Married by Accident

by Christine Rimmer

  Sounds from the television drifted up the stairwell. A man talking. Then laughter. How soon would that program be over? Would Cole come upstairs then?

  “Melinda?”

  Melinda blinked, smiled at her friend. “Hmm?”

  “About Dad? Do you think Cole is right? Is he ever going to eat with us, or even come out of his room?”

  “Yes. I’m sure he will.” She wasn’t, not really. But it seemed like the right thing to say.

  Annie peered at her doubtfully. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  Melinda started to argue—then thought better of it. “I’m not a doctor, Annie. Or a fortune teller, either.”

  “Do you think...maybe we should just go ahead and tell him the truth now? About you and Cole and Brady and me...and everything?”

  Melinda could hardly believe her ears. Annie was having second thoughts.

  More canned laughter floated up to them from below. A warm shiver pulsed through Melinda. Within an hour, maybe two, the television would be silent. The door between her room and Cole’s would open. Cole would be standing on the other side....

  “Melinda? Are you listenin’ to me?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, of course I heard what you said.”

  “You are actin’ kind of strange. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. And yes, I do think the best thing to do would be to tell your father the truth about everything right away.”

  Annie made a face. “I knew you would say that.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “You are gettin’ snippy. Something is wrong. Tell me. Let me help.”

  “Annie, there’s nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. Listen, about the bathroom...”

  “You go first. Take a long, relaxin’ bath, okay? Wash your troubles away.”

  “Annie, I do not have any troubles.” As soon as the words were out, Melinda thought of the job she didn’t have. Of her life that lacked focus and real meaning. Of what she and Cole were going to do that night that they shouldn’t let themselves do. “Well,” she said correcting herself. “I have no more troubles than usual, anyway.”

  “You know I’m just across the landing, if you want to talk.”

  “I do know. And thanks.”

  They said good night. Melinda went to her room, where she found the gray cat, Spunky, asleep on her bed. The cat looked up and yawned at her.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” she advised. The cat yawned a second time, curled on its side and closed its eyes.

  Melinda went to the room’s small closet, where she’d hung up her cobalt-blue silk robe. She took it from the hanger and carried it to the bathroom that she shared with Annie.

  She pinned up her hair and undressed as the tub filled. Once in the tub she made herself sit for a long time, soaking, trying her best to relax as the sweet-smelling steam from her favorite bath salts rose all around her. When she finally did emerge, she dried herself briskly, slathered on lotion and spritzed herself with scent. Then she pulled on her robe, belted it firmly with the matching sash and gathered up the clothes she’d left strewn on the floor.

  With a stealth she knew was ludicrous, she tiptoed from the bathroom—and couldn’t resist a short detour to the top of the stairs. She peered over the balustrade, listening. It sounded quiet down there. No voices. No canned laughter.

  She sent a glance across the stairwell, at the closed door of Cole’s room. Was he in there right now? Waiting? Wondering why the door she’d promised to leave open remained locked?

  She whirled and made for her own room, so flustered she dropped a tennis shoe, scrambled to pick it up, tripped on the trailing hem of her robe—and dropped the other shoe in the process.

  “Ridiculous. So silly...” she muttered to herself, as she bent to retrieve the second shoe.

  Right then, she heard boots on the stairs. She rose slowly to a standing position, the second shoe dangling from her suddenly nerveless right hand.

  Cole appeared in the stairwell—and saw her. They stared at each other.

  Melinda clutched her pile of clothing tighter. The first shoe, on top of the load, teetered a little. She nudged it into a more stable position with the hand that was holding the other one. “I, um, dropped my shoe.”

  His gaze swept over her.

  The clinging robe felt way too thin, suddenly—and Melinda was all too aware of her nakedness beneath the silk. “I...had a nice, long bath...”

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything. He just took the two steps left to achieve the landing and then kept coming toward her.

  Instinctively she backed toward the open door to her room. He kept pace with her, one long stride for every two of hers.

  Still moving backward, she cleared the threshold to her private space. Cole followed, seconds later. He pushed the door shut with the heel of his boot. She heard a snicking sound as the latch caught. He reached behind him. The lock clicked as he turned it.

  Her heart had gone crazy. It rushed the blood through her body so fast she felt dizzy.

  He asked, softly, “Did you change your mind?”

  Her throat felt as if it had something stuck in it. She gave a fierce shake of her head.

  He took another long step and he was before her. Very slowly, he reached out, took her clothes and her shoes. She let them go without protest, dropping her arms to her sides as soon as their burden was gone. He tossed the things on the bed. The gray cat still lay there. It raised its head and stared at them.

  “I told that cat he couldn’t stay,” she whispered around the obstruction in her throat.

  A half smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. “He’s a she. And when she finds a bed she likes, it’s pretty near impossible to get her off it.”

  “Well, this time she’s got to go.”

  “No. Let’s just use my room. My bed.”

  His bed. The realization of what was happening struck her anew. Her knees felt like rubber. Her heart seemed to fill up her chest. She could feel her aroused nipples, pressing against the revealing fabric of her robe, outlined so clearly for him to see.

  He took her hand, turned for the connecting door. “Come on.”

  Before she could think of anything else to say, he’d twisted the lock, opened the door and pulled her into his room. He led her across the floor, which was cool under her bare feet, and then onto the braid rug, to the side of the bed, where he switched on a lamp.

  The sudden brightness startled her a little. She blinked.

  He soothed her. “It’s okay...” His thumb stroked her knuckles.

  She remembered the contraceptives she’d bought. “Wait, I...”

  His fingers tightened on hers, as if he wouldn’t let her go. “Wait for what?”

  “Today, when I was in Fredericksburg, I... well, I bought some protection, you know? It’s in the drawer, in the stand by my bed.”

  He tugged sharply on her hand.

  With a stunned exhalation of breath, she landed against his chest. She stared up at him. “I...I only wanted to go and get it.”

  “There’s no need. I stopped in at a drugstore myself today.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Well. Then we can use yours.”

  “That’s right.” He trailed his hands over the outside of her arms and along her shoulders, rubbing the silk against her skin. His fingers caressed her bare neck, then slid upward, into her still pinned-up hair. He pulled the pins free, dropping them to the little table by the lamp. Her hair fell around her face.

  “Beautiful...”His fingers moved through the strands, then fisted gently. He pulled her head back.

  She closed her eyes with a hungry sigh as his mouth came down to settle on hers. His tongue sought entry. She gave it, moaning, drinking him in as his hands rubbed her shoulders, pulling her even closer, so their bodies seemed to melt into one striving, needful whole.

  He pulled aw
ay suddenly. “Wait.”

  Her eyes popped open. She made a lost, questioning sound.

  He put his thumb on her lip, to still her. “It’s just the door. I should lock it.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course...” She hovered where he left her, unsure and anxious, as he strode across the room and locked the outside door.

  Then he came back to her. He reached for her again. She surged toward him eagerly.

  They fell across the bed, a tangle of legs and arms, of cobalt silk and rough denim, rawhide boots and bare feet. He pushed the robe away, found her breast. His mouth closed on it, sucking. She bit her lip to keep from crying out too loudly, as she shoved her fingers through his thick brown hair.

  Oh, she couldn’t get him close enough. But she did try. She pulled his dark head tight against her. The thread of arousal pulsed, a hot cord of need, from her breast down to her womb and back again.

  He worked at the knot of her sash. She felt it fall away. He moved back from her, just long enough to take the edges of the blue silk and peel it free. It fell in a midnight pool around her bared body, held in place by her arms, which remained in the sleeves.

  He called her beautiful again.

  So strange. She had been called that word before. So many times. But it had never seemed anything but a barrier to her, something that set her apart, made her not quite a real person, more an object, a thing to be admired and displayed.

  But now, oh now...looking into Cole’s eyes, knowing she pleased him, she only felt gladness that it was so, because what he saw when he looked at her went deeper, encompassed her whole self—including the confusions, the doubts, and the pain.

  His hands caressed her naked flesh, stroking, tormenting, grasping and hot, learning her secrets, claiming them as his.

  Too eager, she thought, both of us. Too eager by half...

  She pulled his shirt open, so she could feel his chest against her breasts. And she touched him, through the worn denim of his jeans. He moaned an encouragement into her ear.

  So she fumbled with the metal buttons, until she had him free. She stroked him. He moaned again, his hand seeking and finding the female center of her, testing her readiness for him.

  He muttered low and urgently, “I can’t wait...”

  She didn’t argue. Why should she? They had waited so long, it seemed to her. She wanted him. Fully. Right then.

  He pulled away. She watched him from her bed of silk, as he took the condom from a drawer, unwrapped it, slid it on.

  And then he came down on her. She welcomed him with wanton impatience, wrapping her legs around him, clutching him tight, unable to hold back a deep, glorious cry as he filled her.

  His mouth found hers. His tongue delved in, imitating the motions their hips made below.

  The denim of his jeans abraded, coarse and rough. She hardly felt it; there was so much to feel, after all. She spun in a whirlwind of erotic sensation. The smell of him: dust and clean sweat and a hint of the animals he healed. Her own lotions and bath salts, the rubbing of silk, the scrape of his chest hair, the strength of his arms so hard around her, his breath across her cheek, his hands in her hair...

  He lifted up on his elbows and looked down at her. She met his eyes. It seemed to her that they were a circle, joined in a look, in the intimate clasp of her hips cradling his.

  He groaned, “Yes.” She gave the word back to him as her climax rolled through her, pulsing as it moved, from the center and out. He closed his eyes, tossed his head back and pressed into her so hard and deep she thought he just might have touched her heart.

  He groaned again. She cried out once more, this time in sweet, complete release.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was stillness.

  Cole lowered his head, pressed his brow to hers. “Melinda.” A drop of his sweat fell on her temple. He rubbed it up with a stroking motion of his head against hers.

  “Cole.” She smiled.

  With a sigh, he went lax above her, his heavy, strong body pressing her down. She relaxed, too. Her thighs eased their grip on his hips, her arms cradled him gently. And for a time, they just lay there, lazy and loose, utterly content.

  He nuzzled her neck. “You smell like a garden. Flowers and dewdrops. Too bad I smell like a vet.”

  A low, provocative laugh escaped her. “It’s very manly, your smell.”

  “Manly.” He grunted.

  “That’s what I said.”

  He lifted up on his elbows again. His eyes were so dark, the pupils enlarged, open and vulnerable. She had no doubt that her eyes looked much the same.

  “Come on,” he said, “I’ll take a shower. You can wash my back.”

  She felt devilish suddenly. “And what will you do for me?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Make it good.”

  “Ma’am, I will do my very best.”

  They made love again, in the shower. And then once more in Cole’s bed. Long after midnight, they heard a tentative scratching at the door to the landing.

  “That’s only Sergeant,” Cole said. Naked, he rose and went to the door. He let the dog in and then locked up once more. Sergeant limped over near the sitting area and stretched out beside the sofa there.

  Cole came back to her. She watched him, delighting in the depth and breadth of his chest and the hard strength in his powerful legs.

  He lay down, on his side, next to her. She canted up on an elbow. “What happened to that dog’s tail—and his ear and his leg?”

  “Couldn’t say. One of the local ranchers brought him into the hospital a couple of years ago. Said he’d found him on the road. The injuries were old and long healed even then.”

  “Isn’t there something that can be done for his leg?”

  “I broke it again, and reset it. It works better than it used to, but it’s still not really right.” He stroked her arm idly as he spoke, his hand skimming up and then down again. “Nobody came lookin’ for him. And I got kind of used to him. Now we’re old friends.” He leaned closer, kissed her nose.

  She lifted her mouth a little, so he could kiss it, too. He did, quickly and sweetly.

  She slid closer with a sigh. “He’s devoted to you.”

  “Yeah. That’s one of the best things about animals. What they do pretty much always makes sense. You treat ’em good, and they want to stick around.”

  She rolled to her back and turned her head toward him. “Meaning people aren’t like that?”

  “Meaning people are too smart for their own good in some ways. They get hurt and they won’t let go of it. They spend the rest of their lives trying to protect themselves from getting hurt again.”

  She probably shouldn’t have, but she asked anyway, “Are you talking about me, Cole?”

  He rose enough to lean over her, to trace the line of her jaw with a long, light caress. “Yeah, I guess I am.” His finger whispered along the twin curves of her brows, one and then the other. “Someone hurt you. A man, right? He hurt you real bad?”

  She closed her eyes. It was just too hard to look at him right then.

  “Come on. Look at me.”

  She did, though it took considerable effort. “Did Annie—?”

  “Annie’s told me nothin’. I’ve guessed that you asked her not to.” He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he prompted, “Well. Did I guess right?”

  She caught her lip between her teeth and nodded.

  He was quiet, looking down at her, waiting, again, for her to say more.

  The appeal in those kind eyes undid her. “All right. There was...a man. He was everything my parents had taught me to want. A teacher. A famous poet.”

  “You’re sayin’ you were with him because he was what your parents wanted for you?”

  “No—yes. Oh, what I mean is, I did want to please them. They thought of me as...frivolous, I guess would be the word. I showed no talent for doing the kind of work they valued. For music. Or painting. Or writing. Things they call ‘serious
work.’”

  “Did this guy have a name?”

  “Christopher. And my parents admired him. They even seemed to admire me, when Christopher and I got together.”

  “You were married to him?”

  “No. He didn’t want to get married.”

  “And your parents thought that was okay?” She could tell by his careful tone, by his studiously bland expression, that he thought a woman’s parents ought to be more conservative about such things.

  She tried to explain. “They wanted me to marry him, they really did. But Christopher was a professor, like my father, a highly respected poet and lecturer, an artist in residence at Columbia University, and a colleague of my father’s. To my parents, a long-term live-in relationship with such a fine man was nothing to sneeze at. Besides, my parents believe that artists and poets always make their own rules.”

  “Sounds real convenient—for artists and poets.” He spoke softly, but the words were fragments of iron.

  “Cole. Don’t be judgmental. Please. Their approval wasn’t all of it. I... I truly did love him.”

  “You still love him?” Now his tone was gruff.

  “No. I don’t. When I think of him now, I feel... nothing. Nothing at all. I find that pretty sad, actually.”

  He smiled then, a hard, rather angry smile. “I don’t.” The cruel smile vanished. “So you didn’t marry him—but you lived with him?”

  She nodded. “For five years.”

  “And then?”

  She told the worst part quickly, to get it over with. “I got pregnant. He didn’t want the baby. I realized I did. Very much. I left him. And then...I lost the child.”

  Cole’s fingers slid across her cheek and into her hair. “Melinda.” He kissed her and then he pulled her close, making of his big body a cradle for hers. “That man was a fool. He didn’t know what he had. But I guess he’s got his comeuppance. Because he lost you.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, returning the embrace, his nakedness against hers, not the least bit sexual now. Just comfort offered, comfort taken.

  She closed her eyes, put her lips against his ear and whispered, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe animals know better than people do how to live. But for a while I thought I knew who I was, knew what I wanted—out of life, from a man. Maybe I wasn’t an artist or a writer. Maybe I wasn’t even married to Christopher. But I felt married. I felt that I...loved him well, that I supported him and stood beside him and helped him with his work. But then I got pregnant. I...changed. And he didn’t. Now he’s out of my life and I don’t want him back. It’s as if I’m not the same woman I was once. But who am I? I’m not sure. I can’t even trust what I feel...”