Somebody's Lady

by Marilyn Pappano

  But not for a minute did he consider walking away.

  Still holding her gaze, he began unfastening each button on his shirt. After only two, Beth pushed his hands away and took over the task, working slowly, sliding her fingers between the buttons for light, insubstantial caresses that made his skin tingle. When she reached his jeans, her fingers hesitated, and he squeezed his eyes shut. She was so close to touching him more intimately than they'd ever touched, and he swore he could almost feel her hand there. His body grew heavier with anticipation, and heavier still when she prudently returned her attention—and her hands—to his shirt, pulling it from his jeans, undoing the last two buttons, guiding it off his arms.

  In much the same way that he had caressed her a moment ago, she stroked him, but he had the advantage of feeling her long, talented fingers on his bare skin instead of through heavy clothing. His muscles tightened with every light touch, every scrape of her nails, every moist kiss. Finally, when his skin rippled at her barest touch, when his breathing was uneven and harsh, when he feared he couldn't endure much more, she stopped and pulled off her blouse. She didn't step away from him when she did it, so that he felt the touch of her arms, the brush of her breasts, the coolness of her skin, against his chest.

  Then she began unfastening his belt, and he knew he couldn't take much more. Suddenly she had become clumsy, having problems with the belt buckle and the metal buttons of his jeans. She had to search, to probe, to awkwardly fumble with every fastening, until his restraint was worn thin, until his need was too powerful, too raw, to control.

  "Damn it, lady," he growled, pushing her hands away and drawing her whisper-close for a kiss. His tongue filled her mouth, demanding, stroking, mimicking, and his hands made short work of the zipper that secured her skirt.

  Without breaking the kiss, they somehow finished removing their clothing, then moved the few feet to the bed in a passionate embrace. Blindly Zachary followed her down to the mattress, covering her slender body with his, settling between her thighs, sheathing himself in the tight, warm welcome of her body.

  For a moment he held himself rigid, adjusting to the heated feel of her flesh, marveling at how perfectly they fitted together, savoring for just one moment the sheer pleasure of being like this with Beth. Then his body protested the demands he'd placed on it, protested being joined so intimately with such a beautiful woman and being unable to seek completion, and he gave in to the need.

  Beth struggled to keep her eyes open. Too often she'd completed this act in the dark with some uninspiring man and lukewarm feelings. She had never before experienced this level of need, this kind of pleasure, this intense sort of torment, and she wanted to see the man responsible. She wanted to watch Zachary, to see the passion that shadowed his blue eyes and held his muscles so tight. She wanted to see his face when he reached fulfillment, when the release of his desire flooded into her, when everything, for that long, endless moment, ceased to exist except this.

  She wanted to see the caring.

  Each thrust he made was long and deep and filled her more surely than she'd ever thought possible. The emptiness and the coldness she'd harbored for so long faded away, and the dissatisfaction that had tormented her disappeared, too. There was no place inside her that wasn't filled by Zachary. No emotion that wasn't tuned to him. No need that wasn't met by him.

  She arched her back to meet him, wondering dimly how sensation could be so painful, how pain could be so pleasurable. The need that had begun in her soul and spiraled outward now filled her entire body, and every touch—his mouth against hers, his hands on her breasts, his hips rhythmically brushing hers—fed that need. She burned with it, ached with it, even—to her dim surprise—cried with it, until it consumed her. Her heart was pounding, her body throbbing, as tremors rippled through her, causing her nerves to tighten reflexively, bringing her breath in empty gasps, drawing a cry from deep inside her throat. A moment later she was aware of Zachary's own release, of the muscles deep in her belly tightening helplessly around his hardness, of his harsh groan, of liquid fire and potent satisfaction.

  Such satisfaction.

  He sank against her, his body slick and hot and comfortingly heavy. His breath tickled her ear, and she turned her head to the side so that she could press a kiss to his mouth. Then, smiling sweetly, she closed her eyes.

  She'd seen what she'd wanted.

  * * *

  When he found the strength to move again, Zachary pulled the covers down. Beth's eyes were closed, her breathing heavy, her body limp, and she grumbled softly when he dragged the comforter from underneath her. He started to lie down beside her, but for a moment he hesitated and instead simply looked at her. The sight was even better than he'd fantasized: midnight-black sheets, pure blazing red hair, smooth ivory skin. Add to that the things he'd had to guess at before—the soft, full curves of her breasts, the narrow line of her waist, the slender flare of her hips, the dusting of red-gold curls between her thighs and those sexy, long legs—and the picture was perfect.

  Their loving had been perfect, too, so perfect that he'd thought he just might die from it. He had never experienced anything like it, and it would be a long time before he would recuperate enough to try it again.

  Or so he'd thought. But his body was proving him wrong. Simply looking at her was making him hard again—not with the unbearably desperate need that had seized him before, but simply, comfortably, hungrily hard. The kind of arousal that could be enjoyed or ignored.

  And since Beth seemed to be sleeping, it would go ignored tonight.

  After turning off the lamp, he lay down beside her and drew the covers over them. She hadn't suggested that he should return to his room, and he certainly wasn't volunteering. He wanted this night with her, wanted her to snuggle into his arms as she'd just done, wanted to spend an entire night knowing she was just a few inches away.

  She settled in next to him, her head pillowed on his arm, her knee bent across his, her arm across his… He stiffened as she moved it from his chest to his stomach, then lower still. Her hand was across his groin now, unmoving but innocently touching. Innocently arousing.

  Zachary swallowed hard and tried to ignore the swelling there, but it wouldn't be ignored. Worse, it brought other sensations clearly to mind: how smooth and soft her skin was, how clearly defined the muscles in her thighs were, how warm and heavy her breast felt against his ribs.

  He swallowed again, then whispered, "Hey, lady."

  There was a long silence, broken by a soft, "Hmm?"

  "You want to roll over the other way?"

  "Not now," she murmured sleepily. "I've got my hands full."

  "Not yet," he disagreed, "but you will in a minute if you don't move."

  "I don't want to move." Sighing softly, she pressed a kiss to his chest, then rubbed her cheek back and forth in a sleek, sensuous gesture. "That was nice, Zachary."

  He slid his fingers into her hair. "Thanks a lot," he replied, sounding chagrined. "That's just what every man in the world wants to hear after making love to a beautiful woman. That was nice."

  She laughed softly. It was a sound he'd heard so seldom from her, and rarely for him. He liked it that she was able to laugh here, now, after what had just happened between them. "It was wonderful. Fantastic. Unequaled."

  "Unequaled. I like the sound of that."

  "The male ego," she said, her mocking sigh whispering across his nipple. One more moist little whoosh like that, he thought, and that small part of his anatomy would be as erect as another was quickly becoming.

  "You say that as if there is no female ego. Aren't you the least bit interested in whether I thought this was 'nice'?"

  She brought her knee up to press gently against him. "Even if you were terribly bored the entire time, you're too much of a gentleman to say it was less than perfect."

  The only light in the room came from the wall of windows, and it was too weak for him to see her face. Still, he reached out unerringly and wrapped a strand of h
er hair around his finger before giving it a tug. "Maybe it wasn't perfect," he said thoughtfully. "But it was the best time in my life. We'll work on perfect later."

  She gave up her pretense at disinterest and with tantalizing caresses began exploring the treasure beneath her hand. "How long until it's later?" she asked huskily.

  Zachary caught his breath as she cradled him in her hand. "How long will it take you to slide over here?" he replied, his voice just as husky.

  She moved gracefully into position above him, taking him deep within her, then leaned down to kiss him. He tasted her mouth briefly, drew away, then returned. His words were mumbled against her lips.

  "Now it's later."

  * * *

  It had been a very long time since Beth had been forced to deal with a lover the morning after. The few men in her life since Philip had known they weren't welcome to spend the night, and so they had left soon after. But Zachary wasn't like those men. She doubted that it had even occurred to him that maybe he should go to his own room when they were finished last night. Even if it had, she wouldn't have wanted him to go.

  She'd been up for more than two hours, had drunk a cup of coffee and showered and gotten dressed for this morning's meeting with Dr. Vega, but Zachary was still asleep. He slept deeply, peacefully, as if he didn't have a care in the world. She had sat here on the edge of the bed for the last thirty minutes, watching him, wishing he would awaken, wishing she knew what to say to him when he did.

  Several conflicting responses came to mind. We can't do this again. When can we do it again? I want you. I don't need you. I love you.

  That last one drove her away from the bed and to the window. Wasn't she the one who had sworn she would never fall in love again? The one who didn't want a man in her life on a steady basis? The one who rarely had the time for an affair, much less a relationship?

  Her life simply wasn't compatible with love. Any man, even Zachary, had to come in a distant second to her career. Children, if there ever were any, would place third. She was too busy, too involved, too preoccupied with her job, to give anything to a man.

  Then she turned and looked at Zachary again. He had rolled onto his stomach, the covers slipping down to his waist, and his face was turned toward her. He needed a shave, and his hair was boyishly tousled. Heavens, he was so endearingly handsome. And she was too busy with a job she no longer loved, with a job that no longer satisfied her, to give anything to this man?

  Something was wrong with her priorities, she thought grimly. Something was wrong with her life.

  The alarm on her nightstand began beeping, and she went to turn it off, then bent over and gave him a shake. "Time to get up, Zachary."

  "If I wake up, will you come back to bed?" he grumbled, turning his face into the pillow.

  "Not this morning. We're supposed to meet Marian Vega in a little over an hour. Come on and get up." She started to rise, but his hand snaked out from beneath the pillow and closed around her wrist.

  Pulling her closer, he gave her a long, leisurely, breath-stealing kiss. "Hey, lady," he greeted her softly.

  She wiped lipstick from his mouth, then smiled uneasily. "Good morning."

  He studied her face, and she knew what he was looking for: regrets. Indecision. Sorrow. Rejection. She waited patiently, letting him look, wondering what he saw. Was it fear? Uncertainty? Confusion?

  Love?

  Not that, his question seemed to indicate. "Sorry?" Again she smiled edgily. "About a great many things."

  "About last night?"

  "No. Never about that."

  He looked for another moment, then threw the covers back and swung his feet to the floor. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes."

  She couldn't resist watching him walk naked across the room, stopping at the dresser to scoop up the clothes she'd picked up earlier. He was definitely a sight worth waking up to, she thought with an admiring smile as he left the room. What would it be like—a lifetime of sharing his bed, of seeing him first thing every morning?

  Heaven.

  Not that he'd given her any indication that he wanted anything more than a short-term affair, she thought, a scowl replacing her smile. She got up and tossed the pillows onto the floor, then began making the bed. Yes, he was interested in getting married and filling his lovely farmhouse with children, but he wanted to marry the right woman. He'd known her for a long time, and he'd never considered her even close enough to right to ask her for a date until he'd found himself stuck and homesick in Nashville. Here she was agonizing over their future, and the odds were high that they didn't even have one. Not as a couple. Not as husband and wife. Not as parents.

  Not as anything but temporary lovers.

  She spread the comforter over the bed, then on second thought turned it down so that the sheets showed. If Zachary liked those sheets, he could see as much of them as he wanted while he was here. And when Carrie's trial was over, when their affair was over, she would throw them away and never again buy anything but plain, boring white.

  * * *

  "Tell me again what kind of juror we're looking for."

  Zachary leaned against the wall while Beth and Dr. Newman talked at the table. It was early Monday morning. He'd skipped breakfast because Beth was too nervous even for coffee; the jury selection phase of Carrie's trial was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes, and already the tie he wore was choking him. All things considered, he would rather be home.

  In Sweetwater.

  In bed.

  With Beth.

  But that hadn't been one of the options she'd offered him this morning, and so here he was. He'd met Darla Newman only moments ago, when she'd greeted him with some comment about Sleeping Beauty that had made Beth smile for the first time all morning. But he liked the doctor, much better than her counterpart who would testify for them later in the trial.

  "The juror to look for in this case," the psychologist said, "is a woman, preferably college-educated, in her twenties or thirties, ideally with some feminist tendencies. Of course, that's exactly the kind of juror the prosecutor will want to avoid. With the male jurors you'll be better off with young professionals or possibly older men—the protective father type, the kind who would want to kill any man who did this to their daughters."

  "Is there anything in particular I should ask the prospective jurors?" Beth asked.

  "What kind of questions do you intend to ask?"

  "If they've ever been the victim of an assault, if they've ever been involved in or witnessed an incident of domestic violence—that sort of thing."

  The psychologist shook her head. "I don't have anything special for you. Just stay away from any questions regarding women's rights."

  It would be interesting to see how Beth picked out jurors with feminist tendencies without asking any questions about their beliefs on feminist issues, Zachary thought. Moving away from the wall, he pulled out the chair at the end of the table and sat down. "What do you base your recommendations on, doctor?" he asked curiously.

  "Partly instinct, of course. Woman's intuition." She smiled as if to take the sting out of that. "I consider their opinions and study their actions, their reactions, their attitudes. Most people are fairly transparent and easy to read. You can learn from what they say, how they say it, what they don't say, personal quirks, habits."

  Maybe he ought to invite the good doctor to dinner, he thought ruefully. Maybe she could help him read Beth. He'd been trying for three days now to figure out exactly where he stood with her. Did her decision to make love with him Friday night—and Saturday and Sunday nights, too—mean they had moved one step ahead in their relationship, or were they merely having an affair? Had she wanted to go to bed with him because she felt something special for him, or had it been merely a desire for sex? Were her feelings for him even one-tenth as strong as his for her?

  Could she ever love him?

  He knew the obstacles to a permanent relationship so well that he could list them in his sleep. Her big-city h
ome versus his small-town life. Her thriving, high-powered career versus his laid-back country lawyering. Her sophistication and glamour versus his old-fashionedness and simplicity. Her hunger for independence versus his desire for a woman who was strong enough to occasionally be dependent. Her casual affairs versus his need for a lifetime commitment. Her lust versus his love.

  Beth checked her watch, then stood up and announced, "It's time." She looked at him for the first time since they'd entered this small conference room. There was uneasiness in her eyes, uncertainty, a request for assurance that he doubted anyone else could see. He didn't dare touch her—she still wasn't comfortable with casual displays of affection—but he almost smiled, just almost, and nodded. She would be fine. Everything would be all right.

  Beth nodded, too, just a slight bob of her head, then led the way out. Zachary waited at the door for the doctor to precede him, and her smile warned him that the subtle exchange hadn't gone unnoticed.

  "Sleeping Beauty, indeed," she murmured as she passed him.

  Zachary followed them down the hall and into the courtroom, taking the end seat at the defense table. Beth had warned him that jury selection, important though it was, could be tedious and boring. He wouldn't be bored, he'd assured her. After all, he had never argued a case before a jury, so he had never participated in selecting one. She had stared at him in disbelief, echoing, "Never?"

  It was seldom necessary in the minor criminal cases he'd handled, he had explained. His clients were usually guilty, and they rarely pleaded otherwise. Besides, putting together an impartial jury in a place like Sweetwater wouldn't be an easy task, not with everyone knowing everyone else. She had simply shaken her head in dismay, and he'd regretted pointing out one more difference between them.

  The selection got underway a few minutes after they were seated. Each potential juror was sworn under oath, then asked a variety of questions, some by the prosecutor, an arrogant, self-important man if Zachary had ever seen one, and others by Beth. The prosecutor rejected one woman for her blatantly feminist opinions, another for her volunteer work with abused children. In turn, Beth refused a rough, plain-talking man who reminded Zachary eerily of Del Lewis, another man who'd grown up watching his father beat his mother and a former police officer.