by Mallory Rush
She felt, rather than saw, his right hand release its hold on the wood to lay against her head.
"You're beautiful, you know that?"
Mariah beamed. Beautiful? That was always reserved for Beth. "Pleasantly pretty" had always been the compliment she received. Unless she counted "brilliant" or "beyond her years" or "model child"— though the last one she'd ditched for good.
Sol retrieved his hat from her grasp and to her amazement perched it on top of her upswept hair. He winked.
"Pretty as a picture," he pronounced. "And speaking of pictures, I've been thinking about the one you sent me."
"Yes?" she croaked, the nasty taste of guilt lodging in her throat. "What about my picture?"
"It was something to drool over, all right." His warm, sexy smile turned the asphalt under her feet to sinking sand. "But, Mariah, it didn't do you justice."
Chapter 3
Mariah felt Sol's arm tighten around her shoulders once they were settled in the backseat of his parents' shiny new Lincoln. How good his touch felt, how perfectly right: and yet, it held an undeniable tension that hummed of anticipation and unknowns. A contradiction, she realized, just as Sol and his parents were contradictions.
Unlike their son, Herbert and LaVerne Standish didn't seem complex. They were plain people, putting on no airs, but exuding a quite dignity. Just as their clothes were understated but of obvious quality. Mariah recognized money when she saw it and they had more than enough to get by, though they'd said many dairy farmers were struggling. Hard workers both, according to Sol. His parents were always up before the crack of dawn to see to the running of their eight-hundred-acre farm, where two hundred cows produced over twenty thousand quarts of milk a day.
"You're quiet back there, Mariah." LaVerne leaned around and smiled. "Being a parent, I can't help but wonder what your folks think of all this. A boy's one thing, but a girl's another when it comes to being protective. Aren't they just a little concerned, since they haven't met their son-in-law? Sol's a fine man, but they can't know that themselves."
Mariah stiffened, then quickly relaxed before Sol could interpret her reaction for what it was.
"Well, they're curious, of course. But they trust my judgment, and knowing how much Sol means to me, they wished us every happiness."
"How nice, giving their blessing sight unseen. I suppose they'll want to meet him soon, though. In fact, I half expected them to fly up here with you, to see your new home." LaVerne nodded with obvious pride at her son. "And husband."
"No, not yet!" When Sol abruptly stopped stroking Mariah's arm, she hastily added. "I mean, they're in Europe this summer."
"Oh?" Sol said with interest. "As soon as they get back they'll have to come for a visit. But if you're feeling a little homesick, we can always go there. I'm eager to meet them too."
Stifling a groan, Mariah thanked heaven for Miss Lilah's training and primly folded her hands in her lap to disguise their shaking.
"Yes, we'll have something to look forward to." Lair, liar, pants on fire, her conscience taunted. "Perhaps by fall we'll be settled and everyone can get together then."
"Great." Sol reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb over the sweaty palm. "Just so they come before the snow starts to fly. I never thought to ask, but have you ever experienced a northern winter?"
"Not yet." And if she didn't figure a way out of this predicament she'd made, she might never. "How cold is it?"
"Lots of babies born from midsummer to early fall, if that tells you anything," Herbert answered, chuckling. "It's so darn cold outside sometimes it hurts to breathe. No wonder Wisconsin's the brandy-consumption capital of the world. Warms a body up almost as good as other things. Right, Vernie?" He winked at his wife.
"Herbert!" LaVerne swatted at him, but laughed. "What's Mariah to think of us with you talking like that?"
That you're a lot more fun-loving and down-to-earth than my mom and dad, she thought. Not that her parents weren't good in their hearts, but she did find the difference refreshing. She liked the Standishes. They had accepted her without question, made her feel a part of something wholesome that was meat-and-potatoes real.
"From Appleton to Yuba, there's a Friday fish fry in every restaurant and corner tavern with a kitchen stove." Sol's tone was flat. "Green Bay Packers and beer are serious careers. Cheese-and-milk is the state religion."
"Fortunately for us," his mother put in, shooting Sol a sharp glance.
Mariah sensed an unaccountable stress filling the silence as Sol turned his attention out the window to the passing blur of green hills and lush, towering trees.
"I'm sure it's beautiful in the winter," she said, hoping to ease the tension. "Everything covered in white."
"Just like a Currier and Ives painting," LaVerne said, though her attention remained on Sol's remote profile. "You should see the kids sledding, having a ball. Even Sol liked that when he was young. You remember that, son?"
"Yeah, I remember." His sigh was heavy. Mariah saw the flash of hurt in his mother's eyes before Sol turned and forced a slight smile. "The sleigh rides were always a good time too, Ma. Maybe we can hitch up the horses and take Mariah for a spin before Christmas. Would you like that?"
"A real sleigh ride?" she exclaimed.
"Complete with jingle bells on the horses." When she smiled, a dazzling smile of pure excitement, his troubled gaze warmed. "We'll bundle up good together in the back and share a flask of brandy."
"I'd love it! I've never seen snow, except for the little flurry Mobile had once when I was in the fourth grade. All the schools were even let out."
"That reminds me, Mariah, didn't Sol say you've got a degree in biology, that you left a job in a hospital lab to move up here?"
The excitement drained from her, along with the color in her face. She nodded, managing a wooden smile.
"I'll bet they hated to lose you," LaVerne commented.
"Not really. I didn't work there quite a year." Never, actually, she thought bitterly, unless you count watching my dad perform open-heart surgery or being a game of scientific Trivial Pursuit for his cronies. Or memorizing the medical library in my spare time.
"A year?" Sol's brow furrowed. "For some reason I thought it was longer. Didn't you get your degree two years ago?"
"Well, I—yes." At least, she could have, she told herself. Only she'd dragged her feet to keep from graduating from college before her own age group got their high school diplomas. Not that it changed anything. She was still the oddball, a freak. Too mentally advanced for her chronological peers; too young to be more than a curiosity to her intellectual peers.
"What did you do in your off time? I wouldn't think you'd be hard pressed to find a job in your field."
Desperate for a credible explanation, she latched on to some more of Beth's history. "I traveled. Through Europe and Asia."
"And here I thought I knew most everything there was to know about you." Sol's gaze was wistful. "We've got more in common than I realized. I love to travel."
"Don't we know it," LaVerne muttered. Herbert nodded.
"What was your favorite country in Europe?" His grip tightening on her hand, Sol looked at her as if she were as much a newfound best friend as a wife. "France? Italy?"
"Spain." Mariah's stomach bottomed out when she caught herself about to say the Swiss Alps; she'd already claimed she'd never seen more than a snow flurry. "The people were nice and the food was wonderful. But I liked the scenery best of all."
"Me too. And what about Asia? Did you have a favorite spot there?"
"Thailand." Oh Lord, what had Beth said about that place, the one that was so exotic? Bangkok, that was it. She even remembered a few of the places Beth had said she'd visited. "Bangkok was a lot of fun. So much to see and do."
"I'll say," Sol agreed. "Did you try any of their better restaurants?"
"Mostly out-of-the-way places. But I remember, um, having curried squid at—Swahilli's."
"Excellent place, Swahilli's.
Just think, Mariah, our paths could have crossed and we didn't even know it."
"That's something to imagine, isn't it?"
"Where else did you go? Anywhere for entertainment?"
She was so queasy, Mariah considered pleading car sickness to stop this horrible conversation. If she could just get to a library and memorize a few travel books...
"There was a place called... Pat Pong's?"
Sol stared at her blankly. Then he cleared his throat and said, "I'm not sure I heard right. Did you just say Pat Pong's?"
"Uh-huh."
He leaned closer and seemed to study her in a new light. "And what did you think about the, er, entertainment?"
"It was... nice."
"Nice?" He appeared to be strangling on a laugh. He was also moving his palm from her knee to under her dress, then squeezing the inside of her leg.
"Well, maybe nice isn't the word. Interesting."
"Umm... yes. And did you, by chance, find it... exciting?"
"Oh yes, extremely exciting."
Sol's brow lifted; his gaze heated up several degrees, and his hand moved higher.
"Why don't we pick up this conversation in more private surroundings?" he whispered intimately. Then he darted the tip of his tongue into her ear before nipping a lobe and drawing away.
"Uh... sure." She had no idea what she'd said to arouse him, but Sol was looking at her as if he were a tom on the prowl and she a cat in heat. Mariah mentally crossed herself and prayed for some divine intervention.
"Of course, we don't have to talk," he murmured. "I'd just as soon enact some of Pat Pong's entertainment. That is, if you're in agreement with me on what their most exciting show is."
"I—what's your favorite?" she whispered back.
"Given the variety of erotic acts they show on stage, that's a tough decision. But the one that comes most to mind was the man and woman who choreographed the most amazing ways to make love."
*
"Mariah? The champagne's getting warm." Sol checked his watch. "I know you're probably nervous, babe, but this is ridiculous. You've been in that bathroom forever."
"I'll—I'll be out in a minute."
"I'll give you five, but that's it."
Shaking his head, Sol made his way to the champagne bottle and uncorked it. He'd wanted to open it with Mariah in a joint celebration, but the pain was getting bad and he wasn't taking the chance of pills numbing his body.
Since he was alone, he didn't bother with a glass. Drinking several gulps, he was relieved to feel an easing of the needlelike stabs running through his left leg.
He'd taken his shirt off but left his pants on, afraid the sight would turn Mariah cold. Maybe it was vanity; maybe it was that she'd been skittish as a newborn calf since they'd arrived in their honeymoon suite. First, she'd been hungry but didn't want room service. He'd taken her downstairs and fed her, but she'd barely touched her food. She did drink two glasses of wine, however.
It had struck him as odd that she claimed to have lost her ID when the waiter carded her. His own assurance that she was of age brought the wine with no further problems, but she acted even more off balance than she had in the car.
Sol took another long swig, then poured two glasses. Yeah, she was on edge all right, jumpy. Her poise at the base had seemed to fade with each mile that brought them closer to the hotel. Wedding-night jitters? After all, she'd never met her groom before today. Or was it more?
Sol went to the mirror and studied his reflection. He was no longer what people back home had called movie-star handsome, not with the patch and several thin crisscross scars etching his face and neck. Looks had never been too important to him—until they'd been taken away. Maybe he should have accepted that glass eye he'd been offered instead of deciding Mariah would take him as is or not at all.
Snarling at his image, he stared at his bare chest. It was marred by the big, ugly red scar riding the middle of his breastbone—the result of having his chest opened and his heart massaged back into beating.
No, he wasn't a pretty sight. He could almost wish that they had let him die.
But Mariah had made him glad to be alive today. She'd hit home with her words about letting anger steal his joy. Only looking at himself now, he didn't see much to be happy about, and he sure as hell wasn't thrilled with her sudden lack of responsiveness. He didn't know what had cooled her off, but he was going to find out.
Unsightly or not, he wanted her. Needed her, more than he'd ever needed anyone before. He needed her companionship, the sound of her sweet, sexy, molasses drawl, the support she offered.
And right now, he needed her in bed. Maybe he could lose his pain inside her.
Abruptly turning from the mirror, Sol went over to the bathroom door. He rapped, then jiggled the knob.
Locked.
"Time's up, Mariah," he said with the authority he used on his men. "Come out of there and I mean now."
He thought he heard a muffled sob over the sound of running water. Lord, was the idea of laying with him that horrible? All his self-doubts rose up with a vengeance. But then he clenched his jaw and his hand drew into a fist, as determination—the same grit that had made liars of the doctors who said he'd never walk—drew him up as taut as a bowstring.
He was going to give his wife a night of passion that would make Pat Pong's shows seem tame. By the time he was through, she wouldn't care what the hell he looked like under the sheets. But first he had to coax her out.
Holding down his impatience, Sol gentled his tone.
"Please, Mariah... honey... I wish you'd open the door. I won't attack you, I promise. We'll just sit and talk for a while, sip our champagne. If you want to, we can even turn on the TV and try to find an old movie"—like hell—"and order up some popcorn, just like we said in our letters. Come on now, open the door."
Chapter 4
"Be right there, Sol." Mariah quickly patted her tear-streaked face dry with the towel she'd cried in. Oh, that terrible ride in the car, then the ID. And Sol thinking she'd actually gone to a sordid place and was excited by it!
She hastily threw on some lipstick and mascara, then ran some concealer over her puffy red nose. Realizing she had big pink splotches on her chest, she rubbed some concealer over those also. The deep V of her white negligee plunged low between her fingertips. Beth had helped her pick out the revealing lingerie—had, in fact, loved every minute of the intrigue. The "perfect little daughter" had finally fallen from grace, with a thump, and the elder black sheep had delighted in having some company.
Mariah pulled a brush through her shoulder-length hair, took several deep breaths, and slowly opened the door.
The smile she'd pasted on disappeared as she came to eye level with a massive dark chest bearing a telltale scar of trauma. Lord, he hadn't told her that they had cracked his chest. Brutal as the emergency entry had been to get to his heart, the stitch work had been beautifully executed.
But that wasn't what made her own solar plexus feel a sweet impaling. It was the reality of this man in his prime. A man crafted of tough muscle, abused but somehow harshly majestic for it, full of character and masculine strength.
She was so mesmerized by the sight, she couldn't stop her gaze from searching for more. The diamond pattern of chest hair disappeared beneath the waistband of low-riding pants. The belt was undone, a gold buckle angling beside his fly.
Mariah reached for the door frame to steady herself, but Sol caught her hand instead. When he laid it against his chest, she felt the jolt of the contact so fiercely he could have been sliding his hand between her legs.
"I missed you," he said in a thick voice. "But what I'm seeing now more than makes up for the wait."
Mariah searched for her voice and something to say. After several moments, she murmured, "My sister, Beth, helped me pick it out. Usually I wear an oversize T-shirt to bed. I'm afraid this is a little risqué for me."
"Not for me."
She felt the escalation of his heartbeat bene
ath her palm and lifted her gaze. The trek from his awesome chest to neck, strong jaw, and sensual mouth took a long time.
And then time stopped completely as his eye snared hers. His look was that of a man whose purpose was firm, and that purpose was the bodily possession of his wife. A hot sensation filled, then gushed down from, her belly.
Sol's attention drifted down to her flimsily clad breasts. Though he'd caressed her there before, she felt a rush of modesty. His gaze was undressing her, arousing sensations that were frightening in their intensity. What was happening wasn't as safe as reading a steamy letter, or watching a love scene in a movie. A movie!
"You—you said something about finding an old movie and ordering up some popcorn?"
"All I'm interested in now is getting my hands on your skin." He slipped a hand beneath white silk and weighed her breast in his palm. When she jumped, he murmured soothingly, "Relax, relax. I just need to touch you, that's all."
His ease only heightened her lack of it. And her confusion grew as his warm, large fingers became suddenly busy with slowly, gently kneading her soft flesh. Mariah was drowning in a pool of feelings she didn't know what to do with. When Sol thumbed a nipple, Mariah thought she would die.
Then he uncovered her breasts. He stared at her nakedness, doing nothing to disguise the fact that he liked what he saw.
"I agree with you that Pat Pong's was exciting," he said, "but not half as arousing as touching, looking at, or, as I'm going out of my mind wanting to find out, tasting your breasts."
With no more warning than that, he bent and flicked his tongue over a single nipple.
Mariah staggered back against the bathroom door. For one moment she considered running back in there and staying long enough to escape from this physical, emotional wilderness, and to emerge with some sense of balance.
She couldn't form a coherent thought, couldn't react with the response he seemed to expect. The best she could do was to grasp his shoulders and push him away.