by Amy Summers
She stared right back at him, her eyes so wide, so open and innocent. So trusting. He knew that look, knew where it could lead. For once in his life, it scared him.. '
As if she sensed that, Trish slipped out of his embrace, sitting just a little away, and began talking again, maintaining the teasing tone they'd used before. "I think Gamera and Godzilla are busy in Japan just now," she said with mock earnestness. "In fact, I'll bet there isn't a living monster within miles of here."
He nodded solemnly. "We're all alone. The rest of the world might be gone by now. We might be the only people left on earth."
She made a face. "Then we'd be like Adam and Eve, starting over."
"Yeah." He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. "Good thing we're engaged."
Her laugh turned into a groan. "This engagement thing has been the biggest pain in the neck. Ever since Howie told everyone at the Regatta, the cards and letters have been pouring in. I've had nothing but offers to cater my rehearsal dinner, offers to cart in an entire orchestra to sing 'Oh Promise Me,' offers to print up my invitations with invisible ink. I had someone at my door the other day asking if he could be the one to dye the shoes for my wedding party. I told him we'd decided to do it barefoot in the park, hippie-style, and he immediately offered to do the tie-dye banners."
Chris was frowning, hung up on a previous item. "Invisible ink?" he repeated doubtfully. "I don't get it. For people who've already changed their minds?"
"No, silly. You do the invitations in invisible ink and send them out with a little wax crayon sort of thing. They have to rub it over the paper for the message to come out again."
"Ah. Secretly-encoded messages. Sounds like fun."
Their gazes met and it was there again—that feeling of closeness, of a connection of the spirit, and he felt the need to make it physical, to extend and explore it. She was like no woman he'd ever known before—mature, and yet vulnerable, with depths of emotion and needs that tugged at him, with surprises that interested him, with a face that left him breathless. He dropped his gaze to her tanned shoulders, the V made by her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts in the persimmon-and-green halter top. Her navel was a dark indentation in her flat, taut belly. Her legs were long and smooth, the toenails painted peach. The bottom of her swimsuit clung to rounded hips and a firm little bottom that made his stomach knot up. The dull, burning ache that signaled desire was beginning to throb in him.
He had to look away and hope to quell it. There were things that had to be done before they could advance to that stage. Things that had to be said. He knew he was going to hurt her, and the words stuck in his throat. But he cared about her. She had to face reality if she were going to heal from this pain she was suffering. He had to help her do that.
He glanced back and smiled. "You look so great on a surfboard. I'd love to take you up to the mountains. Have you ever skied?"
She shook her head. "Not for years."
"I'd like to see what you could do with a hillside full of fresh powder."
She leaned back and tilted her face to the sun. "I think I'm more of a surfer. I love the sunshine on my back and the hot sand under my feet."
He lay down and looked up at her, shading his eyes against the slanted rays of the setting sun. "Why haven't you ever married?" he asked suddenly.
She looked startled, then relaxed, shrugging. "Anyone besides Howie, you mean?" she said lightly.
He chuckled. "Anyone at all."
It was a subject she didn't care to think about, so she brushed it off. "There really has never been anyone that I felt that strongly about."
He was quiet for a moment, wondering if he should say what was on his mind or leave it. Looking at her again, he steeled himself. He cared too much for her to let her kid herself any longer. "No one ever matched up to your father, huh?" he said softly, then braced himself.
Just as he'd expected she swung on him in shock. "What?"
The outrage in her eyes made him wince, but he knew he would have to see this through now. "It's obvious that you've always hero-worshiped him. Don't you think that's affected your relationship with other men?"
She'd grown so pale so quickly he began to wonder if he'd done the right thing, bringing this up now.
Maybe he should have waited. No. The crisis in her family was happening now. She had to make herself strong enough to survive it.
She was shaking her head as though she could shake away the subject. "No," she said vehemently. "No, that's not it."
He went up on one elbow. "It's pretty hard for a mere mortal man to come up against a myth like Tam Carrington," he persisted.
Hot fire flashed in her eyes but she was working hard at controlling herself and when she spoke again, her words were measured. "I've never compared any man I was serious about to my father."
"Right." He paused, then plunged on. "And how many men have you ever been serious about? Name one."
She stared at him blankly and it was obvious she was at a loss to provide one bit of evidence that there had ever been anyone.
"And there won't be any as long as you manage to keep him a myth in your mind. Isn't that why you didn't want to go see him today? Weren't you afraid you might find out something that might start cracking that mythic mantle you've invested him with?"
Trish seemed to wilt before his eyes. Chris moved quickly toward her and pulled her stiff body into his arms.
"Trish, darling," he whispered as he held her close. "I'm not saying this to hurt you. I want you to see that, great as he is, Tam Carrington is just a man. When you find out he's human, like all the rest of us, I want you to be able to accept it."
He held her tightly, stroking her back, and waited, but she didn't respond.
"Trish, I know your father. He's a good businessman. A fabulous surfer. And he makes some of the best boards around." He drew back and forced her face up so that she had to look into his eyes, and he smiled. "But listen. All in all, he's not so tough. I can lick him at tennis. And I bet I can ski him off the mountain, too."
And I damn well know a lot more about making a woman happy than he ever knew, he thought, keeping that boast silent.
Still, it was almost as though Trish had thought of that herself. Her trembling lips turned into a semblance of a smile, and she began to move in his arms in a way that let him know she was receptive to his comfort. She lifted her lips to his, and he hesitated only a moment before dropping down to meet them.
Her mouth was hot and he wanted to wrap himself in her heat, so he plunged deep inside, wanting all of her taste, her scent, her feel, to be his and his alone. His mouth possessed hers, taking it like a conquest, and his hands began to move on her back, sliding up and down the smooth expanse, memorizing the feel of her as though he would need it to map the rest of his life with.
She came to him willingly, leaning toward him until the pressure of her slight body pressed him back down on the blanket. She rose above him, and his fingers, almost of their own accord, snagged the closure on her top, flipping it away so that her breasts were freed. He reached up to touch the tips with his tongue, first one, then the other, as she sighed and stretched, luxuriating in the sensation he was creating.
His hands slipped beneath the bottom of her suit and caressed her softness, pulling her into the cradle of his hips. She murmured soft words against the skin of his neck, soft words that drove him crazy with longing to find his way into her soul.
Her body was his right now, his for the taking. But where was she really? Where was her mind? Where were her emotions?
With a growl he turned, moving her onto her back beside him. With desire so intense it burned like a brand within him, he pulled back and looked at her, her copper hair with its golden highlights, her soft, white breasts with their dusky nipples taut and swollen from the tugging of his mouth and the teasing of the ocean breeze, the triangle of soft, auburn hair where her legs met. Her eyes were clouded with her own desire. They looked at him and her arms reached to have him back ag
ainst her.
He parried her purpose, pushing her arms back and coming down on her body, his hands on either side of her head, holding her precious face.
"We're not going to do this, Trish," he said, his voice husky with his own torment. "We can't."
She stared up at him in bewilderment. "Why not?" she whispered. "I want to." One hand reached up and touched his cheek. "Please, Chris. Make love to me. Make me forget everything else."
He closed his eyes and swore softly, then looked down at her again, his gaze fierce with concentration on his denial.
"The timing is no good, Trish. Can't you see that? I can't make love to you like this, it isn't right."
What was he saying? Were those words really coming out of his mouth? He could hardly believe it. He hadn't realized he could even think things like that. Self-restraint. It was a whole new concept, but he seemed to be getting the hang of it pretty quickly.
She stared at him for a long moment, not sure whether or not she hated him. She'd never asked a man to make love to her before. And to have him turn her down…
Pushing him away she began to pull herself together, jerking up the swimsuit bottom, pulling back on the halter top, avoiding his eyes with her own. "I'm sorry if I was asking too much of you," she said, her voice shaking. "I didn't realize—"
He stopped her words with a long, hard kiss. "Trish, don't you know how much I care for you?" he demanded, staring at her intently. "I can't treat you like I have all the other women in my life."
"I'm not a virgin, Chris."
"I didn't think you were." He shook his head. The words wouldn't come. How could he explain to her? He'd never before cared about a woman more than he cared about himself. Was that what he was doing here? He wasn't sure. And if he wasn't sure, how could he explain it to her?
Still, he had to try.
"I want you, Trish, but when we make love, I want it to be because you want me, too. Not because you're hurt. Not because you need another warm body close to yours. I want you to want me like I want you. With every fiber of your being, with every ounce of your strength. Like an obsession. Until then, don't ask me to do this."
She gazed at him wide-eyed. Something in his sincere tone finally communicated itself to her. This was special, what he was doing. He was special. She continued dressing slowly, then began to help pack up to
leave their private beach. But all the while her mind was busy with this revelation. Chris was a very special man. Probably the most special man she'd ever known.
Chapter 13
It was a typically frantic Monday morning at Paper Roses. Trish was rushing from one customer to the next. The store was full of young mothers with their small children.
She heard the front doorbell chime as yet another person came in, but she didn't look up until she realized that the newcomer must have caused the hush that came over the shop. A rippling murmur followed and somehow she didn't even have to see his dark eyes to know it was Chris.
"Hi," he said from across the store, standing there with his hands in the pockets of his corduroy slacks, looking incredibly handsome in his red turtleneck jersey shirt.
All eyes turned from him to her as though watching a ball in a tennis match.
"Hi," she said back, and the room seemed to sway. "I...I'm busy."
His eyes were warm, knowing. "I can see that. I just came by to take a look at your place."
He turned and smiled at the crowd. Every young mother in the place smiled back at him, appreciation glistening in their faces. It wasn't often that a man ventured into this mother and child preserve. And such an attractive man!
"I'll just look around," he said.
There was a new murmur and the crowd parted to make way for him. One bold lady spoke to him, and then another. They were just being helpful, showing him around, explaining the merchandise. But Trish bristled resentfully and wished she had the time to do that herself.
She tried to keep her mind on what she was doing, but it was difficult with Chris there. It had been almost a week since their day surfing. She hadn't heard a word from him since, but she'd thought about almost nothing else. She'd thought about the things he'd said to her. About the things he'd done. And she knew, no matter what else, whether she ever saw him again or not, he'd changed her life forever.
She'd spent the day after their surfing expedition going through the gamut of emotions—anger, sorrow, regret, resignation. Suzi had called to say hello and she'd been blunt.
"Are Mom and Bert planning to get married?"
Suzi had reacted with shocked silence, then a quick, "How should I know? She hasn't said a word to anyone that I know of."
"They are obviously... seeing each other."
Suzi had to admit that was true. "They've always been close," she reminded Trish.
"There's 'close,'" Trish answered tartly, "and then there's close."
"All right. I'll admit, they seem to be getting... closer. But until she says something, I'm not going to think about it."
"Did she leave Dad in order to be with him?"
Another silence then Suzi said, "You can't blame any one person for what happened, Trish. There's plenty of blame to go around. Enough for Dad, too, no matter how much you try to defend him and pretend that he's perfect." Before Trish could get another word in she added, "I've got to go now. Howie and I are driving up to Laguna for dinner. See you soon."
Trish hung up and stared at her empty room. Howie and Suzi? How very odd. The bookworm and the surfer. But she shrugged and let that go. What stuck in her mind was Suzi's accusation. Was she really that defensive about their father? Had she always been? Why hadn't she ever noticed it before?
That conversation stuck in her mind as she kept an eye on what Chris was doing in her shop. Finally she had a moment free. Wendy, her assistant, took over the cash register and Trish looked around the store for Chris. He was surrounded by helpful women, but when he saw her coming toward him, he immediately detached himself from the group and came to meet her.
She looked up and didn't know whether to let him see how much she loved seeing him here or not. "So you're back," she said evenly, holding back, waiting. "I suppose you came to tell me more things I need to know for my own good, and to make me do more things I need to do for my own good."
He blinked, looking innocent, as though such thoughts had never occurred to him, and shook his head. "Actually, I came to buy some bunny stickers." He showed her the group of them he'd already collected, along with others. "I'm thinking of redecorating my apartment."
Bunny stickers? The corners of her mouth began to twitch and she had to fight to hold back her smile, but somehow she couldn't extinguish her natural streak of sarcasm. "I see. What's your color scheme? Pink and baby blue?"
He was playing it absolutely straight, looking directly into her eyes without a trace of humor in his. "No. It's yellow and pastel green. With little purple flowers."
He couldn't be serious. Could he? She frowned, but he went blithely on, waving the bunnies and other stickers under her nose.
"I was thinking of putting some of these on the walls of my kitchen. Brighten up the place a little."
She looked at him suspiciously. When was he going to admit he was joking? "Great. Butterflies all over your walls. Absolutely. So very masculine."
His eyebrows rose as though he'd caught her in a major faux pas. "Oh-ho. Look who's hung up on gender stereotyping now!"
She had the grace to look abashed. "Who, me?"
He sniffed with superiority. "Anyway, I wasn't going to use the butterflies for that. I was thinking more of these little mouse footprints." He held them up for her to see. "Wouldn't they look cute all over my stove?"
She was beginning to wonder if surfing had affected his sanity. "Doing that, you'll guarantee no one will ever stay for dinner again."
"You think so?" He frowned. "Darn. Then how about these spider decals? I could paste them to the bottom of my cereal bowls. No one would see them until they'd drained t
he last drop of milk. That ought to be good for a laugh or two."
Yes, there it was, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. That was a relief. At least she was sure he wasn't yet a candidate for the funny farm. "You have a strange sense of humor," she told him. "I don't think you quite understand how to use stickers. Maybe you ought to hold off until you get a feel for it."
"You think so?" He moved closer. "You could teach me all about it in your spare time."
She threw him a quick glance. "I don't have any spare time. In fact, I've got to get back to work. My assistant can't handle this all by herself."
"Too bad." He looked around, pretending helplessness. "Maybe one of these nice ladies would help explain them to me."
There was no shortage of candidates. The crowd soon thinned out but the ones who stayed seemed to have decided to stick around for the duration—at least for the duration of Chris's visit. The children seemed to gravitate toward him naturally, watching what he did, making comments on his selections.
They talked him into getting a plastic box and having it decorated by the resident artist at the decorating table in the back.
"I'm going to keep my tools in it," he told Trish in a low, gravelly voice as he picked out a pale, clear lavender box. "Is that masculine enough for you?"
She pursed her lips but she was teasing and he grinned, knowing it.
He was the star of the show by now, and every child had to have a chance at him. He helped Samantha Knowles pick out stickers for her sticker book, recommending the spiders of course, a recommendation which she scorned. Joel Edwards asked him for a boost so that he could see the porcelain animals on the top shelf, and Jennifer Green insisted that he help her pick out new stationery. He suggested the beige linen with the monkeys on the border, but she opted for the pale pink with a unicorn at one corner.
Trish watched, shaking her head. A lot of the women came up to her and very quietly asked all about Chris, who he was, how she'd met him. She found herself blushing a lot.