Ain't Love Grand?

by Dana Taylor

  "Don't I have any say in the matter?"

  "No."

  He was still scowling and not my image of a man “in love.” He hated surrender, either in the courtroom or in matters of the heart. But this was a surrender. The mighty Jason Brooks admitted defeat to love.

  Warm emotion bubbled up from my stomach and into my throat. I threw back my head and let the laughter loose. He loved me. I reached my arms around his neck and pulled him down into a joyful kiss. He really loved me.

  At first, his response was restrained. Then, suddenly, he let himself go, whipped his arms around my back and joyfully returned my kisses.

  He kissed me repeatedly, soundly, thoroughly, then sighed with contentment. “Let's get married right away."

  "Oh my.” My fingers clutched the sweater covering his chest. “Now I'm scared. You'll be shunned from the best homes, and banished from the society pages. You're sure you want to marry an unstylish, illegitimate herbalist accused of witchcraft?"

  Fierce eyes stared me down; strong fingers gripped my upper arms. “Now you listen to me. You're a unique woman with a generous heart. You may not dress in designer clothes, but you're beautiful in whatever you wear-even that ratty flannel robe. There's nothing illegitimate about you. You're the real thing-kind, caring, and loving. If other people are too stupid to see your value, that's their problem. I'll be proud to introduce you to anyone as my wife.” His grip loosened, eyes turning tender. “Now, what do you say to that?"

  Silly tears trickled down my cheeks. “I'd say you just earned a lifetime of chocolate chip cookies."

  Epilogue-Three Months Later

  -

  The alarm buzzed. Orion jumped off the foot of the bed. Jason hit the snooze button. I groaned, sitting up to peek over his shoulder at the glowing clock on his side of the bed.

  My voice rasped, full of sleep. “It's only six o'clock and it's Saturday."

  He turned over on his back, the new comforter I'd purchased pulled to his chin. He hadn't complained when I'd replaced his plain brown plaid bedspread with a lush beige, peach, and green paisley comforter and matching pillows. I'd just received The Look. It silently spoke of consternation and resignation-she's done it again.

  The master bedroom was a wonderful, big space with French doors leading onto a redwood deck and a sinfully large master bath that would house a third world family of twelve.

  Pre-dawn fading stars visible in the skylight heralded a beautiful spring day and I looked forward to a family weekend at home.

  He placed his hands behind his head, sighing. “I need to go to the office. I can get a lot of work done on Saturday morning. The phone doesn't ring."

  I slinked into the niche of his side, draping one leg over his thigh, reaching one hand onto his chest, and circling down to his stomach. “All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy."

  He responded with a grunt, but made no attempt to stop my overtures. His lean, hairy front rippled under my mischievous fingers. Still half asleep, my body and hands moved over him in primordial instinctive sexual interplay. My mouth traveled along his chest, circling his nipples, teasing while my hand wandered lower and lower. A low groan rumbled from his throat.

  Oh yeah, forget the office. Taking a lesson from my mother-in-law, I considered Saturday morning seduction of my Type-A attorney husband a divine duty.

  His hands were pinned behind his head as I moved over his body, but tension built within him like a bowstring ready to snap. Does that feel good? Don't you love it when I touch you here? Still, he refused to respond. Holding back was half the fun. How long can you resist, my darling?

  I traced his inner-thighs, down to his calves and back again, longing to throw my body on top of his, but savoring the escalating fire of desire. His breathing grew deeper and deeper. Urgent impulse engulfed me. My fingers reached out to hold and caress. Naked male flesh grew in my hand. Full and erect and strong. I loved the feel of him, the power barely restrained. All man, my man.

  I whispered my taunt, “You'd better be going now. See you later.” I pretended to pull away.

  Suddenly, he was over me, playing my body as I had just played his, taking his time over my breasts, stomach, and thighs. My legs opened of their own accord ready to accept him, excite him. But he wouldn't be rushed.

  "Two can play at this game,” he growled.

  Warm lips, hot hands built an inferno within my female furnace. Not fair, not fair. I started the game, but he outplayed me every time. He stroked and suckled, teased and touched until my body throbbed. Now, oh, please, now before I explode.

  We tumbled and twirled, twisting sheets, pillows flying. We tussled for superiority of position. I won. Woman on top. From the satisfied smile on his lips under closed eyes, he appeared a happy loser.

  With a swift tuck, I took him. Oh my, wasn't it grand?

  Our rhythm pulsed to an internal beat lovers hear from the music playing in their souls. We rocked and rocked, going deeper and deeper until we exploded with jolts of erotic electricity. Light flashed behind my eyes ... I floated in a wonderful netherland ... Sweet, so sweet, my love for this man ... my husband.

  I collapsed onto his shoulder, still enjoying the feeling of physical and emotional unity. For me, afterglow meant thanking God for lovemaking. I felt sorry for all the people in the world without lovers, for people who only had sex. The love I felt for Jason went so far beyond simple sexual desire, but sexual union was the purest way for me to express it.

  I kissed his shoulder. “I love you."

  He stroked my bare behind. “I love you, too."

  We drifted off into another hour's slumber. What a lovely way to start the weekend.

  * * * *

  He bounded out of bed at eight o'clock, slapped my backside, and demanded that I get up to go out for breakfast. I could have lazed until ten, but I was a dutiful wife.

  We joined the breakfast crowd at the Dew Drop Inn. The regulars of old men who drank coffee for two hours every morning had their usual table, discussing the problems of the world and the trouble with politicians.

  I cringed watching Jason devour a plate of biscuits and gravy, eggs and bacon. It went against all my principles of healthful eating. My Lord, we were so opposite.

  I was crazy about the man.

  Rachael Ross came into the restaurant carrying a basket of eggs to sell. I was thrilled to see Isaac at her side looking healthy. Robust color splotched his cheeks and he'd regained weight since his surgery. The ruckus with Jeremiah had blown over and I sensed a subtle shift in power at the Ross household.

  Rachel had developed some backbone. I'd declined to press charges, but Jeremiah still muttered “Daughter of Satan” under his breath when our paths crossed. Rachel remained friendly, giving me a small wave and smile when she left.

  Rising out of a corner booth, Christina, accompanied by Brent Furneau, approached our table. She had thrown out her bait and Brent had fallen for her hook, line, and sinker. They were planning a romantic cruise on the Mediterranean in a couple of weeks. She pulled him to our table, hips undulating.

  "Tell Valerie I'll pick her up at one o'clock to go to Glamour Shots."

  Her lipstick was a bit askew. Should I tell her? Nah...

  Jason ignored her. I filled in the gap. “She's looking forward to it.” For whatever it was worth, I knew Christina and Val had to carve out a working relationship. I was Val's anchor, but Christina would always be her mother.

  Brent smacked Jason on the back and told him about a really great deal coming up that he would call him about. Jason sent me a thunderous glance. He hated being approached about business on his down time.

  I smile hugely. “That sounds intriguing. Call us next week.” How co-dependent can you get?

  I watched them weave their way to the cashier, obviously ready for a private, second course. That Christina was a master temptress.

  I was still contemplating the Brent-Christina relationship when I looked up into the smiling gums of Charlene Foster. She h
ad a little bell pepper in her upper front tooth. She must have ordered the Spanish omelet. Cowboy Bill was paying the cashier.

  She totally ignored me and focused on my husband. “Jason! You need to come by and see how Peeler Pork is progressing. They've built the first farrowing barns. You should see how your investment is coming along."

  Jason swallowed a bit of greasy biscuit. “It's not my investment anymore."

  Charlene and I both turned to him in shock and said simultaneously. “What?"

  He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and took a sip of coffee. “I don't have time to deal with the hog farm. I sold my shares."

  Charlene and I both shrieked. “What?"

  I'd been counting on him to keep an eye on the proceedings. Charlene had been counting on him to stay out of the way.

  He looked over at me with a smug grin. I saw the truth instantly. It was payback time for all the changes in his life-the flowered wallpaper, the demise of his cold leather couch, the two a.m. disturbing of his sleep by an amorous wife when he had a trial the next day.

  "I sold my shares to my wife for ten dollars. She's now responsible for fifty-one percent of Peeler Pork."

  Charlene's worst nightmare. She coughed and uttered gagging noises.

  I smiled and fluttered a hand. “He's so unpredictable. Guess I'll see you at the next board meeting."

  She pulled her lips over her massive teeth and made a majestic exit from the restaurant. I turned back to his smirking face. “Think you're pretty smart, don't you, Mr. Brooks?"

  His eyes changed to that tender, swallow-me-whole expression. “No, I think I'm the luckiest S.O.B. in the whole wide world, Mrs. Brooks."

  I rubbed his calf with the sole of my foot and finished my orange juice. A pacifist-vegetarian-health-food-nut now owned fifty-one percent of a commercial hog farm married to the most notorious criminal lawyer in the state.

  Ain't love grand?

  Coming

  Early 2005

  From Echelon Press

  That Devil Moon

  By Dana Taylor

  Prologue

  -

  It was hormone hell Saturday. She'd felt it building all week. The time when the gentle streams of chemicals in her blood turned into a raging flood of estrogen, swelling her breasts, swirling her emotions.

  After a small bottle of wine, two large chocolate bars (with nuts) and three Loretta Young movies, Madeleine Harris was still wide awake and edgy. She hit the remote, welcoming silence into her cozy living room, crossed the carpet, and looked through the picture window toward the small lake. Dousing the lights, she stared at the glistening water reflecting the enormous summer moon.

  It beckoned seductively, “Come to me..."

  Drumming her fingers on the window sill she mused, “Lord, I'm turning into some kind of hormonal she-wolf, drawn by the full moon."

  Then again a swim might relieve some of the tension, take away the gnawing sadness.

  Once outside, she grabbed Grammy's beach quilt that hung on the porch swing next to the back door. Grammy had quilts for all occasions and circumstances, made from every scrap assortment imaginable.

  Even now with Grammy gone a year, Maddie recalled that Arkansas twang. “Little sister, things is made to be used. Don't be making my quilts into museum pieces when I'm gone. You make ‘em part of your life."

  So, hugging the beach quilt, more than a little tipsy from the wine, she padded across the meadow, a willowy moonlight shadow seeking relief on a hot Ozark night. Clear lake water lapped the bank, still warm from the long summer day. Hidden spots of paradise dotted these hills she now called home. She'd come from up north during Grammy's last days, settled in, and never wanted to leave.

  Flinging the quilt on the coarse sand, she stripped off her blouse, shorts, and shoes. Her breasts seemed to take on a life of their own, pulsing and swollen. Aching in constriction, she released the bra clasp at her sternum. Ah, free at last. The panties went next and lastly the clip that confined her honey blond hair. Tumbling soft curls tickled across white shoulders.

  Arms raised, Druid-priestess fashion, she reached for the moon. Woozy-wine thoughts floated by. Free from clothes, free from rules. Just a few moments of freedom...

  The warm evening breeze kissed her skin as she walked to the water's edge. Cool liquid on hot skin. Simmering desire swirled around her like hovering fog on the lake. She was Eve, Lady Godiva, and Delilah all rolled into one. Basic, elemental woman.

  The moon smiled at her, whispering again, “Come to me.” She sank into the pebbly water seeking the arms of a phantom lover.

  * * * *

  Phil Wilcox was having a shitty night. A rambunctious party going on in the apartment across the pool, spilled out into the main courtyard. His teeth ground at sounds of splashing water, thumping music, and uproarious laughter drifting into his living room. Sitting in his leather recliner in the dark, with only the illumination of the ever-undulating mood lamp, he tapped his fist on the arm rest. His sparsely furnished bachelor pad offered little diversion. He hadn't bothered to hook up cable yet, and local TV at this hour consisted of infomercials and loud Southern preachers.

  Resentment poured through him as he relived the phone conversation with his ex-wife from seven hours earlier.

  "She isn't coming, Phil,” Pam had said in the little girly voice he used to find so endearing-and now churned his stomach.

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Don't get pissy with me or I'll hang up. She has a slumber birthday party for her best friend. These things are very important to eleven year olds."

  Phil bit back his irritation. “Why didn't you tell me about this before now?"

  "Oh, I'm sure I did."

  "I'm sure you did not!” He forced a reasonable tone. “Okay, so are we making the visitation up next weekend?"

  "Can't,” a note of jubilation rang through her voice. “I've got my family reunion next weekend. You wouldn't want her to miss that, would you? I really gotta go, Phil."

  He hung up and thought about calling his lawyer. Again. But the damn court system didn't give a rat's ass about his lost visitation. He'd been through it too many times.

  Another long night of paying for past sins yawned before him. At least he wasn't ten years younger when he would have screamed obscenities into the phone and gone out and gotten drunk.

  Now it was three fucking o'clock in the morning and he felt as restless as a caged bear. In the old days he would have been in a pleasant, boozy haze by now. Probably passed out on the couch. Nights like this he missed the good old, bad old days.

  A riotous female shriek pierced through his walls, followed by the sound of a big, loud splash. This goddamn party was going to go on all night. He stood and ran his fingers across his short cropped hair.

  He shrugged and mumbled, “What the hell, might as well go fishing."

  * * * *

  Phil pulled his Chevrolet Corsica onto a dirt road that led to Lake Luna. He liked to explore, find new places to throw his line. A buddy had told him about this little lake, nestled ten miles from town in the hills. He stopped his car, catching a glimmer of shimmering water beyond the brush and trees. Getting out, he heard the slapping of small waves. Close, definitely close.

  Looking up, he marveled at the brightness of the moon, made out the dark craters on the surface. Damned, if it didn't resemble a wizened face. White light circled the orb, then arced into space. He stood mesmerized, arms frozen at his sides; unblinking eyes stared at the dazzling sky. He thought someone whispered his name, beckoning.

  Phil shook his head. “Get a grip, Wilcox. Next, you'll be talking to the Man on the Moon."

  He opened his trunk and grabbed his rod and tackle box. Inhaling the pungent, lakeside air, he spied reflected light on water through the bushes. His feet crunched twigs and leaves as he pushed through branches, drawn to the surface of glistening silver on black.

  Oh man, he needed this bad. One night away from complaints, responsibilities, and guilt.
He wore guilt like an invisible cloak. Invisible, but heavy as iron chains.

  Maybe he could stare at that huge moon and get lost in it, forget his sins-just for a few minutes. Phil blinked. A shaft of moonbeams glowed like a laser, showing him the way. Optical illusion, no doubt. Intrigued, he couldn't resist the urge to investigate.

  Beyond his vantage point, Maddie had risen out of the water, the liquid sluicing down her slender body as she padded up the bank. The beauty of the night, the melancholy breezy rustle of the leaves brought an ache to her entire being. Alcohol erased all her inhibitions, plunging her into a wave of drowning emotion.

  A schizophrenic conversation whirled in her mind.

  "Oh, God I'm lonely. I want to wrap my arms around someone warm and wonderful."

  "Don't be silly. You don't need anyone. You're a self-reliant woman. It's just your hormones."

  "Shut up! I'm tired of always blaming my hormones for feeling bad. This ache in the pit of my stomach is more than hormones. I want more, I need someone..."

  "Oh, just go onto bed. I hate it when you whine."

  A rising tide of tears rose in her throat. “I hate it, too. I can't help it."

  "Fine, cry all you want. Nobody's watching."

  Sitting on Grammy's quilt, she pulled her legs up and hugged her knees. She stopped the mental gyrations and gave into the emotion. Big, salty drops washed down her cheeks. Her eyes squeezed tight; her throat choked, holding back racking sobs. High-pitched squeaks bubbled from her diaphragm.

  Drip, drip, drip. Not nearly there yet. A few crocodile tears weren't going to do it.

  Oh, Lord, I'm going into a full blown crying jag.

  She flopped back on the cottony surface, flinging one arm over her eyes. High-pitched mewling followed the erratic contractions of her lungs. She gave in entirely, moaning like a wounded animal.

  She sobbed, she wailed.

  Wash it all away. Drown the humiliation. Erase the betrayal.

  Her shoulders heaved in full-bodied crying frenzy. Riding the teary tide, she peaked and rode the wave down to the shallows. Quieter tears trickled.