“Not really. I skimmed through it again this morning. You don’t write much about yourself at all. It’s not the story of you. It’s the story of the loss of you. Your wife’s death and your grief—those are the main characters.”
Was it strange that his cock swelled at her words? Probably it was. But her clear insight, that moment of being perfectly understood, passed over him like a caress. He put his hand on her thigh—he did it without thinking, simply needing, suddenly, to touch her. “Yes. That’s right. It doesn’t have much to do with me at all.”
“And that’s why it’s so poignant. There’s this sense that you weren’t even there, somehow. Like you mattered so little in the cosmos of that time that you weren’t even visible in your own grief.” She turned toward his sons and her sister. “I feel like I know them and your wife better for having read your memoir than I know you.”
If they’d have been alone in that booth, he would have kissed her—would have grabbed her, pulled her close, laid her down on the seat and kissed the breath right out of her. As it was, he looked down at his plate and tried to rein in his careening emotions.
After a minute, he felt her hand on his, which still lay on her thigh. “Did I say something wrong?”
He looked at their hands. Hers was shapely and tan, with graceful, unadorned fingers ending in blunt, unvarnished nails. “No. There haven’t been many people who’ve been able to see that. It’s a powerful feeling to be understood.” He turned his head and met her eyes.
She smiled. “I felt something a little like it, I think, when our mother died. I got lost in the grief and loss and responsibility. It changed everything.”
He turned his hand under hers and linked their fingers. Her head jerked down to see, but she didn’t move away.
He wanted more than a physical connection with this woman. But when he curled his fingers over hers and squeezed, she twisted out of his hold and turned to Rosa.
Once she inserted herself into the conversation the youngsters were having—he kept thinking of his boys and Rosa as ‘the youngsters’; he had no idea how old Carmen was, but he was sure she, too, was considerably younger than he—the talk began to focus on the next day’s plans. Distracted by his still-rioting emotions and the new way of thinking that seemed to be following after them, Theo was a second behind the rest before he understood that Jordan was trying to invite himself along on Carmen and Rosa’s planned shopping trip tomorrow.
“Jordan, we have plans, son.” They didn’t have any fixed plans, in fact, but Theo was looking for a way to get his son under control. He got excited sometimes and came on far too strong. The thought of having a likeminded shopping buddy seemed to have overheated his circuits. Neither his brother nor his father were much good on shopping trips.
“No—but Dad, I can help.” He turned to Rosa. “I did research before I came over. I know the best vintage shops, the best places to get consignment designer goods, all of it. I even have a route planned out for browsing with the super-rich on the Champs-Élysées.”
Rosa, evidently into the idea, sent an inquiring look toward her sister. Carmen shrugged. “Fine with me. You two can go without me.”
“No way, Carm. You have to come, too. You promised—a fancy outfit for a fancy dinner out tomorrow. You can’t go in your laborer-chic clothes.”
At the same time that Carmen flipped her sister the bird and muttered, “Fuck you, precious,” Jordan clapped.
“Fancy dinner? Like tuxedo fancy? Like I could wear my new patent leather tuxedo slippers?”
Theo was, frankly, appalled at the way his son’s untrammeled enthusiasm was running roughshod over other people’s standing plans. “Jordan! Enough!”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d raised his voice to either son. Many years. Certainly not since they were grown. And Jordan looked shocked, abashed, and hurt. Shit. Theo needed to get control of his head.
Into the sudden awkward silence that followed Theo’s…shout—really, it had been a shout; he’d even hit the table when he’d said it—into that silence, Eli spoke. His eyes on Rosa, he said, “You know, it would be nice to do a big night in Paris with a couple of beautiful women.” He smirked at his brother. “If you don’t mind being a fifth wheel, that is.”
Regaining his bravado, Jordan passed a fussy, artful hand over his styled hair. “Honey, I’m never the fifth wheel. I’m driving.”
Eli laughed and turned to Theo. “Dad?”
Theo felt contrite for having yelled—and for obviously being wrong about how welcome Jordan’s horning in really was. With a sheepish grin, he turned to Carmen. “Would you care for some company on your fancy night out?”
Carmen’s eyes lingered on his for a beat, and then she turned to Rosa, who was nodding emphatically. She turned back to him. “I guess so.”
~oOo~
Plans were made for Jordan, Rosa, and Carmen to shop tomorrow, and for all five of them to dine together in the evening, and then the conversation reverted to normal dinner chitchat.
After dinner, the bill for which Carmen insisted be split between them by family, ‘the youngsters’ decided that they were not done yet. They three went off clubbing, leaving Theo and Carmen on the sidewalk.
They were alone.
For a moment, they stood on the sidewalk. Carmen seemed to feel as suddenly awkward as he did. He knew what he wanted. But he wasn’t sure whether to go for it tonight.
Then she turned and looked up at him. “I have wine at the apartment. Red and white both. Will you drink wine?”
No, he wouldn’t. But there was a little market at the end of the block they were standing on. “I’d rather run down to the corner and grab a bottle of bourbon, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” She started off in that direction.
“Carmen, wait. What are we doing?”
She grinned. “Booty call. You in?”
A booty call was a place to start, at least. And with the aftereffects of the emotional deluge she’d caused inside him still swirling, he needed to get his hands on her. “Oh, yeah.” He needed to pick something else up at the market, too.
~oOo~
Compared to Hunter Anders’ opulent digs, the flat Carmen and Rosa were staying in was chic but modest—and much more comfortable, in Theo’s estimation. It was light and airy, the lamps and sconces in the room, and the white walls and trim, making it appear so even when the big, arched windows were dark with night.
She left him in the living room, nosing about the bookshelves, and took the bourbon into the kitchen. When she came back, she had an old-fashioned glass with about three fingers of bourbon for him and a large glass of red in a Bordeaux glass for her. She handed him his drink and gestured at the big, worn, comfy leather sofa. They sat.
“How do you have this place?”
She sipped her wine. “I told you—this is my friend’s flat. She and her husband are in India for a year or so. She offered, and the timing was good to bring Rosa for the summer.”
“Well, it’s nice. It feels like a home. In this neighborhood, the décor can get a little fussy, I’ve noticed. But this is comfortable.”
“Yeah. Izzie is pretty down to earth. What about you—are you in a hotel all this time, or how does the grant or whatever work?”
They were having a conversation. Considering her resistance to the idea earlier, Theo was glad to see that not only was she engaged, but she’d actually initiated it. “Like you, I’m staying as a guest in someone’s home. The man who awarded me the grant. He calls it his pied-à-terre, but that’s the false modesty of the wealthy.”
“Somebody is paying for you to spend time writing a memoir. I’m sorry—that boggles my mind. Just the idea that somebody can make a living writing about their own life. People are weird.” She took a long sip of her wine and set the glass down on the wide, rough-hewn table in front of the sofa.
“Who’s weird? Me, or the people—like you—who pay to read about my life?” He hoped his smile would show the jo
ke in the challenge.
“Everybody. Just weird. We’re nosy assholes, the lot of us.”
He laughed. “Maybe not the whole lot, but a lot, yes. I’d agree there. I don’t make a living writing about my own life, by the way. I made a little extra money, but not a huge pile. This grant is nice, but it’s an anomaly. What I really do is teach. And I’m not even a memoirist by training.”
“No?”
He finished his bourbon and let the fire ignite and then die down in his belly before he answered. “No. I’m a poet.”
“Oh, good lord. Seriously?”
“Seriously. I would never have written a memoir if Maggie hadn’t died. The Fates conspired to make me a memoirist, and now I guess I’m stuck.”
Her laugh was melancholy, and Theo sensed a story lying beneath it. “Yeah. That happens.” She picked up her glass and drained it, then set it down again. “I thought my philosophy degree was a dead-ender, but it seems like poet would be worse. How does one land on ‘poet’ as a career choice?”
A philosophy degree. Oh, he liked that. It spoke of keen wit and deep curiosity—things he’d already seen in her. He could imagine them having long, involved conversations over dinner. Or in bed.
“One doesn’t really have a choice. Words demand their due.” It was his standard answer to her common question. Most people let it lie where it landed, because they didn’t understand and didn’t want to appear as if they hadn’t understood.
She nodded. “I guess they would. There’s a quote by a writer I like: ‘When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness—I am nothing.’ There wasn’t any poetry in Orchids—is that because the words weren’t there when your wife was dying? Is that what you mean?”
Jesus Christ. It was like she’d opened his head and chest and pulled out his deepest thoughts and feelings. “That’s Woolf. The Waves.” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat.
She smiled warmly. “Yes. I love her unreasonably much. Is that what you mean?” she asked again.
“It is, yes.” He was done conversing. His body was on fire, and it wasn’t the bourbon. He was feeling a kind of overpowering desire—a need—he hadn’t felt since Maggie had been strong and well. “Carmen…”
He shifted on the sofa, moving toward her, ready to take hold of her, but she stood abruptly and reached for the forgotten, empty glass that was still in his hand. She set it on the table next to her empty wine glass. Then she held out her hand.
“C’mon. Bed’s this way.”
She led him into another airy, spacious room. Not palatial in scope or appointment. Cozy and comfortable, done in warm neutrals and simple antiques.
“Your friend has great taste.”
“Yeah, she does.” Her voice was muffled; she already had her black tank pulled halfway off. Apparently, there would be no sensual mutual undressing.
But Theo couldn’t simply begin shedding his clothes. What was before him was too beautiful a sight to miss. Not seeming to notice her avid audience, Carmen discarded her little top, then toed off her boots—the same low-heeled boots she’d worn the night before—then opened her belt and jeans and rid herself of them, as well. Wearing nothing but a matching set of black lace underwear—bra and thong—she walked to a mirrored dresser and pulled the elastic free of her hair. She tousled her hair then, so that the part that had been banded settled in with the rest.
Still not paying him any attention, she turned to the windows, which were covered only by sheer under-panels. The heavier drapes were tucked back behind decorative hooks. “Oh, shit,” she muttered and then went to drop the heavier material over the windows, giving them privacy. She turned to him.
“Sorry. At home, I don’t have curtains in my bedroom. I keep forgetting not to flash the neighbors across the way.”
She was standing there in her lovely, sexy dainties, showing a body more beautiful than any he’d seen. She was tall and lithe, the muscles in her back, legs, arms, belly flexing subtly but visibly as she moved. Her breasts were fantastic—larger than average but firm and round. Maggie had been smaller than average in every way. He’d loved her body, cherished it as he’d cherished her. But she had not been the kind of beauty who might have stopped traffic.
Carmen could stop traffic in space.
A bolt of guilt sliced through his thoughts, the first he’d felt. Being with Carmen was not wrong. He felt no guilt for what they were doing, about to do. Comparing Maggie against her, though—that was bad news. It was Carmen he was with, Carmen’s body he was about to have in his hands, so he set Maggie gently aside.
“Beautiful girl.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Carmen cocked her head and smiled.
As she reached with both hands around to her back, she retorted, “That’s cheesy as fuck, you know.”
He went to her then and wrapped his hands around her arms, pulling them forward before she could unclasp her bra. “It’s accurate. And I want to do that.”
With a cheeky grin, she put her hands in the open collar of his shirt and began unbuttoning buttons. “You’re way behind me, though. Need to catch up.” As she undid each button, her fingers scratched gently at his chest, and then his belly. Sweet Christ, she felt good. Years since he’d been touched like this. Years.
When his shirt was open, she brought her hands to his shoulders and pushed the fabric from them. He shrugged and let it fall to the floor behind him. She noticed his ink, her eyes widening as her fingers traced the black-and-grey piece from shoulder to elbow on his right arm. A highly stylized landscape scene: mountains, pines, and wind. Home.
“You surprise me.” Her voice had a husky tone that he felt right in his cock.
“Why?”
“You didn’t strike me as a man who would have ink—especially not a big piece like this.” She smiled. “Maybe some silly reminder of a drunken night with the frat brothers—a Superman emblem or something. But not this.” Her hand slid over the piece and down his arm, circling the leather cuff at his wrist.
A light ripple of offense went through him. With his other hand, he lifted her chin until her eyes met his. “What does that mean?”
Unapologetic, she shrugged. “You know. Writer. Poet. Sensitive soul. Puffy white shirts, not badass body art.”
“Ouch.” But he couldn’t find a strong foundation for offense, not while her hands were on him, not while she stood there before him, smiling at him, her body warm and supple and offered to him.
She grinned up at him, and it was all sex. “Well, you’ve shown me my error, that’s for sure. Jesus, you’re gorgeous.”
Then her hands were on him with more intent, tracing the line of his shoulders, then down, over his chest, pausing to tweak lightly at his nipples before moving down the center of his belly and then hooking into his jeans. His cock surged to sense her so close.
He stood there and let her, savoring the magnificent sensations of being touched in this way, and by a woman whose beautiful, dark eyes were fiery with desire. Her fingers came back up and moved through the hair on his chest, and she made a sound like a purr. For a moment longer, he closed his eyes and simply felt.
And then she lifted the pendants that lay at the top of his breastbone, and he opened his eyes. Shit. He should have taken those off. Wait—should he have? What would it mean if he did?
While he grappled with that cosmic question, she asked, “M. Is that for your wife?”
He took them from her and palmed them, letting his fist rest on his chest. “Yes. I’m sorry. I guess I should have taken them off.” Should? Probably. He was still undecided about whether he could, though.
But she shook her head. “No. It’s fine. There’s nothing going on here that gives me cause to be threatened that you want to remember your wife. And, anyway, I like it. It’s poignant.” She kissed his knuckles.
He released the jasper stone and pewter disc and pushed that hand around her neck, into her hair. Then he pulled her against his chest, hi
s other arm circling her waist. His bare skin against hers, almost as bare, set fire to his nerves and to his self-control. No longer could he stand still and let her study his body with her hands. He brought his mouth to hers, pushing his tongue into her mouth immediately and with force. He felt raw and exposed, and he needed to take something from her to salve what she’d made ache.
Last night, when he’d kissed her, he’d been gentle, hesitant, doing something he hadn’t done for years, and with someone he had not yet known. He’d been unsure of himself and of her. Tonight, it didn’t even occur to him to wonder. But she responded favorably to his force, moaning into his mouth, snaking her hands up over his shoulders and into his hair, claiming fistfuls, holding him to her even as her hands pulled, the tension at the roots of his hair prickling his scalp.
Rooted (The Pagano Family Book 3) Page 6