by Diana Palmer
“How are you at taking dictation?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh, I think I can keep up with you,” she assured him, “if you still dictate the way you used to.”
“Are you willing to stay with me until I finish the book?” he persisted. “I’d hate to have to break in a new typist after the first chapter or two. It wouldn’t be good for the continuity.”
She thought about that. Her newspaper job was important to her—it had been the most important thing in her life. But now there was Saxon. And if it came down to a choice, there really wasn’t one. She’d call her boss and explain and hope he’d hold her job. If he couldn’t, well, there was always nearby Ashton. She could find another job doing something...
“I’ll stay with you,” she said quietly.
He lifted his cigarette to his lips and looked darkly relieved. “We’ll start today then. It’ll give me something to do.”
That had been her plan at the outset, but she wasn’t going to admit it to him. It was enough that he’d snapped up the bait, Maggie thought.
They spent the afternoon in his study while he got his thoughts together and outlined the basic proposal for her. They decided between them what information would be needed besides his own expertise, and she took dictation for letters to be sent out to acquire the additional information.
Lisa waylaid her on the way upstairs as they went to clean up before supper.
“How’s it going?” she asked Maggie. “I haven’t heard him yell all afternoon.”
“He hasn’t,” Maggie said, and grinned. “Oh, Lisa, if you’d seen him this morning at the plant! He was just fabulous. Took over the place, charmed the employees, displaced a scheming executive—he was wonderful!”
“He seems a lot different these days,” her sister replied softly. “Of course, you’ve got a long way to go.”
“Don’t remind me!” Maggie laughed. “But I’ve made a start. At least now he’s got something to do besides brood.”
“That’s a fact. By the way,” Lisa added, stopping at the door to Maggie’s room, “did you know that Sandra’s invited guests for supper?”
Maggie’s eyebrows lifted. “Who?”
Lisa sighed. “The girl next door and her brother, I’m afraid,” she said gently, watching Maggie’s face fall. “She’s not very happy about it either. They stopped by and practically invited themselves. There was nothing she could do—graciously—except agree to it.” Lisa’s eyes clouded with anger. “The girl’s name is Marlene Aikens, and her brother is Bret. He’s okay, but she’s a fourteen-karat pain in the neck.”
“Does Saxon know?” Maggie asked.
“I doubt it. Sandra said Marlene chased him relentlessly until he all but threw her out the front door. But she’s getting brave again. Figured that absence would make the heart grow fonder.” Lisa grinned. “Sandra doesn’t think so though.”
Maggie only nodded. But she had a strangely disquieting feeling about the dinner party—as if it might develop into something that would drastically affect her happiness.
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS JUST as well that Saxon couldn’t see, Maggie thought miserably, sitting across from Marlene Aikens at the long elegant table. She’d only have felt more dowdy than she looked, compared to the elegant blonde’s simple and wildly expensive black sheath dress. Maggie’s plum-colored pantsuit was like something off the rack by comparison, and the older woman’s sophisticated smile let her know it.
But Bret Aikens was a pleasant man, just Maggie’s age, with dark hair and eyes and an easygoing personality—nothing like that of his rather flamboyant sister. Maggie found herself seated next to him at the table, and they had an immediate rapport.
“I hear you’ve become Saxon’s eyes,” he murmured over the salad.
She smiled. “In a manner of speaking,” she confided. “And not totally. There are times and places when he has to make a guess...”
He grinned. “Say no more. You’re from Georgia?”
“Sure am,” she said pleasantly. “But I enjoy your state. It’s beautiful country up here.”
“We think so,” he said, nodding. “Of course, the low country is the most densely populated, and with Charleston and Myrtle Beach and Hilton Head and those resort places, it tends to draw more attention. But our chamber of commerce is trying to devote more time to promote the upcountry now.”
“The history is what fascinates me,” Maggie said, sipping her coffee. “I was never all that interested in the Revolutionary War, but since I’ve been here, I’m getting curious.”
“You’ll find that more Revolutionary War battles and skirmishes were fought in South Carolina than in any other state,” he told her. “Around a hundred and thirty-seven of them, if memory serves.”
“So many?” she exclaimed.
“You bet. And did you know that General Frances Marion—the so-called Swamp Fox—was from South Carolina?”
She laughed. “How could I forget? He’s my father’s hero. My father,” she added, “is a history professor at our local college. Which helps to explain my interest in the subject. It was self-defense!”
He smiled across the table at her, and there was pure male interest in his eyes. “What a dull subject for such a pretty girl,” he murmured.
She pursed her lips. “What a silver tongue you have, sir. Do you polish it daily?”
He tossed her a roguish wink. “Twice every day,” he agreed.
Down the table Saxon was being treated to a breathy recital of Marlene’s “utterly boring” week. He didn’t seem to mind though. His broad face was smiling as he listened.
“The worst part of it all has been missing you, darling.” She was sighing, putting a well-manicured hand on his broad one where it was resting on the table. “Why wouldn’t you let me visit you?”
“I’ve been busy,” Saxon replied. “And now that Maggie’s here to help me get around, I’m going to be even busier. We’re working on a very interesting project together.”
“Oh?” Marlene asked with a venomous look in Maggie’s direction. “What, darling?”
“That,” Saxon murmured dryly, “would be telling. Wouldn’t it, Maggie?”
“Yes, it would,” she said, nodding, and gave Marlene a fearless grin.
“Well, how mysterious.” Marlene laughed coldly. “But could I borrow you tomorrow, Saxon, for an hour or so? I’ve been so lonely...”
“Sorry, Marlene,” he replied without hesitation. “I told you, I’m going to be on a tight schedule for a while.”
“Business, always business.” The blonde pouted. “You never let yourself have any fun.”
“Don’t I?” Saxon murmured with a tiny smile, and Maggie fought to keep from blushing.
The conversation drifted inevitably to the coming holiday season, and Sandra elaborated on her plans for Lisa and Randy’s Christmas wedding.
“If you have time later this week,” Bret murmured to Maggie, “I’d love to drive you over to Spartanburg and show you the Price House and the Walnut Grove Plantation. They both date back to the eighteenth century. In fact, the Walnut Grove Manor House dates back to seventeen sixty-five and was the home of a female scout for the Revolutionary War generals at the Battle of Cowpens. Come to think of it,” he added with a beaming smile, “we could drive over to the Cowpens National Battlefield while we’re at it and see where the Patriots gave the Redcoats their worst defeat...”
“I’d love to,” she said, interrupting him. “What day?”
“Friday? About eight thirty, and we’ll make an early start?”
She nodded. “That will be fine. And—uh—don’t mention it to Saxon just yet, will you? I’d rather tell him myself.”
He studied her and glanced down the table to the big dark man. “He won’t like it,” he sighed.
“I know,” she murmured with a mischie
vous smile.
“He doesn’t even make you nervous, does he? He frightens most people.”
“The bigger they are, et cetera,” she assured him.
“If you say so,” he said, grinning. “But just in case, we might see if we could get one of those old cannons in my trunk... say, did you know that the old Confederates used walnut hulls to dye their uniforms gray? They took the—”
“—those black walnuts in the big yucky hulls that dye your shoes black when you walk over them?” she interrupted.
“The very same,” he agreed, and proceeded to tell her how the dyeing process was accomplished.
She listened with obvious interest. He was so different from his snobby sister. She liked him. And she had a feeling that she was going to need that day away from the house. It looked as if Saxon were planning to put a lot of work into the book. That would mean a lot of work for her, she thought—not that she minded. It was just that she dreaded the enforced proximity with him. She was uncertain of her powers of resistance if he began to put on pressure. She didn’t think she could survive an affair with him. Bret, on the other hand, was a nice safe man with no evil intentions who could be her shield against Saxon’s ardor. At least she hoped he could. And she had a feeling that she was going to need one.
The next two days went by smoothly and with surprising speed. Saxon dictated, Maggie wrote and typed, and work on the manuscript progressed nicely.
On the third day they worked right through supper, eating on trays in his study, where they locked themselves so that they wouldn’t be interrupted by the rest of the family.
“Getting tired?” he asked after they’d finished eating and Maggie had taken ten more pages of dictation.
She stretched lazily. “Not terribly. Are you?”
He leaned back in the swivel chair behind his desk, his powerful chest muscles emphasized by the long-sleeved beige silk shirt he was wearing as he lifted his arms. “I very rarely feel the need for rest this early,” he confessed. “I enjoy working. I like what I do.”
“And that’s probably why you’ve made such a success of it,” she remarked. Her eyes studied his hard, deeply lined face. “Saxon, haven’t you ever wanted a family of your own?” she asked suddenly.
He laughed shortly. “What brought that on?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s something I’ve wondered about, that’s all.”
His eyes darkened as his head turned toward the sound of her voice. “I could ask you the same question.”
She smiled wistfully. “Yes, I’d like a home and children of my own. It just never happened for me. I’d have to love a man very much to consider living the rest of my life with him.”
“And you’ve never loved anyone like that?” he probed.
She shrugged. “I’ve thought I was in love once or twice,” she said softly, not adding that one of those times was with him, and that she still felt that way.
He sat very still, his whole posture attentive. “And?”
“It didn’t work out” was all she’d admit to. “And you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “I found the woman I wanted,” he said harshly. “I just couldn’t keep her.”
She was suddenly and violently jealous of the faceless woman, but she schooled her voice not to show it. Her hands clasped each other tightly in her lap.
“Did it...have something to do with your blindness?” she asked quietly.
“Everything,” he growled.
And for that, he blamed her. He didn’t have to say it; it was in the hard lines of his face, in his sharp half-angry tone. And what could she do? Nothing would restore his sight, according to what he’d told her.
“Have you thought about going back to see your doctor?” she asked after a minute.
“What for?” he asked wearily. “The problem is a piece of shrapnel, Maggie. Unless it miraculously shifts from its present position, there’s nothing to be done. They’ve already told me that.” He got up from the chair and felt his way around the edge of the desk and to the sofa where Maggie was sitting rigidly on the edge of her seat.
“Where are you?” he asked, reaching out a big hand slowly.
She caught his fingers and curled hers around them. “I’m right here,” she said, and her eyes adored him.
His own fingers moved, wrapping themselves warmly around hers, and he smiled. “How long has it been since I’ve kissed you?”
“Oh, a lifetime or so,” she returned lightly. But her heart was racing, her breath was catching, and her eyes were on his broad mouth with an aching hunger.
“Too much work and too little play isn’t good for either one of us, you know,” he said softly.
“So they say,” she replied in a breathless tone.
His fingers tightened. He leaned back against the sofa. His free hand flicked open the buttons of his shirt lazily, and a slow, sensual smile touched his mouth.
“Suppose you come here,” he murmured deeply, “and I’ll give you a refresher course in basic lust?”
She laughed helplessly. “Why, you lecherous old tycoon, you!”
He sobered, his eyes narrowing. “Maggie, do I really seem old to you?” he asked suddenly, and as if it mattered.
Her heart ached for him. She felt a tinge of regret for the thoughtless teasing. “No,” she said softly, easing down into his warm, hard arms to pillow her cheek against his hair-roughened chest. “No, you don’t seem old to me at all. Just mature and sensuous, and quite deliciously masculine.”
He caught his breath. His hand pressed her cheek against the warm muscles, moving it slowly, rhythmically against him. His breathing quickened at the feel of her skin; his heart thundered at her ear. “Sensuous?” he murmured huskily.
“Very,” she admitted, and felt her own breath becoming ragged. She liked the feel of the curling hair, faintly abrasive at her eyes, against her nose, against the corner of her mouth. Her lips parted and she moved, turning them against his chest, enjoying the tangy scent of soap and cologne and pure man in her nostrils as she breathed him. His hands caught in her hair, tangling in it as if he enjoyed its silky texture, and he brought her lips against him in a slow circular pattern.
She let him guide her mouth, tasting him as she felt the hard edge of his belt against her cheek, her hands enjoying the rough warmth of his chest in a silence that burned with sweet sensation.
Her fingers tangled in the wiry hair over the warm muscles, testing its strength as she drew back to look at him.
His hand touched her face, long fingers tracing her eyes, her eyebrows, her nose and cheeks and chin and the soft line of her mouth.
“I wish I could see you,” he murmured softly, his voice deep and quiet in the stillness of the room. “You’re very quiet when I hold you—your voice gives away nothing until I arouse you completely.”
She buried her face in his warm throat, touched by the words, by the softness of his voice. “Can’t you tell that you please me?” she whispered.
“I don’t want to know what you’re feeling,” he murmured. “Your body tells me that. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
“Why?”
His fingers moved down to her neck, catching in the softness of her hair to ease her head back on his chest, arching her throat.
“Your heart’s going faster by the second,” he remarked quietly. His fingers slipped down to the soft, firm roundness of her breast and cupped it as if she were already his possession.
“So is yours,” she whispered back shakily.
He bent, his mouth brushing hers gently. “Lie with me,” he whispered, easing her down with him on the sofa. “Let’s make love to each other and forget the world and the darkness. Let’s forget everything...except this...”
His mouth took hers, warm and hard and frankly hungry, his arms bending her into the hard contours o
f his body while the kiss went on and on.
Vaguely she felt his hands under the soft T-shirt she was wearing, lifting it, finding the small clasp that held her bra together and unfastening it with slow deft hands.
“Saxon...” she protested weakly.
“Let me,” he whispered, finding her with his hands. “You know you want to.”
Of course, she did; that was the whole trouble, Maggie thought. Denying herself the magic of his touch on her bare skin was as impossible as denying she loved him.
His mouth brushed lazily, teasingly, across hers. “Take it off,” he murmured.
“The family—”
“The door’s locked, remember?” he whispered, half amused. “And I can’t see you...”
What good did protesting matter anyway? she wondered dimly as his hands went to work, easing the top and the bra from her before he laid her gently back down on the soft cushions.
He started to move down, but she pushed gently at his own shirt with hands that should have been protesting, not helping him.
“Do you want it off?” he asked tautly, his usual control oddly faltering.
“Please,” she whispered.
He stripped off the shirt and tossed it onto the carpet, and she caught her breath at the size of his chest and shoulders, the huge muscular arms and the arrowing of dark hair that ran down surely past his belted waist.
“Do you like what you see?” he asked under his breath as he eased down so that she could feel only the warmth of his torso but not its touch.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered, and her eyes worshipped him. “Yes, I like it very much.”
“I wish I could look at you,” he breathed gruffly, easing slowly, slowly down so that she felt him first as a whisper then, with tormenting pleasure, felt the abrasive masculinity that teased and stirred her body until it told him blatantly how much it wanted his.
His mouth was tender on her face while his fingers, softly touching and exploring textures, sought and found the proof of her arousal.
“Do I feel as good to you as you feel to me?” he asked in a curt undertone.