by Anne Stuart
Andrew fixed his dark green eyes on Tom's astounded face. "Carrying on behind my back, lassie?" he growled. "Who is this fancy creature, and what's he doing in my house?"
Chapter Twenty-five
Dead silence reigned for a full minute.
"What the hell do you mean, your house?" Tom blustered, rising to his full six feet in a vain attempt at intimidating the shorter Andrew. "This is my house."
"The hell it is!" Marianne had finally gathered her scattered wits.
"I presume this overblown braggart is your ex-husband," Andrew observed. "What's he doing here?"
Marianne chose the lesser of two evils. "He's trying to steal my babies, Cameron," she cried fiercely. "I don't know why—he's never shown much interest in them before."
Andrew shifted Shannon's clinging body closer, running a casually reassuring hand through Eric's tangled mop of hair. "And why would you be wanting to do that, Trainor?" he inquired in a quiet tone of voice that was all the more intimidating in its subdued quality. Marianne watched with absolute fascination as Tom seemed to shrink a tiny bit.
"They're my children, too," he blustered. "Not that
it's any of your damned business. Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my wife's house?"
"Your ex-wife," Andrew corrected politely. "The name is Andrew Cameron. And since they're going to be my stepchildren, I consider it my business."
Tom was too angry to notice Marianne's gasp of astonishment. "You and Marianne are getting married? Why wasn't I informed of it?"
"Did you expect to be invited to the wedding, man?" Andrew sneered, enjoying himself immensely.
"What about the alimony payments? Were the two of you just going to pocket them and live off me?"
"Considering that you haven't sent any alimony payments, or child-support payments, in the past three months, we didn't feel we had to be in any hurry to let you know," said Andrew, not missing Marianne's start of surprise at his unexpected knowledge. "On what grounds were you planning to take the children away?"
"He thought they needed a man's influence," Marianne broke in from her stance beside the kitchen counter.
"And you didn't tell him about us? Shame on you, lassie. Can't you see the man's concerned about his offspring?" Cameron's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Let me promise you, Trainor, that I'll be a better father in a week than you've been their whole lives."
"I don't like your tone of voice," Tom said, his voice an aggressive whine.
"And I don't like you at all," Andrew returned. "Why don't we go somewhere and discuss this, away from the children? They don't like to hear their parents argue. I think we can come to some sort of agreement." He moved across the room to Marianne's still body, gently detaching the clinging Shannon and placing her in her mother's arms. Eric went as docilely, casting a mistrustful glance up at his father's belligerent figure.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Marianne roused herself from her bemused state. "This is my family and my life you two are deciding." Tom was already at the door, just out of earshot, a warlike expression coarsening his handsome face.
Andrew reached a hand up and cradled her face gently, his thumb gently stroking her jaw. Her arms were caught up holding Shannon, and she couldn't push him away. She didn't want to push him away. "Let me do this for you, Marianne," he whispered, those forest-green eyes of his beseeching. Leaning forward, he kissed her full on the mouth, a short, gentle kiss that left her more disturbed than did all her rage at Tom.
She was barely aware of the door slamming shut behind him. She waited a moment for the sound of flesh thudding flesh, the muffled grunts and groans of Tom beating the smaller Andrew to a pulp. But only the sound of quiet, rational voices drifted through the screen door. Marianne sank into the wobbly kitchen chair, still holding Shannon, and pulled Eric against her with her free arm.
"I don't like him, Mama," Eric said quietly.
Marianne couldn't deny the sudden stricken feeling around her heart. "But you barely know Andrew, darling."
"I mean my father," he explained with all the patience of an eight-year-old. "I don't want to live with him, and neither does Shannon. We want to live with you and Andrew."
"Andrew and I don't live together, Eric."
"You should. We both like him a lot. We see him at Aunt Jessie's when you aren't around. He's much nicer than my father."
"Yes, he is," Marianne found herself agreeing. "Much nicer."
She could hear the sound of the light summer breeze in the pine trees overhead, the quiet slap of moths against the screen door as they dived for the light. The sun was setting—it was definitely past the children's bedtime, but Marianne was motionless at the table. They hadn't even eaten dinner, but none of them seemed disposed to move. They sat there, waiting for the victor to return and claim the spoils.
The sudden quiet purr of the Mercedes broke their abstraction. A moment later Andrew walked back in, a quiet determined expression on his narrow, clever face.
"Where's Tom?"
"Gone," he said shortly, taking the dozing Shannon out of her aching arms.
"Gone where?"
"Back to Connecticut. I'd be surprised if he bothered you again."
She pushed a weary hand through her tangled mane of chestnut hair. "How did you manage that? I threatened him with everything I could think of."
"You didn't realize what his problem was. He's short of money. That new wife of his is very expensive, and he can't afford to keep two households going. He thought he could save money by having the children live with him."
"Damn his cheap soul to hell," Marianne said bitterly.
"I managed to placate him by telling him you didn't need his money. I don't think you're going to see any more child support from him, but it's a small enough price to pay for having him leave you alone."
"A small enough price," she echoed, and to her fury tears of emotional and physical exhaustion began slipping down her face. She hadn't cried in years, and the last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of Andrew Cameron.
"Don't worry, lassie," he said gently. "We'll be all right."
"We?" she echoed with just a trace of hysteria. "What's this 'we,' white man?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Just an old joke." She was suddenly, dangerously, acutely aware of him standing there, holding her child in his strong arms, looking down at her with far too much tenderness. "Do you...do you suppose you could get Jessica and bring her back here?" she stammered, hating herself for sounding so vulnerable. "I don't really feel like being alone, and I know you have things to do."
A trace of a smile lifted the corners of his green eyes. "That I do. A great many things to do. Why don't you take a long hot shower and I'll take the children with me while I go fetch her? Get into something more comfortable, have something to drink, and by the time I bring Jessica back you'll feel like a new woman."
She felt perversely disappointed that he gave up so easily. "That would be wonderful," she said, sighing, "but I should feed them and put them down for the night."
"Jessica will take care of it. You go along now." He had withdrawn again, retreated from her. Just what she needed, she told herself dishearteningly. She didn't need some randy little Scot coming on to her after such a hellish day.
Marianne heard his ancient Valiant chug away from the house as she stepped into the claw-footed bathtub with its straggly circular shower curtain. Someday when she was rich she'd have a shower stall again, with a glass door and lots of hot water. In the meantime she had every intention of standing under the streaming jets until the water turned icy cold, washing away the miserable memory of her ex-husband. She scrubbed her long hair, her face, her body with a puritanical violence, knowing it would take Jessica close to an hour to get Matthew and all his accoutrements packed for the night.
When she finally felt clean, she stepped out of the shower and into a threadbare towel that had been one of her wedding presents. She rubbed till her tall, strong
body was a bright pink, and for the first time since she was an adolescent she wished she were small and dainty.
"The hell with it," she said aloud, pulling on a faded pair of jeans and a soft, warm flannel shirt. Even in August, most Vermont nights were chilly, and that night was no exception. She'd need an extra blanket tonight. Thank goodness she'd gotten rid of that osten-tatious king-sized bed she'd once shared with Tom. The old iron double bed had never held anyone but her and, on occasion, her children. She didn't need to be haunted by memories as she slept that night.
The comfortably ramshackle room that encompassed the kitchen, dining and living areas was looking even messier than usual, she realized as she tried to survey it through Tom's critical eyes. If she had more money she could have the lumpy sofa recovered, maybe buy a new rug instead of the threadbare fake Oriental she'd picked up at a rummage sale last year. Lord knows she tried to keep it clean, but an eight-year-old and a three-year-old were not conducive to neatness, and she had never been much cleaner herself. She should make more of an effort.
But not tonight. Tonight she was going to drink several very large glasses of cheap Italian wine, sit on the lumpy old sofa, and ignore the mess. She was going to sit there and feel sorry for herself while her children slept overhead and Jessica soothed her shattered feelings. And when she had drunk enough, she would stagger up to bed and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, with no intrusive Scot disturbing her dreams, as he had so often in the past few months. She had been able to keep him out of her life when she was awake, but when she'd been asleep he'd proved damnably stubborn.
But not tonight. Tonight she was going to be alone in her bed without even an erotic dream to disturb her.
She was sitting on top of the kitchen table, already well into her second glass of Bardolino, when she heard the car pull up. It was the noisy rattle of the Valiant, and she sighed. She should have known he wouldn't just pass the message along and let Jessie get there under her own steam. Maybe he'd be perspicacious enough to drop Jessica off and keep on his way.
The sun had set while she was sitting on the sturdy old table, and the porch light glowed yellow against the darkness. She hadn't bothered with more than a couple of lights, and the resulting shadows made her tumbledown house look almost pretty in the dimness. The sweet, Christmassy scent of pine mingled with the smell of the wine, tickling her nostrils. She sat there, swinging her bare feet, trying to look nonchalant.
The sound of the single car door slamming should have warned her. She heard his footsteps on the sagging front porch, saw him silhouetted by the glow of the yellow light bulb. She watched him with a curious sense of fatality as he stepped into the house, his eyes never leaving hers, as he turned out the porch light and closed the warped door behind him.
"Where's Jessica?" Now why would her voice sound so strangled when she was asking such an obvious question? Andrew was moving slowly closer to her with a purposeful walk, and she allowed herself a moment to watch him. For such a small body it certainly was beautiful. His shoulders were just broad enough, his arms wiry with surprising strength, his waist flat and his narrow hips just about the most enticing thing she'd ever seen. His legs were lean and muscled in the old corduroys, and he had a disturbingly intent look on his usually stem face.
"Jessica's at home, where she belongs," he replied, coming up to her in the darkened kitchen, stopping only a foot away. Her perch on the kitchen table brought her even with him, even made her a tiny bit shorter. She should get to her feet, do her best to tower over him. She stayed put, taking another sip of the wine.
"Where are my children?"
"With Jessie. She said she'd be glad to take them for the night," he answered.
She shivered lightly. "No, Cameron."
"Yes, Marianne," he corrected her gently. "I've given you time and space, and you still run like a scared rabbit whenever I'm around. How you can be such a brave amazon with everyone else and be so frightened of me is more than I can fathom."
"I'm not frightened of you," she said defensively.
"You're not?" He moved closer then, his hips touching her knees. "I'm glad to hear it." His hands gently caught her shoulders, the long fingers kneading her strained muscles. His head moved closer, his mouth softly brushing hers with that tantalizing pressure that made her ache for more.
"Don't," she said miserably, and the sound came out in a husky whisper.
"Why not?" He kissed her again, just as lightly, enjoying the taste and feel of her.
"Because you're too young and too short," she cried.
"And you're full of crap," he said sweetly. "But if I don't mind, why should you?"
She sighed, dropping her forehead to his shoulder. "Cameron, I just can't," she tried one more time. "I don't need any more complications in my life."
"Woman," he said, and his arms slid around her, "I plan to uncomplicate your life. I'm going to take you up to bed and make love to you until you can't come up with any more foolish objections. I never heard such a creature for arguing." Still his mouth teased, tantalized, cajoled.
She made one last attempt. "But I always wanted a man who could carry me up to bed," she wailed, grasping at straws.
A devilish smile lit his dour face. "Well, I could do it if I had to," he allowed, "but I might strain something. It would really make more sense if you carried me."
"You..." She opened her mouth in outrage, and he kissed her, deeply, completely, his tongue silencing her as his hands pulled her hips across the table to him.
He was very strong, she noticed distantly. And very aroused. And she began to shiver in his arms. "Take me to bed, my lioness," he whispered.
She smiled up at him through the haze of passion she could no longer fight. "Follow me, shorty."
The big room at the front of the house was dark, lit only by the fitful moonlight shining off the distant waters of the lake. Marianne reached for the light switch, then hesitated, her long fingers trembling in the shadows.
Andrew's warm, strong hand covered hers, stilling the tremors. He brought her fingers to his mouth, kissing them lightly, tasting them with slow, languorous delight. "You taste like wine, my amazon," he murmured against her skin, and she stood motionless, transfixed. "Wine and sunlight and pure, sweet flesh. Let me taste all of you." And slowly, so as not to frighten her, he pulled her into his arms, his mouth meeting hers in the moon-silvered darkness.
Everything had changed, Marianne thought dizzily, trying to cope with the twin rushes of panic and desire that were sweeping over her. This was no longer a stolen kiss in a kitchen, a half-serious flirtation that she could wriggle out of. They were alone, in her house, in her bedroom, with the summer night all around them and the sagging iron bed behind them. And Andrew's tongue was doing things to her mouth that both surprised and dazed her. She could feel the cool night air on her skin, and she realized belatedly that Andrew had unbuttoned the faded flannel shirt. And then his face was buried against her breasts, his breath hot and sweet and arousing against her sensitive skin. And the panic was rapidly fading beneath the determined onslaught of the man in front of her.
She found that her fingers were clutching his strong shoulders, digging in tightly as his tender mouth traveled the circumference of her breast. She should say something, warn him, slow him down...
"Andrew," she gasped, her fingers tightening in sudden fear. "You don't know what you're doing. You don't want..."
He lifted his head and looked at her clearly in the moonlight, and his green eyes were full of tender amusement. "Marianne, my sweet viper, I am twenty-nine years old. I assure you, I know very well what I'm doing, and just how to do it. And I know what I want, have known it since I caught you in my raspberry bushes last summer."
"I'm not the experienced woman you think," she protested.
"You mean you're a virgin?" There was a lilt of laughter beneath the Scottish burr. "To be sure, after meeting that sorry specimen that used to be your husband, I'm not surprised, but Eric and Shannon are
a pretty neat trick."
"That sorry specimen is the sum total of my sexual experience," she said with an attempt at sharpness that sounded far too much like a moan as his hands continued their wicked way with her soft, aching breasts. Andrew was taking this far too frivolously.
"Don't worry, lass," he whispered. "Rely on me to see to your advanced education." Before she realized what he was doing he'd scooped her up effortlessly in his strong arms and was carrying her across the room to the bed.
"Cameron, put me down! I'm too big—" Before the words were out of her mouth the bed was soft and warm against her back, and Andrew Cameron was above her, smiling down. "I thought you said you weren't strong enough to carry me," she said breathlessly. He was leaning above her, one strong hand slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt.
"I lied," he said.
She reached up, pushing his hand out of the way, taking over the task herself. His skin was sleek and hard and strong in the moonlight, and her hands trembled when they reached the waistband of his corduroys.
"You first," he said, slipping her jeans off her rounded hips and tossing them in the corner with his discarded shirt. She lay there naked before him, uncertain whether to blush or preen.
Andrew had no such doubts. "Marianne, you're the most beautiful creature in God's creation. You're worth all you've put me through and more. I—"