Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Grant’s face was clouded when he re-entered the room. Robyn excused herself to go to him.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked, coming face-to-face with him.

  "Come outside, I have to talk to you."

  He took her hand, and she followed as they wove through the crowd making their way to the terrace. There were couples meandering about, and Grant con­tinued down to the lawn toward the back fence.

  "What is it?" she asked, as a finger of fear slid down her spine.

  "The decision will be totally yours. That was the airport calling. Apparently, there’s been an emergency, and they need to use the plane."

  Robyn let out the breath she was holding. "My God, Grant, you scared me. I expected something awful had happened."

  "It means you’ll have to stay the night."

  Chapter 11

  Grant didn’t have to fly. The pilots on duty would handle the flight. Robyn was both elated and afraid. The thought of more time with him was too inviting. She called Marianne and Will. Both said they could handle things.

  Robyn hung up feeling suddenly free. The decision was taken out of her hands. And she wouldn’t feel guilty about it.

  Not even if Jacob came and pulled her out the door like an errant teenager.

  Grant’s condo was on the top floor of a pre-World War II building on Connecticut Avenue. Robyn stepped from the foyer into the spacious living room. It wasn’t the typical male’s apartment she’d expected. The room was color-coordinated as she figured was the rest of the apartment, indicating he’d hired a decorator.

  Although it looked like something from House Beautiful, there was no life to the room. Paintings hanging from the walls, detailed huge splashes of flowers that shocked the eye more than coordinated with the light-colored carpeting. The furniture was gray, uphol­stered with the same flower element, only a smaller version.

  On the gleaming chrome and glass coffee table was a large vase with fresh flowers and several magazines. The flowers made her feel comfortable, and she smiled at them.

  "My housekeeper, Mrs. Alexander, changes the flowers once a week," he explained, following her eyes.

  Robyn nodded, her attention moving to the piano that sat in front of a wall of windows leading to a rooftop patio. She couldn’t see the kitchen, but the dining area matched the living room. The tables con­tinued the same glass and chrome scheme.

  "It’s a beautiful piano," she said, feeling breathless.

  "I keep it tuned, but play it very little."

  "You play?" The surprise showed in her voice. Grant hadn’t played when they met.

  "Not really. I hired a teacher once. He taught me only one song," he said.

  Robyn returned her attention to him, "Just one."

  He nodded.

  "It must be something very special. Play it for me."

  Grant dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. "I haven’t played it in a long time," he said. "You’d laugh at me."

  "I promise not to. In fact, if you want, I won’t even look."

  He sighed and went to sit at the keyboard. Robyn walked to the bar and found a bottle of champagne chilling in the small refrigerator. Her head was below bar-level when the first notes of Chopin’s Nocturne in E-major filtered into the room. Numbness gripped her. Suddenly, she had no feeling in her fingers, and her knees turned to water. The bottle fell from her hand as she tried not to fall over in the confined space. Grasping the bar, she held on, trying to control her ragged breathing. Her arms had little strength, but she pulled herself up. Grant’s back was to her. He sat erect, his fingers moving expertly across the keys. Music filled the room. Coming around, she collapsed on a barstool and listened to the haunting music. The Nocturne in E-major by Chopin was her favorite song.

  In high school, she’d listened to a radio station, WNIA. Every night at midnight, they’d play Chopin’s Nocturne in E-major. It was sign-off music for the station. Robyn would stay up, listening just to hear this song. Then, she’d fall peacefully to sleep.

  She remembered the first time Mrs. Ross let her pick a recital piece. She’d chosen this song and worked hard to perfect it. And Grant had remembered enough to learn to play it. Tears gathered in her eyes.

  When the last notes of the refrain died, water streamed over her cheeks like the fingers of time.

  "You’re crying," Grant came to her, taking her hands and closing her in his arms. "It wasn’t that bad, was it?" he tried to joke.

  Robyn was too choked up to speak. She tried open­ing and closing her mouth several times but found her throat closed by a clog of tears. Grant drew her closer. She buried her face in his shoulder and closed her eyes. Years melted away.

  “Few women are moved to tears by music,” Grant said. He held her. He smelled delicious. Right now, she wanted him to lift her and carry her to the bedroom. But he just held her, allowing her to cry softly against him.

  "I’m sorry," she finally said. "It’s been a long time since I heard that song. And you play it beautifully."

  "Why did it make you cry."

  "Memories."

  "Bad memories?"

  Robyn pushed herself back. "Well, aren’t you going to answer?"

  "It’s just something I liked?"

  "Now, who’s lying. No one hires a teacher for just one song unless it means a lot to them. It was her favorite, wasn’t it?"

  For someone so mysterious, she was extremely per­ceptive. He nodded. "Robyn loved it."

  Grant stepped away then, going behind the bar and finding the discarded bottle of champagne. He opened it and poured two glasses. Robyn accepted one and sipped the bubbly liquid.

  Robyn moved away from the bar. Carrying her glass, she opened the door to the patio. Night air and noise rushed into the room. Walking to the edge of the rooftop garden, she looked out. The length of Con­necticut Avenue stretched before her. Even at this early hour of the morning, traffic brightened the famous thoroughfare.

  "It’s beautiful," she murmured.

  "It’s one of the reasons I bought it."

  Robyn missed the city. She had loved living in Washington. The city had a life to it, a beat that seemed to mesh with the rhythm of her heart. She never thought she’d have to leave it. And although Buf­falo had lots of snow in the winter and great summer sports, it lacked the opulence of Kalarama Road, the quaintness of Georgetown’s cobblestone streets, and the frantic energy of Capital Hill.

  She felt Grant behind her. He slipped his arms around her waist, and she stepped back. Her head fell against his shoulder. Grant’s body hardened. Fire be­gan a slow burn deep in her belly. Grant’s hand came to cup her breasts as his mouth moved wetly across her uncovered shoulders. Where he touched her, small volcanoes erupted. She shuddered at the excitement that ran through her. Unconsciously, she moaned at the effect his touch had on her. Her body was washed with a consuming heat, a heat that intensified and burned but didn’t scorch.

  His fingers flicked easily across the fabric of her gown, bringing her nipples to hard peaks. Robyn felt a scream rising. Her breath came in short gasps. Gut­tural sounds broke from her throat as his hands burned her body. They left her breasts, that pushed and strained against the soft fabric of her dress, to cross her stomach and rub down her thighs. The heat between her legs doubled its intensity as his fingers beat a primal message to her.

  Robyn’s body felt light, almost liquid inside Grant’s influence. Sounds coming from her grew louder as her need for him gained strength. She knew she couldn’t take this pleasure-pain for any length of time.

  The wind around them picked up, blowing her hair and lifting her gown in a puff of peach chiffon. But it was no match against the flames Grant ignited in her.

  In one swift movement, she turned in his arms, seeking and finding the wetness of his hungry mouth. The passion between them had been held for too long, their need for each other kept at bay too long. Robyn poured everything into her kiss. It told him who she was. How much she loved him, had always loved him. How sorry she
was for letting him go. She told him of their child and her years of loneliness. Nothing was left out as Grant’s mouth fused with hers.

  They were alone on a rooftop, but between them, they were alone in the universe. Grant found the zipper at the back of her dress and eased the metal fastening free. Robyn felt the cool breeze on her bare back for a moment before Grant’s hands probed her sensitized skin. He lifted his head a second and looked into her eyes. There was no question there. Only a dark passion neither of them could deny. He stepped back just enough to let the dress separating them fall to their feet. His eyes devoured her breasts, making them thrust forward.

  Bending, he lifted her and carried her through the apartment to the bedroom. Slowly, he allowed her body to slip down his frame. Like two dancers in a private ballet he eased her down the long line of his thigh to the soft carpet. His eyes never left her face. It seemed to glow with a yellow-gold light. Tangling his hands in her hair, the velvet-soft strands slipped through his fingers. He held her head and angled her mouth back to his.

  Robyn felt his hard body next to her softer one. New levels of excitement rioted through her. She was burning with desire and could barely stand the intense moment of separation. She stood between his legs. His body pressed into hers. Her hands found the but­tons on his shirt, and quickly, she peeled it away from his strong shoulders. Her fingers were frantic as they undressed him. When he stood before her naked, he took her hands in his and drew her back into his arms. His mouth took hers on a gasp of pleasure.

  She didn’t remember moving until she felt the bed against the back of her legs. Together they lay on it, Grant pulling her closer. Keeping her from leaving even the smallest space.

  She touched him, running her hands against pow­erful shoulders, down subtle arms, across his muscular stomach and even lower. He felt like raw silk. She loved how he even made her palms sensitive whenever they came into contact with skin that rippled under her tutelage.

  Grant’s moans mingled with Robyn’s until she didn’t know from which one of them they came. Grant’s mouth slid away from hers. He buried his face between her shoulder and neck for a moment. His body trembled against hers. Then, he rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed. For several moments, he looked at her, as if he were trying to memorize every dimension of her body. Robyn felt no embarrassment at his appraisal.

  Grant reached across her to the drawer of the nightstand. Out came a foil covered pouch. "Here let me," she said, taking the silver disk from him. She left the bed and kneeling in front of him, pulled the covering away. The rubbery protector felt cool against her fin­gers. With her index fingers and a slowness borne of anticipation, she watched its length shorten as she gathered it. Keeping her fingers inside, she slipped it over his erection and rubbed the skin of her fingers against him. She felt the strain in him communicated through the motion of his throbbing maleness. Ever so slowly, she brushed her fingers up and down. Grant’s hands grabbed her shoulders and squeezed. She dared to look at him. His eyes were closed, and his teeth were clamped on his lower lip as if he was holding back sound.

  With eminent slowness, she con­tinued to pull the opaque rubber over his hardness, while her fingers reveled in the heat and throbbing energy of the instrument she covered. In a ritualistic finger dance, she made a ceremony of the protective covering. When she finally reached the fullness of his body, her hands went to his thighs. The thread of con­trol that he held over himself was ready to snap. She felt the muscles of his legs bunch under her palms and heard the small cry of pleasure break from the big man sitting above her. She forced herself to main­tain a steady pressure, to control the precision and speed with which she raked her thumbnails down his inner thighs. His hands tightened about her shoulders and found their way into her hair that fell down her back. It was exhilarating. When she reached his knees, she lowered her mouth and brushed her tongue over the surface.

  Grant hooked his hands under her arms. He hauled her back onto the bed and rolled on top of her. He sought her mouth in an uncontrolled kiss that plunged his tongue deep into the well of her mouth. His legs tangled with hers, and his hands stroked her body drawing heat as they passed over her tip-hard breasts, stomach, and into the center of her being.

  Finally, his knee separated her legs, and he hovered above her for a second. She knew he was forcing himself not to plunge into her. With expert direction, he lowered himself into her, but stopped as the heat of his body made contact with the throbbing need in her. A violent surge pushed through Robyn, and she moved forward, opening her body to swallow Grant inside her. But he kept her at bay. And just as she’d created a ceremony with her fingers, he made her groan as he pushed and retreated at the entrance but refused to take the full measure of her offering.

  A scream from deep within her was rapidly working its way to the surface. Robyn didn’t know if she could keep it from breaking. Pleasure spasms rioted through her. Grant continued his exercise. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew her hands into tight balls against his back.

  "Grant," she called as she raised her knees and met his erection. This time he entered her fully. She felt her body close around his hardness, and then, response was out of control. Grant’s easy strokes were quickly replaced by frantic movements. Their tango was a pris­tine dance, each knowing the other’s wants and needs. Each pressing the right buttons, making the other cry out with delight as every pleasure point was erotically discovered and exploited.

  Robyn couldn’t help calling Grant’s name. And hers broke from his lips more than once.

  The climax was wild, savage, uncontrollable. Grant collapsed against her. She was unaware of his weight as she took long breaths. She felt good, unable to stifle the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. Her arms tightened around him, and she pressed her lips against his sweat-soaked shoulder.

  Grant reacted with a shudder. He turned on his back, pulling Robyn on top of him. Her hair rumbled in his face, and he brushed it away, hooking it behind her ears and holding her face between his hands.

  "Even if your mouth doesn’t say it, your body knows."

  "Knows what?" She rested her elbows above his shoulders. A playful smile curved her lips. Her fingers stroked the scar above his eye.

  "That I love you, and you love me." He cradled her head against him and held it, next to his heart.

  They lay like that for a long time. Robyn felt hap­pier than she had in years. Grant shifted, keeping her close to his side and gently running his hand up and down her arm. Robyn closed her eyes and reveled in the cocoon of love he weaved.

  "Are you sleepy?" he asked. She felt his jaw move against her head.

  "No," she answered.

  "Good, tell me something about yourself?"

  Robyn steeled herself, but didn’t tense. She didn’t know how to answer that question, and she had to be cautious about what she said. Lying here while the need to trust mingled with the aroma of passion; she wanted to tell him the truth. But did she dare? She thought she’d try lightness.

  "Do you want to know when I had my teeth straightened, or how I went from being the skinniest kid in school to the one with the most zits?"

  He chuckled as he drove his fingers into her hair. Then, he turned her face to his. In the semidarkness, it was difficult to see.

  "Tell me about him?" Grant asked. The seriousness in his voice was unmistakable. "You don’t talk about him much."

  "I didn’t think you’d want me to spend time talking about another man." Robyn tried to buy herself some time. She moved away, needing room if they were go­ing to talk about Cameron Johnson.

  Grant smiled and pulled her back into his embrace. "In most cases, that’s true. I’m guess I’m just inter­ested in everything about you and what made you the person you are."

  Robyn stilled her reaction. How she’d like to answer all his questions, pour her heart out to him, satisfy the unknown questions she could see in his eyes. Tell him who she was, and plead for him to understand and forgive her for leavin
g him and taking his daughter with her.

  Then, her eyes fell on the photograph of him stand­ing next to The Salt Box, the plane he flew his first solo in. It was standing on his crowded desk in the corner of the room illuminated by a shaft of moon­light. No other photographs were present. Grant’s happy grin poked into her guilt, and slowly, the air seeped out of it. She had made the correct decision. Even today, she couldn’t take his love of flying away. It was the one thing in life he couldn’t live without.

  Grant touched her cheek, causing Robyn to shift her gaze from the hypnotic effect of his smile to the hypnotic effect of the real man beside her. "Tell me, Brooke Johnson, who is the real Brooke Johnson?" If it hadn’t been for the mischievous grin he flashed her, she’d be concerned he knew more than she wanted him to know. Outwardly, her features responded, yet her calculator-like brain went into action. "You don’t talk very much about yourself, do you?" he continued.

  "I’m not really that interesting," she hedged.

  "I can argue that. You’re the most mysterious woman I’ve ever met."

  "Isn’t mystery the definition of woman?" She at­tempted to redirect the conversation from herself to women in general.

  "Every man likes some mystery about a woman. It keeps him interested. But you," he hesitated, searching for words to explain his meaning. "You make intrigue an art."

  "What do you mean by that?" One part of her mind told her to steer clear of this avenue, while the other rushed hurriedly toward it.

  "In the past month, I’ve told you about Lebanon, Robyn, and my charter service, yet, all I know about you is that you have a daughter with a rare blood type, you own a restaurant, and you’re a widow."

  "And you want me to fill in a few of the details." A ready smile traced her even teeth.

  "No."

  "No?" Her eyebrows went up.

  "No, I want you to fill in all the details. I want to know everything about you." The eyes that searched hers were serious.

  Robyn climbed out of the bed. She found his shirt and pulled it over her nakedness. "My husband’s name was Cameron." She began the familiar tale she’d learned and relearned and relearned. "We met during spring vacation our junior year in college. We were married the day after graduation."