Dark Fire

by Peggy Webb

  He pushed her skirt up and exploded into her, the frenzy and wildness showing in his eyes as the smell of lemon drifting upward from the polished wood. She rode his wildness, welcomed it, reveled in it. He touched the primitive in her, and she sank her nails into his back, holding on, holding on and ciying out her need in hoarse sounds she hardly recognized as her own.

  She felt the tension building in him, and her own body felt like a storm cloud too heavy to sustain its burden. It seemed to her that her old self had separated from the woman spread upon the piano. From some far and distant place she heard herself asking for more, even as her body begged for release.

  Merciless, driven, Sid plowed into her, so hot that his face was shiny and wet. The winds of premonition blew cold across her heart, and she tasted the moisture of his sweat and her tears.

  "Don't ever stop," she begged, knowing he had to, knowing that obsession such as theirs would destroy if it weren't tamed.

  When the spasms overtook her, Sid planted his seed deep, then collapsed over her, his breath rushing out like an engine run out of steam. She clutched her to him, afraid to let go.

  "I love you so much, it scares the hell out of me." His voice was muffled against her throat.

  "I know," she said, smoothing his damp hair. "I know."

  They lay on the piano, their slick bodies joined, until thirst finally tore them apart. Sid levered himself up, then tenderly lifted her off the piano.

  They were quiet as they rearranged their clothes. She smoothed down her skirt, then picked her blouse off the floor. One shoe was beside the piano bench and the other under the piano. She didn't bother with them, but padded barefoot to the kitchen and poured herself a cool drink of water.

  Sid came in behind her. She didn't turn, for she could hardly bear to look at him knowing she would soon be leaving with so many things left unsaid. His arms circled her from behind and she leaned against him. They rocked, holding on to each other, still silent.

  The ice maker dumped a fresh load of ice cubes. As if that were a signal, Sid released Rose Anne, then went to the refrigerator.

  She turned to watch him. There were red marks on his back where her nails had scored the skin. She touched the marks, then kissed them, feeling the tremors that went through him.

  "Let me get something for these," she murmured, her lips still warm against his back.

  "They'll be all right."

  "No. I want to do this."

  She held herself very proud as she left the kitchen, and Sid watched her go. His hands tightened on the glass until his knuckles were white.

  "Dammit," he whispered, his jaw clenched so tight he thought he might break his back teeth. How much could he ask of this beautiful woman? How much would she be willing to sacrifice?

  Rose Anne was smiling when she came back with the antibiotic salve. To a casual observer it might have looked like the smile of a happy woman, but Sid had seen her happy. He knew the sparkle that came into her eyes, the glow that came into her cheeks. She was still flushed from their lovemaking, and she had the pouty, languid look of a satisfied woman, but she didn't look happy.

  "Rose Anne . . ." He lifted her hand and kissed the knuckles. "Is anything wrong?"

  "No . . ." She held up the tube of salve. "Turn around, please."

  Her hands soothed his back.

  "That feels good."

  "Hmmm," she said, still working on the marks long after he knew the job was finished. "There," she said, and walked to the other side of the kitchen, almost as if she couldn't bear to touch him anymore.

  He hated the constraint between them. "Why don't we get dressed, then go somewhere for a nice, quiet dinner?" he said.

  o0o

  At the restaurant they both tried too hard to be happy. He began to make jokes about his nose, and she laughed even when they weren't funny. After dessert, which she nibbled and he devoured, she excused herself. In the powder room she leaned against the marble vanity and stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were too bright. She wondered if Sid knew how close she was to tears.

  Angrily, she pulled her compact out of her purse and dabbed at her cheeks. Maybe he didn't love her enough. Maybe he had never meant for them to have more than an affair.

  If that's the way he wanted it, she could handle it. She'd do anything, as long as it meant having Sid in her life.

  Anyway, she was being unreasonable, thinking about marriage after only one weekend with him. These things took time. Didn't they?

  They lingered over dinner, something they had never done. Always, they had been too eager to get back to his apartment and explore each other to dally over food.

  "Ready?" he asked when she got back to the table.

  "Yes."

  They didn't talk much going back to his apartment, and then only about inconsequential things. He never mentioned her career, and she never mentioned commitment. She didn't talk about the possibility of a long separation, and he didn't talk about the agony of living in separate states.

  They were still subdued when they climbed into bed. He held her softly in the circle of his arms, and she lay, wide-eyed, staring at a spot of light through the crack in the blinds.

  When Sid's breathing became even, she climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen. She prowled around, not really thirsty, but looking for something to drink, something to keep her mind off the following day.

  She poured a glass of orange juice and sat on a barstool, staring at it.

  "Rose Anne?" Sid sat on a barstool beside her. "What's wrong?"

  "I couldn't sleep."

  "Neither could I." He took a sip of her orange juice, then set the glass back on the bar. "Too much excitement this weekend, I guess," he said, trying for a grin and failing.

  "I guess."

  What was happening to them? They sounded like people who hardly knew each other, making polite conversation.

  "I hate this," she said suddenly, surprising both of them. She swiveled on the barstool to face him. "And if you dare say 'Hate what?" I'm going to scream."

  He put a hand on her cheek.

  "I hate it too. Rose Anne. I hate that you're leaving tomorrow, and I hate being afraid that I’ll somehow lose you to your glamorous career. . . ."

  "Lose me!" She leaned so close, her nose touched his. "Sid Granger, how dare you think I'm that frivolous. How dare you think I flew all the way up here for a weekend tumble in your bed."

  "I don't think that—"

  "Yes, you do, and I plain and simply won't have it." She jumped off the barstool and began to pace. "After all the trouble I went to—calling all over the country to locate Hawk and Lightning and Gunslinger, getting my hands on a tape of your music and then finding that combo to learn it, standing out in the thirty-degree weather without a coat just so you would be reminded of the first time you saw me in Paris—"

  She paused for breath, flinging her arms out and her head back as she beseeched the ceiling. Sid strode toward her and smothered her in his arms.

  "You forgot the piano," he said.

  She pressed her face into the crisp, curly hairs on his chest.

  "I did not forget the piano," she said, her voice muffled. "I just didn't think 'a tumble on your piano' sounded right."

  "Don't you know, fair one, that I'd give anything in the world if you would stay . . ."

  "I thought I had finally learned to be a modern woman, but I guess I was wrong. I can't picture myself spending the next few years of my life flying to Norfolk or Miramar or wherever you happen to be for a weekend in your bed."

  He tipped her face up with the back of his hand. "Is that what you thought I wanted?"

  "Yes . . . isn't it?"

  "I want you to marry me. Rose Anne. I want to stand in front of an altar with you and pledge my love to you before God and the whole world. I want you to carry my name and bear my children." His hands caressed her cheeks. "I love you, and love means commitment."

  Her smile was radiant. "Why didn't you say so?"

/>   "You said you were going back to your career, and I assumed that you wouldn't be interested in marriage, at least not yet."

  "Sid Granger, don't you ever assume anything else about me as long as you live." She traced his lips with the tips of her fingers. "Except that I love you. You can always assume that."

  "Does that mean you'd say yes if I asked you to marry me?"

  "Does that mean you're asking?"

  Sid dropped to his knees and folded back the sleeve of his robe that she was wearing. "If I can find your hand."

  "Let me help you." She pushed the sleeve up to her elbow and placed her hand in his.

  "First of all, assume that we're surrounded by candlelight and music, that there's a bottle of wine chilling on ice."

  "I hear the music."

  "Then assume that there's a velvet box in my hand, and inside is the finest diamond you ever saw."

  "The sparkle hurts my eyes." She smiled down at him. "Sid, while I'm at it, can I assume a balcony in Paris with white roses growing up the wrought iron trellis?"

  "By all means."

  "I smell the roses."

  "Rose Anne, you are my heart, my soul, my very life. You are the music that sings through my veins and the passion that heats my blood. Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

  She knelt beside him and took his face between her hands. "I will."

  They sealed their promise with a kiss as tender as first love. Finally they broke apart, still facing each other, kneeling. By tacit agreement they knew there were still things they had to say.

  "I've been thinking of cutting back on my modeling assignments," she said. "Taking only those that really interest me."

  "And I've been thinking of early retirement, twenty years instead of thirty. There's a lot of music I'd like to write." He kissed her hand. "Being a military wife won't be easy."

  "Being a husband to the Face won't be any picnic."

  "I can handle it . . . as long as nobody asks me to put my face on a billboard."

  "There is someplace I'd like you to put your face, Sid."

  "Where, fair one?"

  "On the pillow . . . next to mine."

  He carried her into the bedroom and laid her gently upon the sheets, an angel who had tumbled from heaven into his bed. Then he lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms.

  "I'm on the pillow next to yours," he said.

  "Good. That's where you belong."

  "Rose Anne . . . did you say I have to be sleeping?"

  "Actually, I'd prefer if you didn't sleep for a while."

  "I think I'll make a little night music."

  He kissed his betrothed on her beautiful face, and they both felt the dark music that stirred their hearts, the dark fire that flamed in their souls. And they knew that neither the music nor the fire would ever leave them.

  -o0o-

  Author's Note

  I fell in love with Cyrano de Bergerac many years ago. It didn't matter that he was over three hundred years old and I was only nineteen. (His story, told in a play by the same name, is set in 1640.) Cyrano was everything I wanted in a man—a fearless soldier, as full of laughter and poetry and tenderness as he was of fire and passion.

  This novel first appeared under the Loveswept (Bantam Books) logo as part of a collection called TREASURED TALES. When I was asked to be one of the writers in the special promotion, I knew I had to write Cyrano's story. I gave him a fighter jet instead of a sword, a U.S. Navy uniform rather than a plumed hat, a Kentucky background instead of French. But I kept his fire, his passion, his poetry.

  I'm still in love with my version of Cyrano, Sid Granger, and I hope you fall in love with him too.

  I’m delighted to bring back this romance classic in e-book format!

  Thank you for reading my stories, for loving them, and for writing to tell me so. I invite you to visit me at www.peggywebb.com and to follow me on Facebook.

  Peggy Webb

  o0o

  Author Bio

  Peggy Webb is the author of more than 65 novels, 200 magazine columns and two screenplays. Her first romance, Taming Maggie, debuted at number one on the romance bestseller lists. Since then, she has consistently appeared on bestseller lists and won numerous awards, including a Romantic Times Pioneer Award for creating the sub-genre of romantic comedy. During her stint as an adjunct instructor of writing at Mississippi State University, Peggy left the lure of romance and turned her pen to murder. Currently she writes cozy mysteries. Her Southern Sisters Mystery series stars a sassy basset hound who thinks he’s Elvis reincarnated. The prolific author also writes novels as Anna Michaels. The Tender Mercy of Roses, her debut novel as Anna, was hailed by Pat Conroy as “an unforgettable story written with astonishing skill and clarity by a truly gifted writer.” Peggy lives in a cottage in Mississippi. She loves gardening, playing piano, singing in her church choir, and trying to tame two dogs who think they are the boss of the household. Visit Peggy/Anna at her websites, www.peggywebb.com and www.annamichaels.net and follow her on Facebook.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Author's Note

  Author Bio