His penetrating, unbending gaze made her feel special, wanted, excited—and a little nervous. When he took her coffee cup from her and set it on the table, never once removing his eyes from the study of her face, she had to ask in a high, slightly breathless tone, "What are you doing?"
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment longer. "I think," he replied softly, "I'm going to take all your clothes off."
She searched his face for some sign that would tell her whether he was serious, and she managed a little laugh. "Why?"
"Because I want to."
She touched his hand as it reached for the string tie at the neck of her halter. Her eyes were wide with a deeper question as she searched his face. "Do you always get exactly what you want?"
A shadow seemed to fall over his face, for just a moment, then it was gone. "No," he answered. "But I always try."
With a gentle tug the bow at her neck gave way. Her fingers tightened about his. "What—what if I don't want you to?" she managed. Her breath was coming with great difficulty now.
"Then," he replied seriously, "you know exactly how to stop me."
Her hand fell away from his and traveled instead to his shoulder, touching his neck, drawing him closer with the light pressure of her fingers. "Kiss me, Kyle," she whispered. "I'll try not to tremble."
He lowered his face and sought her lips gently, almost questioningly, and her response was immediate and welcoming. She let her senses respond to him fully and without inhibition, for with Kyle everything would be right. She loved the exploratory pressure of his mouth as it moved against hers, the faint taste of coffee on his tongue; she loved the delicate motions of his fingers as they traced a titillating pattern across the curves of her body and the feel of his tight muscles beneath the silky fabric of his shirt. It was inevitable that the sensation he aroused as their passion mounted should take her back to nights with Daniel… But this man was different, she tried to tell herself. He would never replace the love she still held in her heart for her husband, he would never take that away from her, but to share with Kyle one small part of what had been the miracle of married life surely could not be a crime. Please understand, Daniel, she thought desperately, trying with all her might to push away the image of him watching her accusingly. Please don't blame me… She had been too long without the physical joys of a man-woman relationship, and every movement of Kyle's sensitive, expert fingers and every touch of his lips heightened her awareness of the fact. She knew she did not want to turn back, but Daniel's memory beckoned her. She knew that she wanted Kyle, and when she was in his arms, she would try very, very hard not to pretend he was Daniel.
He moved the material of her halter aside and she yielded to the firm, light pressure of his fingers and then his lips upon her breasts. Somehow the buttons of his shirt were undone and she pressed him against her, his flesh against hers, as the dizzying waves of desire swept her into an embrace so tight they were almost molded as one. Then he moved away slowly, dropped delicate kisses on her breasts and her face, and entwined his fingers in hers. She thought he would suggest they go upstairs. She thought she would say yes.
But for a long, long time he simply looked at her. She was not ashamed to have him look at her, even with a gaze so deep and penetrating. It did not embarrass her or make her nervous. But she found she could not meet his gaze directly; she kept flitting her eyes away, almost as though afraid he might read something there she did not want him to see—some reluctance, perhaps, some denial within her mind of what her body was telling him.
And it seemed her fears were correct. In a moment he released a long, heavy breath. Gradually his fingers loosened from hers. "I'm sorry, Bobbie," he said quietly. "I won't compete with a ghost."
Chapter Eight
Barbara could not even draw a shocked breath. She did not move as he stood up and walked away from her, every line in his body tense with repressed emotion. She could not believe this was happening.
He resumed his seat in the chair opposite, arranging his limbs in a casual, relaxed posture as he unhurriedly refastened the buttons of his shirt. But there was a tautness in his face, in his hands, even in the arrangement of his legs, that belied his negligent demeanor. She struggled to a sitting position, whispering, "I don't understand! I—I—"
One corner of his lips tightened in a mirthless smile. "Don't you?" he replied. "I don't ask much, Bobbie, but I'm afraid I do still subscribe to the old-fashioned principle of two to a bed."
It suddenly seemed very important to get her halter tied, but the stubborn strings kept slipping through her numb fingers. He watched her struggle with absorbing interest. In other circumstances the situation would have been almost absurd.
"That—that's not true!" she cried, at last succeeding in tying a knot. Her color was high and she was miserable all over with a searing heat and an unfilled desire—and with anger because he had read her so clearly, because what he had sensed from her was only what she had tried so carefully to hide. Her nerves felt like fine wires stretched to the breaking point. "I do want you! All this time I've been afraid, but I'm not anymore because I do want you!"
"For what?" he inquired, and there was not a flicker of expression on his face. "You're using me, Bobbie."
She caught her breath, her frustration and her confusion turning swiftly into anger. "That's what people do, isn't it," she retorted, "when they have an affair—use each other?"
His eyes remained blank. "Some people," he answered.
She stood, turning abruptly away from him, hugging her arms to stop the tremors of humiliation and rage. "What is it?" she demanded spitefully. "The chase is more exciting than the conquest? Or maybe you just took on more than you could handle! You never wanted me at all, you—you just wanted to play with me!"
His voice behind her was restrained, and very close. "I want you," he said quietly. "But I'm not an exorcist. That's something you've got to handle on your own."
"You don't want me!" she cried, very near to sobbing now.
His fingers closed around her upper arm with a shocking force, whirling her around so that her face was only inches from the dark anger in his. "I do want you," he insisted, and his fingers tightened to a painful degree on her arm. "But I want you—not just your body responding to mine while you're pretending I'm another man!"
She gasped in shock and hurt, and when he released her abruptly, she stumbled backward and almost fell. He took an angry stride away from her, running his fingers through his hair, and she heard him hiss a single syllable through clenched teeth. Minutes ticked away, and anger was replaced with despair. She clung to the sofa for support and dropped her head. "I don't know what you want from me," she whispered at last.
He turned. Some of the anger was fading from his face too. "I only want to know that you're not comparing me to your husband. If you try to measure us against one another, both Daniel and I will suffer for it. You don't want to do that to Daniel's memory, and I won't let you do it to me."
He came over to her and lifted her chin with one strong finger. "I promise you it will be good between us," he said softly, "but only if you let go—completely. It's up to you."
She could not look at him. "I—I thought I was," she whispered miserably.
The finger moved to caress her face, a sad sort of smile softened his features. "We're good for each other, Bobbie," he said gently. "We could have fun together. We can make each other happy, and it will be good. There is room for two men in your life, but Daniel belongs in the past, and I belong in your present." He dropped his hand. "When you find that out for yourself, let me know."
She could not find the strength to call him back, even after the door closed quietly behind him.
The next morning he came down to the house as usual, just as she was finishing her breakfast. She had made a concentrated effort to make certain her sleepless night did not show on her face. A stinging cold shower and the judicious application of makeup did the trick nicely. Her conviction that ignoring a pro
blem only made it worse was conveniently discarded for the occasion. This was one problem no amount of talking could solve. And she was not about to set herself up for another humiliation like the one that had occurred the night before. She was determined to keep her distance—for a while, at least.
"Good morning," Kyle said pleasantly and poured a cup of coffee.
She replied coolly, "Good morning."
He lifted an eyebrow at her reaction and glanced at the evidence of breakfast: a cereal bowl in the sink and a half-finished glass of juice on the table. "No, thanks," he murmured, "I've already eaten."
She poured the remainder of the juice down the drain and returned the box of cereal to the cupboard.
"Would this by any chance be the signs of a feud?" he inquired mildly.
She rinsed off the dishes and dried her hands on a towel. She turned to him. "Shall we get to work?"
He studied her, sipping his coffee. "All right," he agreed. "But—" he quirked art eyebrow at her "—when you feel ready for some good, clean fun, you know where to find me."
She turned and walked toward the guest room. He followed at a discreet distance.
If there was a feud—and Barbara had to admit honestly that she had gone out of her way to start one—he made no further overtures to end it. When he called off work at the end of the day, he said a polite good-night to her and crossed the lawn to his own apartment. Though Barbara watched him jealously, he never left the grounds, though after a couple of days of the drawn-out coolness between them she half-expected him to go out in Michael's car one evening and not return before breakfast, and she didn't know what she would do if that happened. She began to miss him.
Fun. That was all he was asking. It wasn't as though he were talking about forever. Was it so great a price to pay for a start on a new life to put Daniel aside for a time in favor of living in the present? Was it really so impossible to do?
They finished the book in the middle of the morning, almost exactly on his three-week deadline. Michael and Kate were due back either today or tomorrow, and the party was scheduled for the end of the week. Barbara knew that he would be leaving shortly thereafter for Canada, but pride prevented her from asking him for the details. And pride prevented her from dwelling on the fact that their time together was running out.
"Do you know what I'm going to do?" Kyle declared, gathering up the bulky manuscript and neatening the pages. "I'm going to wrap this up and take it into town right now, and mail it before I change my mind. Care to come with me?"
Perhaps if he had looked at her, she might have agreed. But the invitation was offered so much as an afterthought that she declined, replying, "No, thanks. I'm going to go down to the beach and get some sun this afternoon."
He glanced at her. "You could use it," he agreed. "Okay, type me up a cover letter—you know, 'Dear Mr. Editor, enclosed is the manuscript,' et cetera, et cetera—and the rest of the day is yours."
She rolled a fresh sheet into the typewriter. "The rest of the summer is mine," she corrected pointedly, but he made no reply.
As she took her blanket down the steps to the beach and stretched out under the warm glow of the sun, she felt a mild depression settle over her. The book was finished, and she would miss working with Kyle. Not by any stretch of the imagination could she say it had been fun, but it had been fascinating, demanding, and a little awe-inspiring to work with a genius. And now there was hardly any reason for them to see one another.
After a time she went inside and fixed herself a light lunch, then rubbed herself with suntan oil and returned to the beach. She would probably suffer for it tonight, but now she did not really care. An unhappy lethargy had settled over her, and sunburn seemed the least of her problems.
She felt, rather than heard, his approach, and she opened her eyes a crack as Kyle's shadow fell over her. He was wearing a pair of red swimming briefs and leather thongs, and he had never looked so attractive, so vitally masculine. He sat down beside her and inquired, "What's your favorite flower?"
She opened her eyes wider in surprise. "Why?"
He looked contentedly out over the ocean. "I want to know what kind to send you in intensive care. You're going to end up with third-degree burns."
She closed her eyes again and muttered, "I haven't been out that long."
But after a while she opened her eyes again, unable to ignore the warm, electric presence of him so near to her again. She studied him for a long time, but he did not notice—or he pretended not to notice—his eyes fixed on the soothing, undulant motions of the sea. His body could have been sculpted from marble, his face modeled after those found on Greek coins: His fingers, long and delicate and strong, were looped around one upraised knee, and only a faint line marked the leg that had been imprisoned in a cast only a few weeks ago. She asked, without meaning to, "How do you keep such a perfect tan?"
"I spend ninety percent of my time in temperatures that would make the devil wish for central air," he replied, and then he glanced at her, a faint upward curve of his lips signaling the inquiry. "Does this mean you're calling a truce?"
A heat that was not from the sun touched her face, and she could not prevent a smile even as she drew her brows together in mock thoughtfulness. "I suppose so," she decided.
The sudden gleam in his eyes should have warned her. "Good," he declared, and suddenly he pounced on her, taking her breath away, and began to cover her with mad, passionate kisses.
She gasped in alarm and then in laughter as she struggled beneath his weight. "Stop it!" she cried, pushing at him and twisting beneath him with no real effort at all to dislodge him. "You're crazy. Stop it!"
"I will not," he replied and began nibbling at her ear. "Wartime truces are notoriously short-lived, and I'm taking advantage of this one while I can."
His lips began to ravish her neck and her ear and her face again, and she moaned with laughter and not a little from the pleasurable sensations his playful, exaggerated lovemaking was creating. "Get up!" she commanded, only half serious. "You're crushing me. I can't breathe!" She grasped his shoulders and demanded in mock severity, "What are you doing?"
He lifted his weight a little and looked down at her, his eyes glittering wickedly. "Guess," he replied and lowered his mouth to hers.
Automatically she responded, slipping her arms around him, her fingers exploring the silky thickness of his hair and the smooth, powerful feel of the muscles along his back and shoulders, loving it, welcoming it. No, it was not impossible at all to put the past behind when Kyle filled all her senses, demanding and receiving a total commitment to the present. She felt free and joyous, loving the feel of his weight and his warm bare skin, slippery with the oil from her body, against hers. She wound her legs around his and felt his quickened intake of breath as he arched her against him, so that they were touching at all points. The sound of the ocean ebbed far away and then startlingly close in waves of silver dizziness, and above the irregular pounding in her chest she felt the wild thumping of his heart against her breast. In a matter of moments it was no longer possible to ignore the seriousness of his intent or the evidence of his desire, and she welcomed it gladly, knowing that she would make love with him here on the beach beneath the bright warmth of the sun without shame or restraint and that it would be wonderful.
Then he groaned a little and pushed himself away, moving to his side and drawing her into the tight circle of his embrace, as though even a momentary absence from her would cause enormous pain. "On a public beach, already," he moaned softly, his face against her cheek.
She stroked his hair with an unsteady hand. "It's a private beach," she whispered.
She saw his eyes glance away from her, and the expression on his face was pure agony as his arms tightened briefly around her before loosening again. "Not so private as all that," he replied.
In confusion she followed the direction of his gaze, and saw two figures near the steps. It was Kate and Michael.
He sat up, pulling her with him, an
d his hands caressed her arms and her shoulder lingeringly before releasing her. He made an effort to steady his breathing and compose his face while Barbara smoothed her hair and wondered frantically how much, if any-thing, her sister had seen. Passion in her died a quick and painful death. But for Kyle it was not so easy.
"I think," he said after a moment, his eyes lingering hungrily on her lips for just a second before he moved them forcefully away, "I'd better take a cold dip in the ocean before I meet our wayfaring hosts. You'll make my apologies, won't you?"
But Barbara was too busy trying to hide her own frustration and guilt to give much thought to Kyle's problems as she saw Kate lift her hand and begin skipping down the steps toward her.
It was a joyous reunion, for despite their inopportune arrival, Barbara was glad to see her sister again, looking so well and happy. Kate followed Barbara upstairs so she could change, chattering all the while about the parties in New York, fishing in Vermont, and a glorious second-honeymoon interval they had spent in a secluded cabin in northern Canada. Kyle was there when they came down, having changed into jeans and a knit pullover shirt, and he came forward and kissed Kate elaborately. "Hey," he accused, "aren't you supposed to be getting fat or something?"
She laughed, pushing him away. "Not for a while yet, with luck!"
They spent the afternoon reliving the details of the trip; Michael fixed cocktails and they made a celebration of it. And then, just as Kate had suggested something be done about dinner, a meaningful glance passed between husband and wife and Michael commented, with assumed casualness, "We saw Roseanne in New York. At a party."
Barbara's eyes went quickly to Kyle's face, but either he was very skilled at hiding his feelings or there was nothing there to hide. He replied, "Is that right? What's she up to?"
"The usual," replied Michael, refilling his drink. He lifted the pitcher and offered, "Anyone else?" At the unanimous negative he crossed the room again and added, "She's got a new boyfriend. He must be ten years younger than she is."
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