by LAURA GALE
Rachel saw his expressions, and interpreted them as being directed at her body. “Bueno, Lucas,” she began with some spirit, “so gravity has done its thing with my breasts. I have stretch marks and a five-inch scar. It’s a bikini cut, so to speak, so it’s not horrid. I’m not a total cow or…or a troll, Lucas, but I certainly don’t look…better. Maybe it would be best if I cover up before I roam through the house with you.”
Lucas caught her shoulders, lowered his mouth to kiss her, stroking her hair back away from her face with his fingers. He reached down to cup her breasts, letting them fill his hands, his mouth never leaving hers. Until he was ready to suckle her—then he went down on his knees, burying his face against her, his tongue stroking and caressing, his teeth tugging ever so gently. His hands found her waist, trailing gentle fingertips across what he believed were the stretch marks she referred to.
His mouth continued to travel downward, nuzzling and kissing the faint streaks in her flesh that were evidence she had carried his child. His fingers stroked her legs, from her calves to her thighs and back again, and again, until they found their ultimate destination. Giving her the most intimate of caresses with his mouth, Lucas allowed his fingers to stroke the fine line he noticed at the top of that dark triangle, realizing that it was this that had allowed his daughter access into the world.
Rachel’s entire body was trembling, every nerve screaming. Her hands, which had been combing through Lucas’s hair, were now riveted to his scalp in the unconscious effort to support herself against her knees buckling. She knew the little gasps, the husky moans, were coming from her mouth, but she was powerless to stop them. Just when she was sure she couldn’t take anymore, Lucas stopped. He stood and cupped her face in his hands. She could feel him, rigid and burning with heat, pressed against her. With difficulty her eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze.
“Rachel, you are more beautiful than ever. Really. Your changes—they’re badges of honor, Rachel, for bearing your child. Because she was yours then, it was your strength that brought her here. It had very little to do with me. To know what you did, to know that my child began her life inside you—that is the most incredible, amazing thing to me. You are a woman, in every way. A real woman, Rachel.”
Momentary images of the glamour queens Lucas had chosen flashed through Rachel’s mind—they were women, too, she thought, women without stretch marks, scars or sagging firmness.
The images vanished, though, as Lucas scooped her into his arms and carried her downstairs. He set her down on the couch, resuming his worshipful attention to her body with his hands, his mouth, his breath in her hair. And, finally, with his body, too. He entered her slowly, so slowly, continued slowly, steadily, even when Rachel begged for more.
“Let it happen, honey. Just let it happen.”
And she began to quiver from the inside out, from the outside in—her special whimpers escaping her again, her hands raking Lucas’s back, pulling him into her, closer. Still, he maintained his slow, steady pace, even as he felt her quivering turn into the slow, steady convulsion that made her cry out—and that brought him to a slow, hot, shuddering climax, too.
Sometime later Rachel awoke to the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches, which Lucas was bringing toward her with great fanfare, on a platter, offering the very simple food as a gourmet meal. Just as they had done earlier in their lives, when a student’s budget had curtailed their experience of fancy dining.
Rachel had no idea how appealing she looked, sitting on the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. Her silky chocolate hair shimmered with her every move, mahogany glinting in the light of the candles Lucas had lit. Her skin glowed apricot, somewhat darker in places where Lucas had marked her. She only knew she felt perfectly happy, perfectly fulfilled, perfectly beautiful.
Her thoughts were for the man who had brought her to this point. The man she knew was wanting her again, watching him in fascination as his arousal became more distinct. Oblivious to the fact that it was her unending, adoring stare that was bringing on the change.
Leaning toward him, she placed her mouth over his, her tongue mating with his.
“You taste toasty,” she murmured against his lips.
“Hmm. I should taste like you.” He smiled, his eyes wide and black.
“Well,” she said, licking her lips, pretending to decide. “Maybe. That could be it.”
She continued her ministrations, gradually climbing onto his lap, straddling him as he sat. She didn’t cease her efforts until after the ultimate tremor rocked him a little while later.
Rachel didn’t move from that position, content to rest her head on his shoulder, his arms around her waist, his breath in her hair.
Sometime after the candles died down, Rachel sensed Lucas carrying her back to her room—sensed, too, that they would make love again before morning.
She was right.
Chapter 16
Her eyes were red. She knew it. She’d jumped from the bed when she’d realized tears were coming. Lucas must not see them. She’d headed for the shower, hoping that would drown out any noise she might make. Ultimately she hadn’t really made much. She’d cried buckets, but couldn’t be sure it had helped her. Not yet, anyway.
Tears that had been dammed up for years, tears that went with feelings that had been buried just as long, translated into gallons and gallons of water when they finally broke through the dam. Those tears had found that first minuscule escape route that day in Paul’s office and apparently she had not yet exhausted the tear supply.
Except Rachel never cried. Absolutely never. And as she had viewed her red, swollen eyes in the bathroom mirror, she had decided that this was a good policy for her to follow. She did not weep elegantly, beautifully, femininely, and she didn’t look too great afterward, either. In fact, she concluded, she looked absolutely ghastly in the aftermath. Yes, that was one more reason to avoid tears.
So she grabbed some clothes—whatever she could reach easily—and went downstairs into the kitchen. She fidgeted.
She started a pot of coffee. She didn’t even like coffee. She always drank tea.
Then she picked up a Handiwipe and a bottle of spray cleaner and began scrubbing imaginary spots off the kitchen counter that had just been meticulously cleaned by her mother or one of her appointees.
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
How could I be so stupid? Rachel was furious with herself. Why did I do this again? The other day—that was a miracle day—that was different. Dios mio, how could I let this happen? Where was my restraint?
Scrub, scrub, scrub.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
What do I do now?
It doesn’t mean anything, she reminded herself. Many people…do this all the time and never think anything of it. In Lucas’s world, the kind of people he’s used to don’t expect declarations just because they have sex. They don’t get all soppy thinking it means love.
I can do that. Rachel straightened her shoulders. I can pretend, anyway. Pretend that love wasn’t involved for me. It was a physical release. That’s all.
And yet Rachel knew this wouldn’t work for her, either. She just wasn’t made that way. So her only real solution would be—
“Buenos días, Rachel.” Lucas didn’t have much Spanish, but all the time he’d spent with Michaela had taught him some basics. He figured he needed all the practice he could get.
Clutching her Handiwipe to her chest, not caring that she was soaking Lysol into her T-shirt, Rachel spun and gasped at his arrival.
“Oh, Lucas,” she breathed. “I didn’t realize you’d come downstairs.”
Lucas stared at her, bewildered by her rather feral appearance—the unkempt hair, the carelessly chosen clothes, the makeup-free face and the wild, swollen red eyes. None of this was typical of Rachel. Not at all. He moved toward her, instantly concerned. “Rachel, what is it? Is Michaela okay?”
“What? Huh? Why do you ask?” She was b
affled by the questions.
“You look…” Lucas searched for a diplomatic word “…upset. I thought maybe the hospital had called.”
“Oh, yes, I see. No, no, she’s fine. I haven’t heard from the hospital or anything.” She started scrubbing the counter again. “Why do you ask?” She was distressed and she was repeating herself.
“Rachel,” he said calmly, reaching out to stroke her elbow, tact going out the window now that he knew something else was the reason for her state. “Rachel, you look awful. What is the matter?”
She pulled away from the contact. It was the last thing she needed right now. “‘What’s the matter?’” she asked of the ceiling. “What’s the matter, he wants to know. How do I answer that?” She slammed her spray bottle down on the counter, threw her Handiwipe into the sink and began pacing the length of the kitchen. Anything to get away from him.
Throwing her arms into the air, pointing at him with a flourish worthy of an Italian opera star, she said, “Dios mio, Lucas. I don’t even know where to start.”
“You could start with me.” His voice caressed her senses, brought heat to her core.
And she fought it down.
“Or I could start with you. Either way works for me.” His joke fell flat.
Making a noise that sounded remarkably like a growl, Rachel raked her fingers through her hair with a violence that told Lucas exactly how her hair had achieved its current lion-mane look.
“I’m just teasing, Rachel.”
“Oh, yes. Of course you are. I should have realized. We’re only talking about sex. I mustn’t take it so seriously.”
She marched back to the sink, gathered up her cleaning supplies again, began seeking out spots of dirt. Or potential germs.
“Rachel, that isn’t what I meant. What we’ve shared is wonderful, exceptional sex. I don’t mean to sound like I don’t appreciate that.”
“Oh, okay. Bueno. You appreciate having sex with me. Yes, right. Wonderful, exceptional sex—and you appreciate that. That’s very nice.” She drew a deep breath, unaware of the bitterness lacing her words. “Except that, for me, Lucas—Dios mio. This just isn’t how I do things. It matters to me.”
She was pacing, waving the spray bottle around, letting the cloth drip on the floor.
“It matters to me, too, Rachel.”
“Right, some kind of need thing that men have.” Spraying and wiping, spraying and wiping. “I don’t mean it’s exercise, Lucas.”
He frowned, looking for a way to respond. “I didn’t mean that, either. What we’ve been having, Rachel, it’s like I remember. It matters a great deal to me.”
He tried to sound calm, to not let his own fear and confusion show in his voice. He’d tried to go slowly, tried to give her time. Somehow, for Rachel, it had apparently still gone too fast. “We’ve rebuilt a friendship, haven’t we? That’s a start, isn’t it?”
“Sí, sí.” She nodded her head agitatedly.
“Has this still been too fast for you?” His voice was gentle, trying desperately to understand what was upsetting her so.
Rachel took a shaky breath. “No, Lucas, not too fast. It’s been too…deep.” The last word was a whisper.
“Rachel, I know things have been a little strange. Our recent experiences haven’t been a typical life.” He smiled, reaching toward her. “But it’s okay.”
She sidestepped his touch, knowing it would only scramble her and that she couldn’t cope with it at the moment. “How can it be okay?” she asked, her voice breaking.
Suddenly she crumpled to the floor. She sat sobbing, her back against the cupboards, her knees pulled to her chest. Burying her face against her knees, letting her hair serve as a shield between herself and the outside world, her tears would not be denied. “How can it ever be okay again?”
Alarmed, Lucas regarded the sobbing heap that was his wife. He knew they were in a strange position—he’d even tried to say that. There were still issues, there were still things to deal with. Of course there were.
But they’d made so much progress.
And yet, through all that, Lucas had never seen Rachel like this. This wasn’t just floods of tears, as had been the case when they’d learned Michaela would be coming home. More was involved here. Sobs that wracked her entire body, deep shudders that seemed to be coming from her soul. He knew she was building distance between them, protecting herself.
Lucas squatted down on the floor beside her, involuntarily extending his arm so he could brush the hair away from her face.
She flinched at the attempted contact and scooted the eight inches necessary to provide a moat between her own ground and Lucas’s. She continued to hold herself in a curled ball.
“Rachel,” Lucas began, not sure what he would say, fear ricocheting within his own heart. “We’ll be all right, Rachel. Trust me.”
Lifting her head, Rachel tried to focus through her tears. “Trust you?” She sounded as if the idea was utterly foreign to her. Which, of course, it was. “How can I trust you, Lucas? You betrayed me.”
She’d finally said it. The thing that was central to it all, the thing that had hung between them all this time.
“You betrayed me, Lucas. You betrayed our marriage and everything we had.” Tears glistened on her eyelashes, dripped from her chin onto her shirt, mixing with the cleaning fluid dampness.
Rachel had never allowed herself to ponder this. She had never faced her pain and anger over Lucas’s desertion. She had regrouped and reidentified herself, and then moved on. She had done what was necessary for survival. And survive, she had. But only just.
“Everywhere I looked, there was Alana. Every spare minute—or what might have been a spare minute—you were with her. I was slow to understand I was competing with her. And how could I possibly compete with her? Or with any of the other women you’ve been with since Alana? I’m not that type. The sophisticated, glamorous type. I’m just me.”
Her voice broke. “No wonder I lost, Lucas.” She looked him in the eye, her pain evident. “I loved you with everything in me. And it wasn’t enough for you. If I love you now, how can I believe it will be enough this time? How do I know that your attraction to me at the moment isn’t just because I’m convenient right now and that the minute someone else is convenient you’ll be off with her? Or the minute someone else looks interesting? Or the minute you need that spot of glamour in your life? I don’t know what prompts you to make those choices.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “How do I trust you again? How?”
Lucas’s heart began to pound. This was it, the topic they’d danced around for ages. The topic that had ended their marriage. Unless they could face this, all the rebuilding would be for nothing. Because it would have been built on a hollow foundation. “I don’t know what to say, Rachel.”
And he didn’t.
“Being betrayed by my husband, well, it left scars, Lucas. It shook my confidence, my faith, my ability to believe there was anything good in the world. And then I had a child, gracias a Dios, and some of that was restored. But as for having a man in my life, even if you were someone new, someone I’d just met, I’d be having trust issues. I know, because I’ve been extremely unsuccessful at dating attempts.” Her voice was hoarse following all the tears, tears that were very likely to reappear. “But it was you, Lucas, it was you who caused me so much pain, so much grief. It was you who embarrassed me. Who dragged my pride and my love through the mud. How can that be okay?”
He couldn’t deny it. He’d gotten off easy, in a way, and he knew it. He had somehow avoided confronting this aspect of his relationship with Rachel.
God knew he’d done a lot of confronting in the past months. His job. His parents. His responsibility toward—and love for—Michaela. But, if he was honest, he’d somehow hoped he and Rachel would never need this discussion. That they would be able, somehow, to rebuild without clearing the air on this aspect of their relationship. He didn’t know how to talk about it yet. He had hoped things would take ca
re of themselves on this score. He’d kept waiting for things to return to normal.
“How do I know you’re not just trying me on for the diversion? To see what it’s like on the other side of the tracks? How do I know that our entire marriage wasn’t based on that sort of curiosity?” Bitterness punctuated every syllable. “Am I the first woman you’ve been with who’s had a child, Lucas? Is that it? Or is it to compare natural curves to those created by plastic surgeons? Have you forgotten what that’s like? Or have you forgotten what it’s like with a brunette who is not trying to be a blonde? Let me think, what was it you said before?” She considered a minute. “Oh, yes, perhaps you just wanted to compare—a then-versus-now thing.”
Suddenly her face crumpled and she was again overwhelmed by tears. “Dios, I am so sorry. You don’t owe me this explanation.”
Lucas was floored by her comments. He’d no idea she might be harboring such insecurities. This, at least, was something he might be able to discuss.
“You see, Lucas,” her voice interrupted his thoughts before he could speak. She faced him squarely with wide eyes that were decidedly tiger-like although still brimming with tears. “I know how your life has been. I don’t make a deliberate effort to know, but it is hard to avoid. There are plenty of people, you know, who want to tell me things ‘for my own good,’ ‘because I have a right to know,’ ‘to keep me posted.’ I see the society pages in the newspaper and segments on the television news, so I can’t help knowing that you’re…a busy man. That you spend time with a variety of women. Gorgeous, elegant, sophisticated women.”
“Arm candy.” Lucas squirmed at this piece of truth, but figured she deserved what honesty he could manage.
“What?”
“Arm candy. Yes, I attend a lot of events, and yes, I always take a date. At first it was Alana. Then it was…then it didn’t matter. It could be anyone.” Lucas had never held much faith in the notion of cloning, but when he considered Alana and the troupe of artificial blondes who had followed her, he had to wonder. They were all incredibly the same.