kneading and intently watching her expression before he touched her nipples. When he did, her expression gave him permission to kiss one, then the other. This time when she trembled, she pressed his head closer when he would have pulled away. So he gave in to the need to take the nipple deep into his mouth, the feel of her hard nub against his tongue at once erotic and nurturing.
How he loved this. For long moments he caressed and kissed and fondled until her skin grew hot and her breathing grew ragged and he was sure he'd lose his mind.
He returned to her mouth, and he would have traded certain entrance into heaven to gather her tightly against him. Instead, he skimmed her body with the barest pressure against her skin. Her spine, her arms, her side, the touch against the swell of her breasts, a tease at her thigh.
"Please," she whispered.
"Soon," he promised against her mouth, praying that she was asking for more rather than wanting him to stop.
"Now," she urged.
He felt her hands at his waist, pushing his shorts down. For an instant he imagined pressing her down on the mattress and spreading her wide. In time, came that caution through his head again. From somewhere he dredged restraint he didn't know he had, and scooted backward until his spine rested against the headboard.
She lay half-sprawled across the bed, a question in her eyes.
He opened his arms. "Tell me what you want, babe."
Her gaze skirted away from his, then fell to his throbbing erection. He wanted to promise her that it would be okay, but he wasn't at all sure that it would.
With more gentleness than he knew he had, he cupped her cheek and tried to smile. "We can stop. We can go on." He swallowed. "The control, Rosie. It's yours." He could only pray it was a promise he could keep.
She rose to her knees, her body looking so small and fragile to him despite all the times she had proven how strong she was. Her gaze lingered on his groin long moments, and then she raised her eyes to his.
"What do you want?" he asked, praying he was strong enough to put his clothes on and end this if that's what she wanted.
She came closer still, and a tremulous smile cu
rved her mouth. "You." Then she kissed him as though doing so was more vital than breathing. For him, it was.
He'd never been the passive one in this dance. When she came close and put her knees on either side of him and slowly lowered herself, he felt time suspend. When her heated flesh finally touched him, he resisted the urge to push. Her expression held intense concentration, and her grip against his shoulders was so fierce.
"Open your eyes, babe." When she did, he brushed his thumb across her lower lip. "It's only me."
She kissed him then, and her weight settled over him, exquisite millimeter by millimeter until her pelvis rested against his. Despite his vow that he wouldn't hug her tightly or make her feel pinned in any way at all, his arms came around her in a rush. He wanted to stay buried in her forever, and he wanted the explosive climax that would come this very instant if he didn't stop thinking about how good she felt.
She leaned back and looked at him, then whispered, "Are you okay?"
That was supposed to be his question, but he nodded. She began to move then, and he began to recite multiplication tables in his head. Through it, the friction of her soft and willing flesh threatened to bring him to the brink. He made it to fifteen times eleven before he felt the pulses of her climax overtake her. Awed by the power of her release, he cradled her close, sheltering her as the spasms of her sweet, hot body urged him toward the edge. Never in his life had he been more aware of a woman's release or more pleased that she had gained pleasure from his body.
When her sensual storm subsided, he felt himself grow even more hard.
"Thank you," she whispered. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, and leaned backward until gravity claimed them, and he sprawled on the bed above her. He worried about being too heavy, but her arms were fierce around him. He lifted his weight away from her, supporting himself on arms that quivered.
She wrapped her legs around his. "The way you came to me the other night. That's how you like it?"
God help him, he did—feeling her beneath him. He loved the knowledge that by being as close as this, she was sheltered by his body. To her, it could only seem that she was pinned by someone larger and stronger. He nodded, hating the admission.
TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT Page 23