A Baby to Love

by Susan Kearney

  She reached out and touched his face. His cheek felt hard, smooth, and she caught just a hint of tensed muscles in his jaw. “So you see, you have me all to yourself.”

  The contact, the simple grazing of her fingertips against his chin, ignited a passion that incinerated the barriers between them. Eagerly she turned, pressed her chest to his until he lay flat on his back. He gazed at her with such hunger, by fierce look alone, he set her aflame.

  “Tell me that making love is like riding a bicycle,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  She chuckled. “Well, I know what’s going to happen, but as for specifics…I can’t remember.”

  He groaned. “Tell me you aren’t a virgin,”

  She giggled and pulled her sweater over her head. “Do I look virginal?” she teased, knowing his gaze was drawn to her lacy bra.

  He lifted his mouth to sear a path across her lips. “Are you trying to torture me, woman?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.” She sat up straight. “But now that you mention it, if I were going to torture you—” her fingers went to the clasp of her bra “—I’d do this.”

  The snap sounded loudly in the crisp night air. For a moment, the crickets ceased their song. A night bird cawed.

  Her move felt bold, yet she was glad for the dimness of the half-moon that hid the momentary awkwardness running through her. Doubts assailed her.

  “I love the way your skin reflects the silvery moonlight,” he told her, and the husky catch in his tone banished the last of her qualms. “And you’re soft so soft. Like gossamer.”

  He grazed the undersides of her breasts with a tantalizing caress of his thumbs, his gaze never wavering from her face. A brief shiver rippled through her, and she wriggled eagerly against him, pressing for more.

  “Tell me what you like,” he whispered.

  “Cotton candy, the scent of baby powder—”

  His fingers flicked her nipples, and she gasped as a streak of meteor fire shot through her.

  In the moonlight, his eyes darkened, his lips turned up suggestively. “Tell me how you want me to make love to you.”

  He drew an answer from deep inside her, and only her confidence in him allowed her to voice her desire. “Love me slowly. As if neither of us has ever done this before.”

  Nervously she unbuttoned his shirt, and her fingers explored. His chest was warm, muscular, hot. His clean male scent mixed with the tangy air of the sea and the perfume of fresh-cut roses on a coffee table beside them.

  “Your jeans,” he murmured, his fingers unbuttoning, unzipping, then pushing the denim over her hips.

  She removed his shirt, his slacks, and then they clung together on the futon, his lips kissing hers. The night air nipped at her skin, but her chills and goose bumps had nothing to do with the outdoor temperature and everything to do with the rush of excitement flowing through her.

  His limbs intertwined with hers, and he rose above her, his hand reaching for a rose.

  “Be careful of the thorns.”

  He twisted the stem between his fingers. “Ah, this hothouse variety has no thorns.”

  He raised the blossom to her nostrils, and she inhaled the sweet scent. When he traced the petal over her cheek, across the hollows of her collarbone, and swirled the blossom over her breasts, she was unprepared for the exquisite sensation that curled her toes. Or the way he stared at every flicker of her pleasure, learning the sensitive hollows of her stomach, the curves of her hips.

  “That tickles.”

  “Does not,” he insisted, dipping the flower lower.

  “Does, too.” With a mischievous grin, she snatched the stem from his hand. “Two can play this game, mister.”

  With an impatient sigh, he chuckled and clasped his hands behind his head. “Do with me what you will.”

  “Ah, I fully intend to.” She swished the petals over his lips and under his nose. With a soft chuckle, she murmured, “It’s time you smelled the roses, Doctor.”

  When she traced a path along the side of his neck to his nipples, he sucked in his breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a rose in quite the same way again.”

  “And what about me? Will you still respect me in the morning?” she teased, and tugged off his boxer shorts, pleased he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  “More. I’ll respect you more.”

  Glad that he found her femininity so arousing, she grew bolder. She skimmed the petals over the length of him, wondering how long his patience would last.

  Still she jumped, startled, when moments later his hand snapped out and grasped her wrist. “You’ve had your way with me long enough, woman.”

  Afraid she would never have enough but unable to avoid the heat seeking to embroil her, she yielded to the heady sensations that raged like wildfire after a slow-building burn. He removed her panties, and then it was his turn to tease her with the flower. When she could no longer bear the sweet torture on her breasts and belly, she reached for him.

  “Uh-uh.” She heard husky laughter in his tone. “The lady requested slow lovemaking, and slow is what she’ll get.”

  The flower delved between her legs, and she whimpered in delight and anticipation. Her hips twisted on the futon. Her parted thighs welcomed him.

  When he rolled away, she wanted to yank him back. But he wasn’t leaving her permanently, only reaching for his shirt to tug at the front pocket.

  “Got it.” With a triumphant grin, he held a foil packet between thumb and forefinger. He ripped the packet open and grinned. “I bought this yesterdayjust for us.”

  She held out her palm, and he handed it to her. And she did a little impish exploring of her own.

  Suddenly his body lay hard atop hers, and his hands cupped the sides of her face. As he slid into her, filling her, he stared into her eyes, their gazes locking and holding, heightening her awareness. For a moment, she thought she stared into his soul. She ached to prolong the intimacy and hold completely still, but she didn’t have the power to resist the fires he’d kindled.

  Scorching with need, she rocked her hips. His gaze still locked with hers. And infinitely slowly he pulled back, and somehow she knew the bliss on her face heightened his own. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, urging him faster, but he maintained the same exquisitely slow pace until their breaths came in gasps. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  His fingers still cupped her face. Their locked gazes bonded them in a joining of body and soul. And as the aching sensation swelled to dazzling release and she yielded to the cresting wave of pleasure inside her, he took that in, too, making the ripples of bliss his own.

  With her name on his lips, followed by a deep groan, he surrendered. Through the ebbing tide of her own pleasure, she raised her hips to meet his last, frantic thrusts. With a long, shuddering sigh, he spent himself deep within her. His body went still, but his fingers twined in her hair and pulled her closer.

  She snuggled her head to his shoulder, pressed a kiss to his neck. Love surged through her, and she almost drowned in the sweet tenderness of the moment. Surely her feelings couldn’t be one-sided.

  But he didn’t speak, just clasped her close to his thudding heart and left her to wonder if their lovemaking had carried him away on the same wondrous feeling.

  EVER SINCE they’d made love last night, Chelsea had been unusually quiet. Jeff hadn’t pressed her. Yet he wasn’t such an insensitive clod that he couldn’t guess what she wanted. Commitment.

  Although he suspected making love had affected her as deeply as it had him, he was happy to keep their relationship the way it was. And she hadn’t said one word. So why was he feeling so damned guilty?

  They were adults. She’d come to him. She hadn’t been drunk but had decided of her own free will. She’d known up front that he couldn’t give her everything.

  And yet even he knew relationships didn’t remain still forever. He would have to decide how much she meant to him. But how could he measure his feelings when she kept his
emotions in such a swirling state?

  He’d hinted to her he couldn’t give any more than he’d already given. But could he?

  He squeezed the steering wheel hard. No other woman had ever made him question his plans the way Chelsea did. But then no one had ever made him feel the way she did—happy to be alive. From the first moment he’d seen her, before she’d opened her eyes, he’d sensed his attraction to her. And once he’d gotten to know her, she’d drawn him with a combination of pixie vulnerability and amazon inner strength. He’d tried to walk away—he should have run.

  And yet he didn’t regret one moment they’d spent together.

  “Walter didn’t sound pleased when I called.” Chelsea shuffled the pages of her appointment book while Jeff drove toward her accountant’s house.

  Jeff caught the rattle Alex just dropped and handed it back to the baby, who was strapped into the seat behind them. “Well, it is Saturday, and you gave everyone the day off.”

  As the baby chewed on the rattle, Chelsea sighed. “I don’t think Walter’s problem has to do with wanting Saturday morning off.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged, unwilling to say more. “It’s just a feeling.” She drummed her fingers on the appointment book. “I met with him often until Anne’s death. But in the last few weeks, we didn’t have one meeting. Don’t you think that odd?”

  “Your meetings could have been about the firm’s solvency and have had nothing to do with Anne.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jeff pulled into the driveway in a middle-class subdivision. Aside from the factor of protecting her, he was not quite sure why he’d insisted on accompanying her this morning. He was as anxious as Chelsea to discover whether Walter claimed to be the baby’s father, but he didn’t wish to examine or explore why he was so curious. He shoved the question firmly out of mind.

  He parked, unstrapped Alex and lifted him to his shoulder. Stepping onto the driveway, he noted the house was in fine repair. From a few stray telltale blades of grass, Jeff guessed Walter must have just neatly trimmed the sidewalks. He was surprised to see a tricycle parked inside the open garage, and from the look on Chelsea’s face when she saw it, she hadn’t known Walter had children.

  They walked along the concrete front walk, and Jeff admired the ruler-straight trimmed hedges, the eaves sparkling as if the house were recently pressure washed, the freshly painted front door.

  Chelsea rang the bell, and Walter opened the door. She hadn’t exaggerated his size; the man was built like a refrigerator and he towered over Jeff’s six feet. How he’d missed Walter’s hulking height at the party, he attributed to the large crowd.

  Walter held out his hand for Jeff to shake, their stepped back. “Come in.”

  He led them to an immaculate living room, done in dark browns and deep-colored woods. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  They declined and took seats on the couch. Walter slouched into a recliner, his palms marking a sweaty streak on the vinyl hand rests. “Tell me what I can do for you, Ms. Connors. Is the bank giving us problems again?”

  She shook her head. “You told me at the party that you were almost Alex’s father. What did you mean?”

  The large man seemed to shrivel in the chair. His shoulders sagged, and his chin drooped until his neck almost disappeared. “After Anne said she’d marry me, I offered to adopt Alex.”

  Chelsea leaned forward, face tense. “What did Anne say?”

  “Oh, she agreed. She thought I’d make a fine dad. We celebrated by buying a tricycle.” He sighed. “I suppose I should give it to one of the neighborhood kids, but I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

  Chelsea stiffened until she held her shoulders ramrod straight, and Jeff sensed her gearing up for the big question. “So when you said Alex was almost your son, you meant you were going to adopt him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Forgive me for asking such a personal question, but I have good reason to ask. Are you Alex’s birth father?”

  Walter frowned, and his brows knit over his nose. “You know that’s impossible. I didn’t meet Anne until after she was pregnant.”

  Clearly Chelsea didn’t intend to tell Walter about her amnesia, but by the odd way Walter stared at her, he suspected something amiss. Jeff cleared his throat and asked the question Chelsea couldn’t without revealing her memory loss. “How far along was Anne when you met her?”

  “A month.”

  “Could she have lied to you?” Jeff asked.

  Puppy-dog eyes reflected Walter’s hurt. “Why would she do that?”

  Jeff shifted the baby to his other shoulder. “Do you know who Alex’s birth father is?”

  “I never asked. Talking about the baby’s father brought up bad memories for her. After the rough time she went through, I wanted her to have peace.”

  Some people thought of death as peaceful, but Jeff couldn’t detect a violent bone in Walter’s large body. He just couldn’t picture the accountant resorting to shooting Chelsea to get back his son. Besides, if he were the real father, he could go to court and easily fight for parental privilege.

  Jeff was ready to leave when Chelsea spoke up. “She never told me much about the father.”

  Walter looked a bit startled. “You and Carol were her best friends.”

  “Carol?”

  Walter frowned. “I assumed you knew her. Carol Oxford runs the Oxford Inn in Old Point Comfort. Anne stayed there with Carol until you helped her move and find a new job. I thought she confided in you.”

  “Anne was a private person.”

  Walter covered his face with his large palms.

  Jeff saw the big man’s shoulders heave and spoke to him softly. “Thanks for talking to us. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “WALTER COULD HAVE LIED to us.” That evening over dinner, while Jeff’s sister Stacy baby-sat Alex, Chelsea sipped a glass of white wine, her fingers drumming the linen tablecloth. She’d tried to call Carol Oxford at the inn, but had been informed by a receptionist that the woman was out of town until tomorrow evening.

  As Jeff played with his wineglass, she recalled those same hands teasing her, exciting her, pleasing her, and knew she couldn’t make love to him again. Going home tomorrow would be difficult enough without stronger ties to bind her heart.

  While she didn’t regret making love, apparently she didn’t mean as much to Jeff as she’d hoped. Unwilling to settle for half measures, she knew it was time to leave. A tightness in her chest refused to ease. She’d gambled and lost. And once she left him, she’d pay for it with loneliness, might-have-beens and second thoughts of what she could have done to make things turn out differently.

  Swallowing the achy lump in her throat, she stared across the table at Jeff, memorizing a picture that would last when he was no longer around. His cropped hair surrounded a face filled with concern. And his eyes radiated compassion. More than any other characteristic, his eyes drew her. And his husky voice, so deeply modulated, tempted her to stay, evoking the comforting image of curling into the warmth of an afghan.

  Not only must she leave for her own sake, but for Alex’s sake, as well, before he grew attached to Jeff. The word father reminded her of the problem at hand. The mystery of Alex’s birth father haunted her.

  “You still think Walter is Alex’s father?” she asked Jeff.

  “I don’t know.”

  She fiddled with her dinnerware. “According to Walter, we know Anne moved and changed jobs shortly after she became pregnant. He made it sound almost as if she was trying to get away from Alex’s father.”

  With a tantalizing turn of his lips, he raised one dark brow. “But?”

  “Suppose Anne moved because she found a new job—and then she met Walter. Perhaps Anne talked me into hiring him.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “True. But Walter was fired from his previous job, and the timing fits. From his file, I can’t figure out why else I would have hired him.”

  “I
s he competent?”

  “I think so.”

  “Maybe that soft heart of yours wanted to give him a second chance.”

  Why did Jeff insist she had a soft heart when everything she’d learned about herself led her to think she’d been a cold businesswoman with few friends or hobbies outside of work? Clearly Jeff saw her differently than she saw herself.

  “I do seem to have surrounded myself with people who aren’t particularly fond of me. And then there are the Carpenters.”

  “They haven’t backed off?”

  “They’re proceeding through the courts to win custody, but unless they find another will, my attorney doesn’t think I should worry.”

  “I don’t want you to worry, either. How’s Martin Tinsdale working out?” Jeff broke off a piece of bread and buttered it in swift, sure strokes. She had to push her thoughts away from recalling the way his hands stroked her. Blast. Why did his every movement remind her of making love?

  She forced herself to recall his question. “Martin’s a wonder. He’s already brought back four accounts. My employees like him. Sandy keeps telling me I did the right thing by rehiring him.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “He’s making my life easier. He’s just as capable of running the firm as I am.”

  “But if he were angry, can you picture him taking a potshot at you?”

  She hated suspecting every person she knew. She was tired of not remembering. She was tired of analyzing her every move. And she realized she couldn’t spend another day, week or month waiting for Jeff to tell her what she wanted to hear.

  She had to accept that Jeff simply wasn’t the kind of man who could commit to marriage.

  Reaching across the table, she took his hand, allowing herself the pleasure of touching him—just one more memory to pack away with the others. “I’m moving back home tomorrow.”

  Alarm brightened his eyes. “It’s not safe.”

  “It may never be safe,” she countered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  His hand tightened on hers. “If that’s what you want. But you know you’re welcome to stay.”

  She ignored the wrench of her heart. “I’m not the kind of woman to play house. And even if I were, Alex needs…”