by Lisa Jackson
Not that he was part of some sinister plot, that was silly, but the way he made her skin quiver when he kissed her, the power of emotions swirling and fighting in her being, the racing beat of her heart, all were signs that she needed to know more about him. He wasn’t like Hank, a boy she’d grown up with and trusted, a man she’d loved, a husband she’d adored and been faithful to.
His hands slid beneath her jacket and farther, past the hem of her sweater to her skin. She sucked in a breath as his fingers grazed the stitching of her bra, moving sensually over the cup, heating her flesh beneath the thin layer of silk and lace.
Warning bells clanged in her mind. Stop! Ronni, use your head! You don’t love this man. You barely know him. Think!
But it had been so long. So very long. Endless, restless, sleepless nights had stretched from that time she’d last felt a man’s touch, last realized what it was like to be wanted. His hand lowered, settling at the curve of her waist, fingers warm and supple.
His tongue touched hers, delving, retracting, toying with her until a dark warmth curled slowly in her belly. Liquid heat radiated from deep inside.
She felt the jacket being stripped from her, heard the soft thud of denim sinking into the snow. A breath of wind touched her flesh as he lifted her sweater over her head and her long hair fell back on her bare skin. Slowly he unhooked her bra, letting the scrap of lace fall into the white powder at their feet as he watched snowflakes melt against her skin.
She was breathing with difficulty, all too aware of the tightening of her nipples, the dark points high and proud and aching. His eyes touched hers and she licked her lips nervously as he traced one long finger along the cleft of her breasts and lower to hook on the waistband of her jeans.
“Veronica,” he whispered across her open mouth. “Let me…”
“W-what?”
“Love you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“No, darlin’,” he said, his breath tantalizing her ear. “We both go into this with our eyes open or we don’t go at all.”
Swallowing with difficulty, she forced her eyes open. His hands moved up her rib cage slowly, achingly, until they reached her breasts and then he cupped them both, rubbing his thumbs across her nipples, staring into her eyes and kissing her lips. She didn’t resist as he dragged her onto the snow, pulling her on top of him as he kissed one dark, proud point. Icy snowflakes settled against her back as he licked and teased, tasted and toyed. She moaned, arching her back, settling her hips against his and he suckled wildly, one hand lowering to grab her buttock and hold her firmly against him as he pleasured her.
Old sensations, new emotions, a storm of heat and fire and passion swept through her blood and she lost control, moving against him, her flesh yearning for his. All thought of restraint was caught by the passing wind and carried away. She wanted more of him, of his magic touch.
His mouth was moist and warm and wondrous and when he kissed her abdomen, she trembled with want. Her zipper slid down with a quiet hiss promising more and her body was on fire.
Don’t think, just feel, her wanton mind cried.
“Oh, Ronni, no!” Suddenly he stopped. His hands quit moving and his entire body tensed. “No,” he said, his words muffled against her skin. “Hell, no.”
“Travis?”
Strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close for a second before he rolled over and still embracing her, swept a long dark strand of hair from her shoulder. “I…I… Look, Ronni, I think we should slow down.”
Her laugh was brittle. So he thought she was easy—that it was common practice for her to fall willingly and naked into a man’s arms. A hot blush climbed up her back as she tried to scramble away. What could she say? She hadn’t acted like this for years. Not since Hank. Oh, what had she been thinking? “You’re right,” she agreed, trying to break away. “I don’t know what got into me.”
“Into us.”
“I feel like a fool.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She stared at his eyes, deep gray in the darkness, and shook her head in frustration. “Because, believe it or not, despite what just happened between us, it’s not my usual practice to try and seduce a near stranger in the middle of a snowstorm—”
“We’re not strangers.”
“Nonetheless.”
“And I was the one doing the seducing.” His voice was tinged with self-condemnation and he cast an angry glance at the moonless sky. “I lose my head when I’m with you.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” She extracted herself and, suddenly self-conscious, reached for her sweater.
“I’m not blaming anyone.”
“Sounded like it to me.” She jerked her sweater over her head, then scooped up her jacket, shaking the snow from the folds of the denim. “Look, let’s just call it a mistake and move on.”
“Is that what you think?” he asked, his mouth tightening. “That being with me was a mistake?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No.” He grabbed her arm. “Look, Ronni, I don’t know what’s happening between us and to be honest it scares me, but I don’t believe for a second that it’s wrong.”
She tried to step away, but he held her fast, his fingers tightening possessively. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong impression,” she said.
“Have I?”
“I—I haven’t dated much since my husband died and I’ve never even kissed another man since—” At his shocked expression, she added, “I know, it sounds unbelievable, but I wasn’t…I mean, I’m not ready for any kind of relationship. I never expected anything like what happened between us and I think it would be best if we… Oh, Lord, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, but I think it would be best if we didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?”
“Get too involved.”
“And what does that mean?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in the shadows. “That we shouldn’t see each other?”
“No, not that, but—”
“That I shouldn’t kiss you.”
“Probably.”
His laugh was harsh. “A few minutes ago, you were just about to—”
“I know what I was about to do and we both realize it would have been a mistake,” she said, stung, her cheeks flaming in the darkness. “But nothing happened.”
“Yet. Nothing’s happened yet,” he told her. “Look, things were heating up too fast for both of us, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t still see each other. We’ll just take things slower.”
“I think it’s time for us to leave,” she said, stuffing an arm down one sleeve of her jacket. “I’ll just pack up Amy and—”
“Don’t,” he said, his voice a soft command.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t leave angry.”
“I’m not—” She clamped her mouth shut and silently counted to five. “I’m not angry with you.”
“No, you’re angry with yourself.”
“So now you’re a psychiatrist.” She started for the house, half expecting him to try to stop her, but he followed after her at a slower pace and she was inside the kitchen by the time he’d caught up with her. He didn’t say a word, just leaned one hip against a battle-worn butcher-block counter.
“So where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, confused by the conflicting emotions that tore at her soul. “This is…it’s all new to me…well, new the second time around.”
“Since your husband?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together.
“Yes.”
“But you’ve dated.”
“Look, I’m not trying to play the virgin’s role here. I was married and have a child, but it’s been…it’s been a long time since Hank and—”
“
Since Hank?”
She was startled by the accusation in his voice. “My husband.”
“I know who he was,” he snapped, the corners of his mouth tight. “But you’re a young, vibrant woman. You don’t expect me to believe that in the what?—nearly four years since his death, you haven’t been involved with another man.”
She inched her chin up a notch. “I don’t care what you believe.”
“But—”
“I was in love with my husband, Travis, and just because he died doesn’t mean that my feelings for him disappeared, that I was ready to jump right back into the dating scene. Thanks…thanks for tonight,” she added and pushed through the swinging doors and down the hall to the living room where Amy, in the glow of the Christmas tree, was still sleeping soundly.
Without a word, Travis helped her gather her purse and, over Ronni’s protests, wrapped Amy in the old quilt that his grandmother had given him.
Bryan, at his father’s insistence, stumbled out of his room. Earphones surrounding his neck, he managed to mumble a quick good-night before Ronni strapped Amy into the van and drove the short distance home. In her sideview mirror, she caught a glimpse of Travis, legs apart, arm folded over his chest, watching her leave as the colored lights strung across the roof of the porch winked cheerily.
She waved despite the small hole she felt tearing her inside. “Don’t be a fool,” she muttered aloud. He was her neighbor—no more than a casual friend.
She worried her lip as she drove through the ice-spangled gates of the his newly acquired estate and reminded herself that casual friends didn’t nearly make love on the snow-covered shores of a winter-dark lake.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRAVIS DIDN’T CALL. Not the first night, nor the second, nor the third. Not that he should, Ronni told herself as she waxed her skis in a lean-to area off the back porch of her house. Pink shavings littered the concrete floor beneath the sawhorses that Hank had set up years ago for just this purpose. His skis hung on an interior wall and in their upstairs closet she’d kept his boots, jumpsuit and poles.
She hadn’t realized how many reminders of her husband she’d kept around the house and wondered for the first time in nearly four years if she was clinging to the past, unable or unwilling to let go. She’d told herself that it was important for Amy to know who her father was, to have some tangible evidence of the man he’d been, but now she considered the very real possibility that she’d never come to terms with his death. Not that she’d spent the past few years moping around, drinking wine and sighing over could-have-beens, but there was a part of her that hadn’t been able to face the heartrending truth and the pain.
Stiffening her spine, she told herself that a new year was coming and no matter what else happened, Ronni Walsh vowed that she was going to put the past behind her, once and for all.
Through the open door to the house she heard the phone ring and her heart jump-started. Travis! “Oh, for the love of Saint Mary, Ronni, you’re acting like you’re sixteen again!” she reprimanded herself as she climbed the two steps into the kitchen and accepted the receiver from Amy’s outstretched hand. “Hello?”
“Ronni?” Shelly asked, her voice sounding oddly strangled. “Do you think you could watch the boys this afternoon?”
“Sure, Shell, what’s up?”
“Vic’s going to run me to the clinic and I, um, think it would be best if the twins were with you.”
“The clinic?” Ronni repeated, dread drizzling through her blood.
“Yeah. To see Dr. Sprick. It’s, um, probably nothing but…well, I’m spotting a little and I think it should be checked out.”
“Oh, Shelly,” Ronni said, leaning back against the refrigerator and closing her eyes. “Sure. I can come and get the boys in fifteen minutes.”
“No—we’ll bring them by. Vic’s already warming up the car.”
A hard lump settled in the pit of Ronni’s stomach and when she heard the rumble of Shelly’s old station wagon, she dashed across the yard. The twins, more subdued that usual, clambered out of the backseat and ran into the house, but Ronni paused at the open passenger window.
“You’re going to be all right,” she said, managing a smile.
“I know it.” Shelly’s voice didn’t have its usual lilt and Vic stared through the windshield, barely glancing in her direction.
“Don’t worry about the boys. If they have to spend the night, it’s no big deal.”
“It shouldn’t be that long,” Vic said, and for the first time Ronni noticed the cigarette burning between his fingers. Victor had given up smoking seven years ago, before the twins had been born, and to Ronni’s knowledge hadn’t lit up since. Until today. He avoided her eyes.
“Okay, well…I’ll see you later.”
Shelly’s chin wobbled and tears glazed her eyes. “Yeah.” As Ronni patted the car door and stepped away from the time-worn station wagon, Victor slipped it into gear. They drove away in a cloud of blue exhaust, and Ronni, sending up a prayer for her sister, hurried into the house. “Come on, you guys,” she said to the kids who were already jockeying for favored positions as they huddled around a cartoon show on television, “let’s bake Christmas cookies.” She touched her nephews on their shoulders, hoping to lift their spirits. Even though Shelly probably hadn’t told them what was wrong, they’d obviously picked up that there was some kind of problem. “By the time your mom and dad get back, we’ll have a plate just for them.”
“Can we?” Amy was on her feet and dashing into the kitchen without a second thought to the cartoons.
Kent followed after her but Kurt rolled his eyes. “I don’t cook. Dad says it’s women’s work.”
“Now where have I heard that before?” she said, thinking of Bryan. “There must be some new macho conspiracy that I don’t know about. Come on, Rambo.” Sometimes, God love him, Vic could be such a throwback to some unenlightened generation.
“I don’t wanna.”
“Hey, sport, think about it. You’ve been into the bakery a million times.”
“Yeah?” He continued to stare blankly at the television.
“And you’ve met Mr. Schmidt.”
“So?”
“He’s the baker, isn’t he?”
Kurt scowled and scratched his head. “Maybe he’s a sissy.”
“I wouldn’t tell him that, if I were you,” she said with a smile. “Someone told me he was a pro wrestler for a while and he can outski me, so you’d better be careful what you say about him. Anyway—” she rumpled her wayward nephew’s hair “—you decide what you want to do, but the rest of us are going to cut out cookies and decorate them.”
Pasting a smile on her face, she went into the kitchen and tried not to concentrate on Shelly or stare at the clock and wonder what was happening to her sister. After all, as Shelly had told her dozens of times, worrying wouldn’t help anything. Ronni went through the motions of mixing butter, sugar and flour, rolling out the dough and even cutting out shapes of Santas, reindeer and Christmas trees. Kurt, after only a few stubborn minutes, joined his cousin and brother at the table, and despite the flour and sugar spread over every inch of tabletop, counters and floor, the crisp results were soon cooling on a rack, ready to be frosted.
In the middle of the melee, Travis and Bryan appeared at the front door, and Ronni, sugar and flour dusting her apron, hair and face, felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. The sensation was ridiculous, of course, but she couldn’t help the rush of relief at the sight of him. “Come in, come in,” she said, standing out of the doorway so they could join the general chaos.
“Want a cookie?” Amy asked. She was standing on a chair and placing red heart candies and green sprinkles on several works in process.
“Nah,” Bryan said, then catching a pointed look from his father, looked a
t the floor and muttered, “Sure, why not?”
“They’re Christmas trees,” Amy exclaimed as if he couldn’t see the obvious. With a flourish she handed him a finished cookie and found a second for Travis.
Untying her apron, Ronni quickly introduced the boys who, tired of standing at the table, had resumed their positions in front of the TV. Kent was creating some kind of fort with plastic snap-together blocks, and Kurt, one eye on the television, was fashioning a weapon with them.
“Why’ve you got crutches?” Kurt asked, obviously in awe of the other boy.
“Fell down skiing. On the mountain.”
“Can I try ’em?” Kurt was on his feet in an instant, the plastic blocks forgotten.
Bryan glanced at Ronni and his father with the worried look of someone who’s looking for a means—any means—of escape. “A teenage boy’s nightmare,” Ronni said, watching the exchange. Even Amy gave up decorating cookies and scurried into the living room where she planted herself near Bryan, as if staking her claim.
“How about some coffee?” Ronni offered.
“I can only stay a minute.”
“Oh?”
“Bryan and I were talking. He’d like to take some skiing lessons or…snowboarding lessons, either alone or with a group of kids his age when he gets better—probably next season unfortunately—and I suggested you or someone you know.”
“I don’t know how good I am with a board,” she admitted. “I’ve only tried it a couple of times and I wasn’t that great, but I can get him in touch with someone up on the mountain who’s worked with kids and could place him in the right class.”
“Would you?” Travis said, seeming relieved. “I’d like him to meet some boys his age.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks.” He shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and then, casting a look at the kids to see that they were all occupied, he grabbed Ronni by the crook of the elbow and shepherded her onto the back porch. The horses were huddled together near the fence line and a solitary hawk swooped through the sky, but otherwise the day was still. “Look,” he said once they were alone outside, “I know I blew it the other night. I pushed too hard. I thought—er, I was hoping…oh, hell, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say here.” Frowning, his eyebrows beetling over his steady eyes, he cleared his throat. “I thought maybe there was a chance that we could start over.”