She just wished there were a way to convince Harry that she'd turned the corner, that she was ready to love him with her whole heart. As for her body, well, that was more than ready to love Harry.
"Harry's living at the lighthouse now," Tyler's sister, Charlotte, announced that night, when she came to have supper with Amy and the kids.
Amy thought of the child growing within her and ached to share the news, but, much as she dreaded telling Harry, she knew he had to be the first to know.
"Oh?" Amy tried to sound unconcerned as she assembled a salad. "Is he dating anybody?"
Charlotte shook her head. "You're not fooling me with the casual act, Amy. You can hardly keep your hands off the man. What's going on between you two, anyway?"
"I wish I knew," Amy sighed. "He thinks I'm not over Tyler." She gazed out the kitchen window at the lilacs, withered now with the coming of fall, and felt sad because Ty had loved them so much.
Charlotte shrugged. "It's Friday," she said. "Why don't you go out to the lighthouse and talk things over with Harry? I'll stay here and look after the kids."
"I couldn't—"
"Why not?"
"It would be too forward."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Amy, you're not in junior high school. And you love this guy, don't you?"
Amy nodded. "I always thought it could only happen once."
"Well, don't blow it," Charlotte hissed happily. "Go! Get out of here!"
"What if he's with someone else?" Amy whispered. "I'd die."
"He won't be," Charlotte replied in a confident tone of voice, "but if you insist on being civilized, call first."
"No," Amy said resolutely. But when Charlotte and the kids were eating, she found she couldn't choke down a bite of the special eggplant dish she'd made.
Finally she went into the den and closed the door.
She didn't have to call information, or Louise, for Harry's new number. It was branded on her mind in steaming digits.
He answered on the third ring, with a gravelly and somewhat impatient. "Hello?"
Amy wondered despairingly if she'd pulled him away from a glass of wine, a crackling fire and a willing woman. "Hello," she finally managed to say.
"Amy?" Her name echoed with alarm. "Are you all right? Has something happened to one of the kids?"
She cleared her throat. "No," she said as quickly as possible. "I mean, yes, I'm all right, and no, nothing has happened to Ashley or Oliver. I just...wanted to talk with you."
He was silent, waiting for her to go on, but she couldn't tell whether it was a receptive silence or an impatient, angry one.
"Do you think I could come out there? There's a ferry in half an hour, and I can catch it if I hurry."
It was agony, waiting for his answer. "All right," he finally said, and again, his tone betrayed none of his emotions.
Amy dropped her toothbrush into her purse, grabbed her coat and gave Charlotte the okay sign from the dining-room doorway.
After saying good-bye to Ashley and Oliver, carefully avoiding any explanation of her destination the whole while, Amy rushed out to her car.
She made the ferry with only seconds to spare.
Finding the lighthouse, once she reached the island, was easy. The structure's giant electric lamp was shining in the darkness, guiding her.
When she pulled up in front of Harry's spectacular house, he came out to meet her, his blue eyes searching her face worriedly in the glow from above. He took her arm and shuffled her inside and across a glistening hardwood floor to the fireplace.
"What's this about?" Harry asked. "Are you all right?"
Amy could no longer carry the burden alone, and besides, her secret was going to be obvious enough in the months to come. She needed to tell Debbie and Louise and Charlotte, in order to enlist their support, and she couldn't do that until Harry knew.
"I'm going to have a baby," she said bluntly.
Harry's mouth dropped open. "I thought...?"
"That I was protected? So did I. But sometimes babies just decide they're going to be born, no matter what."
His hands closed on her shoulders, firmly but with a gentleness that touched her heart. He pressed her into the big leather chair they'd picked out together, that happy day before things had fallen apart.
"I'm not sick, Harry," Amy pointed out practically. "Just pregnant."
"When?" He croaked the word, paused to clear his throat, and started again. "When will the little nipper be joining us?"
"In the spring," Amy answered, wishing there truly could be an us.
Harry was completely beside himself. He paced and ran one hand through his usually impeccable hair, and Amy would have laughed if the situation hadn't had such a serious side.
She knew she was about to get everything she wanted, for all the wrong reasons. And those reasons might well poison her relationship with this man forever. He'd soon view her the same way he'd seen Madeline—as a manipulator and a schemer.
"We'll have to be married right away," he said.
"No," Amy replied. "We can't get married."
Harry was quietly outraged. "Then what the hell are we going to do? You're not going to bring my child into this world with no claim to his rightful name! And don't suggest living together, because that wouldn't be good for Ashley and Oliver."
"I wasn't going to suggest living together," Amy said. "I think we should just go on as we have been." Even though it's torture, she thought, that's better than it would be to look into your eyes and see contempt, or boredom, or God help us both, hatred.
He took her hand, pulled her easily to her feet. "I think I know how to convince you," he said. And then he slanted his mouth over hers for a commanding kiss, and Amy thought she'd faint with excitement and relief.
9
* * *
The fact that he knew better didn't keep Harry from making love to Amy. Nor did the realization that she was carrying his child; that only made her more attractive.
No, Harry could no more have turned away from her than a starving man could resist hot combread dripping with butter.
They didn't even get as far as the bed, but instead sank to the Persian rug on the hearth. Their clothes melted away and their tongues mated and then, suddenly, their bodies were engaged in the ancient struggle, twisting and writhing and colliding with sweet, fevered violence.
Arched beneath him, Amy threw her head back and gave a long, guttural cry. Tendrils of her hair clung to the moisture on her forehead and cheeks, and her eyes stared sightlessly past him, past the ceiling and the night sky.
Harry's own climax was fast approaching when he saw surprise in her features, felt her sated body come alive once more under his hips, heard her murmur with joyous desperation, "Oh, God, Harry, it's going to happen—again!"
Harry drove deep inside her, and she came apart in his arms, chattering senselessly, enfolding him in her strong, slender legs. A sound that was half sob and half shout of triumph tore itself from Harry's throat, and he stiffened upon Amy, surrendering what she demanded of him.
For several long moments, his body spasmed violently in response to her gentle conquering. Then he collapsed beside her on the rug in-front of his fireplace.
"We'll be married as soon as we can get the license," he said a long time later, when he had regained enough strength to speak.
She shook her head, which had been resting placidly on his shoulder until that moment.
"No, Harry, we won't. I don't want it to be like this."
Harry swallowed a growl of frustration; this was no time to be macho. He was proud of the fact that he spoke so calmly. "Tell me what you want, Amy, and I'll give it to you."
She raised herself on one elbow, and the firelight bathed her satiny, naked flesh, making Harry want her all over again. "I want you to want me, for me. Not because I'm carrying your baby, not because you feel obliged to look after your good friend's widow, but because you're absolutely wild about me."
He raised her f
ingers to his lips and kissed the knuckles lightly, one by one. "I thought I just proved that."
"You just proved that you wanted a woman, Harry. I refuse to buy the delusion that someone else couldn't have satisfied you just as completely."
Harry sighed. God, but women were a frustrating lot, always attacking a man's pure logic with their reasonable implausibilities. The bloke who figured out what in the hell they really wanted would make millions.
"I love you," he said. "You know that."
She laid her head on his chest again and started making circular motions on his belly with one hand. If she kept that up, he'd be out of his mind in about five seconds. "I know we have good chemistry," she argued sweetly. "I also know that you were perfectly willing to end everything between us until you found out about the baby."
With another sigh, Harry shoved splayed fingers through his hair. "All right, rose petal, jump to whatever conclusions that might look comfortable. But add this to the list of things you know—I have rights where this child is concerned and I will not sacrifice them."
He felt her shiver in his arms, but when she executed her special vengeance, her hand was damnably strong and steady.
"Oh, God," he rasped, closing his eyes.
Amy was kissing her way down over his chest, his rib cage, his midriff. "Even prayer won't help you now, Harry Griffith." She purred the words, but not as a kitten would. Oh, no. This was a lioness.
Harry gave a strangled gasp of pleasure when she claimed him.
The next morning, Amy awakened in Harry's bed. She'd spent the night in heaven, but now, as she sat there alone, she returned to earth with a painful thump. Nothing had really been resolved, nothing had changed.
She sat bolt upright and looked wildly around for her clothes.
With perfect timing, Harry entered the room, carrying a tray with a coffee cup, a covered plate and a newspaper on it.
"Where are my things?" Amy demanded, embarrassed to remember how she'd behaved the night before. Merciful heavens, this man could turn her into a harlot with a touch or a single kiss.
He grinned, setting the tray across her lap. "What clothes?" he asked innocently.
"The ones I was wearing last night, when I arrived," Amy answered tightly. She wanted to spurn the food he'd brought, but she'd had a world-class workout and she was hungry. She lifted the lid from the covered plate and nibbled at a piece of fresh pineapple.
"Oh," Harry replied, in a tone of great revelation, standing back from the side of the bed, "you're speaking of the garments you tore off, in your eagerness to surrender yourself to me in front of the fireplace last night." He paused, rubbing his chin. "I'm afraid I burned them."
Amy's fork clattered to the tray. "You burned them? "
Harry nodded. "Essentially, rose petal, you're a prisoner of love. Unless you want to make the trip back to Seattle in the altogether, of course."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're making this up!"
"See for yourself," Harry said, gesturing toward the door leading to the living room. "Of course, I feel honor bound to tell you that you'll be taking a big chance, just walking past me. There's something about impending fatherhood that makes me—well—eager."
Color flooded Amy's face, but it was a blush of chagrin and not anger. She'd just realized that she didn't mind the prospect of being Harry's toy for a while, and that insight embarrassed her greatly.
"What are the conditions for my release?" she asked after sitting there for a long time, staring at Harry like a fool.
He raised an index finger. "Oh, there is only one. You'll have to become my wife."
Amy closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out again. With that she was calm. She wouldn't scream and yell.
She opened her eyes and her mouth at the same time, and when she did she found that Harry was gone.
Furiously Amy stuffed down the rest of her breakfast. Then, wrapping herself in the bedspread, she got up and started going through Harry's bureau drawers.
She put on a pair of his briefs in place of underpants, but he didn't have anything that could be adapted to serve as a bra. After adding tailored wool slacks, a cinched belt, a striped, button-down shirt, socks and a pair of loafers that flippity-flopped when she walked, Amy stormed defiantly into the living room.
"I'm leaving," she said.
A corner of Harry's mouth quivered, but he didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He closed the book he'd been reading and rose from his chair. "How? I've hidden your car, not to mention your purse, and if you try to walk to the ferry terminal in my clothes, the police will probably pick you up and haul you off to some shelter."
Amy stomped one foot. "Harry, this isn't funny."
His blue eyes swept over her. "That's your opinion, rose petal. I think it's hilarious." Another sweep of his eyes left her feeling weak. "Come here," he said.
Although reason and pride dictated that she must stand her ground, instinct prevailed. Amy stepped out of the loafers and walked slowly across the room to Harry.
Methodically, he untucked the shut she'd borrowed, then unfastened the belt buckle. The slacks fell straight to the floor, and Harry chuckled when he saw the briefs beneath.
Reaching smoothly, boldly inside the flap, he cupped her femininity in his hand, making a circular motion with his palm.
"Harry," she whimpered, helpless to twist away from him because he'd already made her need what he was doing to her.
"Open the shirt, Amy," he said. "I want to see your breasts."
She obeyed him, moving slowly and deliberately, like some creature under a spell. All the defiance she could come up with was, "You can't make love to me in the Irving room in broad daylight, Harry."
"Watch me," he replied. Then, still caressing her, he plunged one finger deep inside her and, at the same moment, bent to take one of her nipples greedily into his mouth.
He brought her to the very edge of release, made her coast back to earth just short of satisfaction, then carried her high again.
Finally, sitting in his leather wing-back chair, he positioned Amy on his lap, facing him, her knees draped over the arms. She was transfixed when he took her, letting out a long, low, primitive cry of pure animal pleasure.
His hands gripping the quivering flesh of her hips, Harry rocked Amy back and forth until she was literally out of her mind with passion. He sucked her breasts, first one and then the other, while she shivered again and again and again.
Finally Harry climaxed, too, and she was allowed to sag forward against him, her forehead propped on his shoulder.
"You didn't really burn my clothes," she managed, after some time.
"Oh, yes I did," he replied. "Marry me."
Amy trembled, still filled with him, her legs still balanced over the arms of the chair. "No."
He took her to the master bath, bathed her languid body thoroughly in the big marble tub, then, in his room, placed her atop a bureau and had her again.
If Amy had told Harry she didn't want to make love, he would have respected her wishes and left her alone. The trouble was, he was very good at arousing her, and by the time he'd gone through all the steps, she was more than ready to cooperate.
Her responses this time were just as wild, just as violent, as before. Harry had opened some well of need inside her, some region of surrender that had never been reached before.
"Marry me," he said intractably, kissing her shoulder blades, when she finally stopped howling in raucous appeasement.
"Absolutely not," Amy gasped with the last of her defiance.
Harry began to massage her bottom with both hands, although he did not withdraw from her depths because he had somehow stopped himself on the brink of satisfaction and he was still hard inside her.
Slowly, rhythmically, he began to move—in, out, in, out.
Amy groaned and clutched the edges of the bureau. "Oh, no," she whimpered, feeling the treacherous pressure begin to build inside her. "Oh, Harry, don't make me—"
He did make her, though.
More than once.
"Harry," she said, much later, huddled in his bed again, with the covers pulled to her chin, "I have children. I must get back to them."
"Louise and Charlotte are looking after the nippers," Harry replied. Fresh from the shower, he was wearing a dark blue terry robe with a hood, and his dark hair, only partially dry, was combed.
"What did you tell Louise?" Amy wanted to know.
"That I've made you my love slave and she shouldn't look for you to return to the city anytime soon," Harry replied, turning to stand in front of the dresser mirror.
"You didn't!" Amy cried in mortified disbelief, her cheeks hot with humiliation.
"Sure I did," Harry answered. "But don't look for the sheriff to come and save you, rose petal. Louise thought being a plaything might do you some good."
Amy snatched up a pillow and flung it at him, missing by a wide margin. "She did not. Louise is a very modern woman. She would never approve of this!"
Harry picked up the pillow and hurled it back with deadly accuracy. "She also comes from a generation where women married the men who made them pregnant. She thinks I should keep you here until I've made you see reason."
Amy swallowed, no longer sure what to believe. It was no small irritation to her pride that she secretly loved this game Harry was playing with her, and even though she was exhausted, she could hardly wait to see where he would make love to her next.
"You're a bastard, Harry Griffith," she sulked.
"And you're a hot little number who needs to be taken on a regular basis."
Again, it was the truth in Harry's statement that made Amy so angry.
"I hate you!" she yelled.
"Mmm-hmm," he answered distractedly. "It's going to be a man-sized job keeping you properly pleasured. Of course, I'm—" he paused, cleared his throat "—up to the task."
Amy screamed in frustration. "Damn you, Harry, get me some clothes and take me home, right now!"
Wild About Harry Page 12