Late Friday afternoon wasn't the best time to be driving aimlessly around Nashville, but his timing was never great, anyway. If he were home in Sweetwater, he would drive up to the farm and chop some wood. Just a walk through his house would calm him. The closeness he always felt to his grandfather would soothe him.
But he was hours from his mountain and a lifetime away from his grandfather, and here in the city he had no place to go. And so he went for a drive.
He found himself in a neighborhood he'd never seen before, one that he had looked up on his city map out of curiosity but had never intended to visit. It was the neighborhood where Beth's parents lived. Where she had grown up. He had come across the address by accident while looking for a number in her Rolodex, and somehow it had taken root in his memory. That brief search for the street on the map had registered, too, so that he'd driven here without consciously intending to.
He drove along the street until he found the house that matched the number in his mind; then for a moment he simply sat there and stared. There were no tall security fences here. From what he'd heard of Francine and Walter Gibson, they seemed the type to take pleasure in their wealth and in displaying it for all the world to see. And there was certainly a lot here to display.
The drive wound through a beautifully landscaped lawn, passing by the broad main entrance, then curved around to the garage behind the house. The lawn easily covered six acres, and the house itself seemed practically as large. It was probably twenty rooms, he estimated, maybe more. It was far beyond the dreams of the average person and twice that far out of reach for someone like him.
It had been, for eighteen years, Beth's home.
And he'd thought her condo was too big, he thought with a touch of self-mockery. It must have seemed like doll's quarters to her after growing up in this place.
With a sigh, he checked over his shoulder, then pulled into the street again. Thoroughly depressed, he drove away.
* * *
Beth dressed as carefully as she did for every date, but this time her heart wasn't in it. As she surveyed herself in the mirror, she admitted that she didn't really care how she looked. She would settle for "passable" tonight.
Still, the outfit she'd chosen—a velvet off-the-shoulder blouse and a slim-fitting skirt—was nice, and its emerald-green color complemented her eyes. The skirt was shorter than she ordinarily wore, but she had the legs for it. She liked the rich texture of the velvet and the way the neckline of the blouse slipped off her shoulders as if by accident and not by design. She liked the way the outfit looked and the way it made her feel and…
Sighing, she swept her hair back and fastened it on both sides with heavy gold combs. The only thing wrong with her plans for this evening, she admitted as she scowled at her reflection in the mirror, was the man she'd made them with. She was going out with the wrong man, while the right one waited here at home.
It was as if the mere thought of Zachary brought his presence right into the room with her. Well, almost. She saw with a sideways glance at the open door that he was standing in the hall, his hands shoved into his hip pockets, his displeasure evident even though his face was in shadow.
Directing her gaze back to the mirror, she picked up a pair of diamond earrings. Each stud measured a full two carats and was flawless. More than once she'd been told that diamonds suited her nature: icy and cold. Did Zachary also hold that opinion? she wondered as she inserted first one, then the other.
Aware that he was still watching her, she slipped into her heels and started across the room. She reached the hallway just as the doorbell downstairs chimed, but for a moment she stood motionless, simply looking at him. He looked angry, as if he'd somehow been cheated.
He looked hurt.
He looked—heaven help her—too precious. Too perfect. Too desirable.
The doorbell sounded again, but she ignored it. Instead, she spoke his name and reached out hesitantly, wanting only to touch him, to somehow tell him that she was sorry for everything. But he shied away as if her touch was unwelcome, and with a pang of regret, she started to turn away.
He moved quickly, unexpectedly, blocking her way. His hands came up to cup her face, and his mouth came down to cover hers. It was a quick kiss, hot and demanding and relentless, and it made her crave more—more touching, more kissing, more everything—until she'd taken all he could give. She didn't care that it had begun in anger. It mattered only that it ended in passion. In need. In a bone-melting groan that was part her name, part pure desire.
Before she could reach to pull him back, he was out of reach, wiping her lipstick from his mouth, giving her another of his long, hard looks. I'll cancel my date and spend the evening with you, she was about to offer, but she clenched her jaw to keep the words in. If she stayed here tonight, they wouldn't have any trouble finding something to occupy the hours, as they had the previous nights.
They would make love.
Zachary wanted it.
She wanted it.
As the doorbell rang for a third time, Zachary glanced down the stairs, then back at her. "You'd better get that."
Confused and off balance, she remained where she was. More than anything in the world she wanted to stay here and explore that kiss—to explore him. Knowing that they would make love if she canceled her date, she wanted to do just that. Knowing that it would be a mistake, she wanted to do it anyway. If only Zachary would ask… He wanted her—she only had to look in his eyes to see that. She only needed to remember the insistence of his mouth on hers.
But he didn't ask, and she couldn't offer.
It was that simple.
She was halfway down the stairs when he spoke. "Hey, Beth."
Her fingers clenched around the railing, she turned and looked at him. He was smiling, but it wasn't pleasant or sweet or any of the other qualities she associated with his smiles. It was sarcastic, just as his voice was when he continued.
"Have a nice time."
* * *
Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Zachary paused in front of the grandfather clock, listening to it chime the midnight hour. He'd done this—stopped and counted—every hour since Beth had left with her date. All four of them.
Four hours wasn't so long for a date, he kept telling himself, especially not for the kind of formal affairs Beth preferred. But surely by midnight even Nashville's hardiest socializers had to think about calling it a night. Surely she would be home soon, and he could go to bed and stop worrying and wondering. Unless…
Unless she was already home—at her date's home—and already in bed. He knew that was a possibility. She'd never said she would be home late. She'd never said she would be home at all. Maybe she was spending the night with the guy. Maybe she would come home at three or four in the morning, fresh from his bed to hers. Maybe…
Muttering a curse, he went into the dimly lit living room. He couldn't deal with the idea of Beth making love to someone else. In the past, sure. He had no problem with that. Virtually everyone had past affairs, past lovers. But not now. Not while he was here. Not while he would sell his soul to make love to her, to love her. Not while he was willing to trade his future for a present with her.
If it weren't so damned painful, it would be funny, he thought as he stared out the window at the city lights. He had never been less than level-headed, had never shown anything but common sense in his relationships with women. He had never lost his temper or his patience with a woman. He had never experienced even the slightest twinge of jealousy, to say nothing of the kind that made him feel sick inside.
Until Beth.
How had he ever fallen in love with a woman so different, so obviously not meant for him? How had he forgotten level-headedness and common sense? How had he ever expected to make any kind of relationship work with a woman who wanted no relationship at all?
For a moment he forgot the city and focused on his reflection instead. His expression was bleak, the set of his mouth grim. Two perfect words to descri
be the mess he'd made of his life. And he grew even bleaker, even grimmer, as he asked the next silent questions.
How was he going to get through this?
How could he make her want him?
How could he make himself stop wanting her?
And, most important of all, how could he stop loving her?
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
He must have dozed off, Zachary realized the instant he was awake. He was sitting on the couch, his head tilted back, his feet propped on the coffee table. His neck was stiff and his bare feet were cold, but none of that mattered, because outside the apartment, through the partially opened door, he could hear Beth's voice and her laughter, soft and sexy.
He could also hear the lower, masculine sound of her companion's voice.
"Not tonight, Jason," she replied in response to his mumbled question. "I had a lovely evening. Thanks."
There was a moment's silence—a kissing type of silence, Zachary thought with a scowl—then Beth said good-night and closed the door. He heard the lock click; then she came into sight, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to remove her fur and drape it over the banister. She braced herself with one hand on the rail while she removed first one shoe, then the other, leaving them standing neatly on the bottom step.
Then she turned toward the living room, probably intending to shut off the lamp he'd left burning. That was when she saw him.
"So… tell me about Jason," he requested, picking up a small throw pillow and propping it behind his head. "Is there anything to tell, or is he a carbon copy of all your other dates?" He put all his anger and frustration into that last word, making it sound as unflattering as he could.
Beth slowly entered the room, but she didn't come close. Given his mood, he didn't blame her.
"Waiting up for me?" she asked coolly.
"Why didn't you invite him in? That was what he wanted, wasn't it? To have a drink? To maybe spend the night? Or did you already get that part out of the way?"
She took a seat on the edge of the coffee table. Now she was close enough that he could smell her perfume. He could feel her anger. And he could see all too much of her long, sexy legs. He let his feet fall to the floor with a dull thud, then sat up, fully intending to rise from the couch and shut himself away in his room, where he could go insane in private. But sitting up placed him even closer, and it robbed him of the desire to go anywhere.
"What do you want, Zachary?" she demanded. "Do you want a blow-by-blow description of my entire evening? Do you want a detailed account of everything we did, every time he touched me, every time he kissed me? Well, you're not getting it because it's none of your damned busi—"
He interrupted her quietly. Solemnly. Honestly. "I want you."
Beth stared at him, remembering after a moment to close her mouth on the words she'd never finished. I want you. It sounded simple enough. She'd heard the words from other men. She had even said them to one or two. But coming from Zachary they meant something entirely different. Not sex. Not mere physical pleasure. Not a few hours tonight that would be forgotten tomorrow.
He was talking about making love. About sharing. About committing. About caring.
About things she'd sworn she didn't want in her life. About things she wanted so badly right now that she ached with it.
"Beth?" His whisper sounded raw, filled with equal measures of need and despair, and his blue eyes searched her face for some clue to her feelings.
But she had no answers for him, none for herself. Could she make love with him tonight without hating herself for it in the morning? Could she survive loving him and knowing that it was only temporary, that when Carrie's trial ended, he would go back to Sweetwater, back to his life without her, and leave her in this life without him?
But if she turned him down, if she chose to protect herself, could she live with that? Could she face every day of the rest of her life regretting her decision here tonight?
Could she pass up the opportunity to be Zachary's lady, even if only for a while?
He must have seen something encouraging in her eyes because he touched her—the gentlest, sweetest, most endearing touch she'd ever felt—and she gave up thinking, considering, deciding. This was what she wanted—this man, this gentleness, this caress. For as long as it lasted, whether it was one night or more, a few hours or a few weeks, this was what she needed.
"All right," she whispered so softly that the words faded before they were fully formed.
He slid his fingers behind her neck and drew her closer, until their mouths almost touched, until their breaths combined, until she could almost taste him. "Are you sure?" he whispered. "Are you sure you want this?"
Her eyes closed, she sought for some way to convince him and settled for the simple honesty he'd given her earlier. "Yes, Zachary." She leaned toward him, and her next words were lost in his mouth. "I'm sure."
They had kissed before—once outside the door, once in his house, once upstairs—but each time was different. This kiss was almost leisurely, a slow savoring of tastes and textures, a slow feeding of the passion she'd tried too long to deny. It heated her body, made her clothes unbearably warm, her skin unbearably sensitive. Every place he touched her, she throbbed—as well as the places he didn't touch, the parts of her that longed for his kisses, his caresses.
Zachary slowly ended the kiss, then looked at her, half afraid he would see rejection in her eyes. But when he looked, he saw only the soft haziness of arousal. Desire.
At some point while he was kissing her, he had moved from the sofa to his knees on the floor. Now he stood up and offered both hands to Beth. "Will you come upstairs with me?" he asked hoarsely.
The formality of his request made her smile as she placed her hands in his. "That's a good idea," she replied, her voice husky, too. "You see, I have these black sheets—"
The mere mention of the sheets was enough to make him groan. Did she have any idea how often he had fantasized about her lovely body on those wicked sheets? Clenching his jaw, he released her hands and followed her up the stairs, bypassing the heels and the rich black fur.
He stopped in the doorway while she crossed the room to turn on a lamp. For a moment, they simply stood there, a room apart, looking without touching. Feeling. Needing. Longing. Then he approached her, and she met him near the bed. He removed the combs from her hair, letting it fall over his hands, gliding his fingers through the silky strands, tangling his hands in them to hold her still while he took her mouth with his once more.
Shifting restlessly, Beth moved closer, bringing most of her body in contact with his. All that work at his farm had left him in better shape than any other lawyer she'd ever known—than any other man, period, she amended. His muscles were solid and taut with need, and if there was an ounce of fat on his body, she hadn't found it yet—not that she intended to quit looking.
Then she moved her hips against his and felt his arousal, long and hot and thick, against her belly. When was the last time, she wondered dimly, that she'd felt such satisfaction, such power, over the hunger she'd aroused in a man?
The last time she'd made love with a man like Zachary. Never.
Abandoning her mouth, he left a long trail of kisses down her throat, stopping only at the barrier of her blouse. Raising his head, he gazed at her, the look in his eyes so intense that it made her shiver, and while he looked, he raised his hand to her breast, and that made her shiver, too. He stroked across the velvet, finding her nipple, already full and hard, for the first time. He stroked it, gently pinching, and she whimpered. It was a helpless sound, foreign to her own ears, full of everything she wanted from him.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured as his fingers disappeared inside the rounded neck of her blouse. She shuddered again and tried to speak, but the only sound she could form was a gasp as he rubbed her tender breast with his callused fingers.
Zachary tugged, and the blouse slipped far enough to reveal one bare breast. He l
iked the contrast of his fingers, dark from so much sun and rough, against the velvet, rich green and soft, and Beth's skin, ivory pale and the softest of all. He liked the way her nipple, the color of a dusky pink rose, responded to the slightest touch of his fingers. He liked the way her heart pounded beneath his palm, matching the same relentless throbbing that he felt within himself.
Supporting her with one arm, he ducked his head to taste her nipple, tugging it into his mouth, gently suckling and making her moan, making her fingers clench helplessly on his shoulders. When he nipped the hypersensitive crest, tremors raced through her, and she groaned aloud, trying to form his name but settling for a throaty sound of pleasure.
Pulling her blouse back in place, he guided her to the dresser a few feet away, giving her the solid wood for support and freeing his hands to stroke and tease and caress her. He glided his fingers over the bare skin of her shoulders and rubbed slowly, sensuously over the rich nap of the velvet. His hands slid along the slick fabric of her skirt, past the hem that ended mid-thigh and over her stockings, both sensuously coarse and soft at the same time.
Settling his hands at her waist, he simply looked at her. Her head was bowed, her hair falling forward to hide her face, but after a moment, almost as if drawn by his gaze, she looked up at him. Her eyes were smoky and shadowy, a passionate contrast against her fiery hair and delicate fair skin. The lipstick was gone from her mouth, kissed away, and her lips were slightly parted. Her hair, always sleek and smooth, fell in fragile tangles where he'd wrapped his hands in it, and one thick strand was caught on the cold glimmer of the diamond stud she wore.
She was beautiful. Heart-achingly, unforgettably beautiful.
And that was what he was setting himself up for tonight. Heartache. A lifetime of not having and not forgetting. Never forgetting.
Somebody's Lady Page 18