'We never talk, you know,' he said, 'except about the music. Sometimes, when I listen to you play what I write, I think you must know more about me than anyone else in the world…' Madeline's brows shot up at that '…but I don't really know anything about you. I didn't know until this morning that you'd never had a family.'
Madeline's shoulders moved in a nervous shrug. 'It isn't exactly the kind of thing you mention in passing.'
His eyes were unrelenting, almost intrusive. 'You said you had a lot of homes…'
'Yes.'
'Do you keep in touch with the families? Are you close to them?'
Her smile flashed automatically, but it was cold, artificial. 'Actually, I was never in one home long enough to get close to anyone.' He looked so stricken that she added defensively, 'Don't look at me like that. Don't feel sorry for me. I have a good life now.'
'I'm not feeling sorry for who you are now, Maddie,' he said softly. 'I'm feeling sorry for the child you were…the child who's still inside you, falling in love with houses because she's afraid to fall in love with people.'
Madeline caught her breath, then looked down, blinking rapidly. He knew too much; he saw too much. 'You should talk,' she snapped without looking at him. 'You hate houses for the same reason.'
To her surprise he chuckled softly, and she looked up to find him smiling at her again.
'Maybe that's our problem, Maddie. Maybe we're too close, too much alike, in too many ways.' His eyes darkened abruptly and he looked down. 'So tell me. How are things going with you and David?'
Madeline was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. 'David? I haven't talked to David since he was here, that morning after…'
He turned his head to one side and grimaced. 'The morning after I made a total ass of myself,' he finished the sentence in a grumble. 'I'm surprised you'll talk to me at all, after the stupid things I said that night in David's room. There's no excuse for behaving the way I did, except that—' He pressed his lips together, cutting the sentence short. 'Whatever your relationship with David, it's none of my business.'
'I don't have a relationship with David.'
He stared at her silently for a moment, his face expressionless. 'He and I talked that day on the way to Becky's. I think he's in love with you,' he said quietly.
Her smile was sudden and poignant. For just a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be loved by anyone on a long-term basis, but common sense brought the fantasy to an abrupt halt.
'David's the kind of man who loves everyone,' she said, unaware that she was still smiling, that Elias was watching her face intently. 'It's like breathing for him.'
'Maybe. But this is different. Even I can see it.'
Madeline shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The notion of any man falling in love with her was so alien, so preposterous, that it embarrassed her to even hear it spoken aloud. 'Do you mind if we don't talk about David?' she asked with a stiff smile, and his brows lifted.
'Of course,' he replied, his voice suddenly chilly. 'I didn't mean to pry.' He finished his own wine in a single swallow, then refilled both their glasses.
Dinner passed in relative silence, partly because the mention of David had somehow erected an invisible barrier between them, partly because Giorgio was so attentive that they had little time alone. 'Come back,' he told her as they left, flashing his white smile, kissing her noisily on each cheek. 'You're family now.'
In a spontaneous gesture that was totally out of character, Madeline threw her arms around the portly man's neck and pressed her lips together so she wouldn't cry. No one had ever told her she was family before.
On the way back to Rosewood Madeline sat a little sideways in the passenger seat of the car, just enough to be able to see Elias by moving only her eyes.
He'd been right, of course. Inside she was still that little girl, desperately searching for a family, and, for tonight at least, Giorgio had given her the illusion of having one. That sense of belonging surrounded her now, like a warm, comforting blanket, making her feel safe. With the security of family behind you, she thought— even if it is only an illusion—the risks of life seemed suddenly less frightening. She wondered if having a family made everyone feel that way.
'You're smiling.'
She felt his glance just before he looked back at the dark road. 'Am I?'
'You are. Does Italian food always affect you this way?'
'Only Giorgio's,' she said, feeling her smile broaden.
'Then we'll have to go there often.'
It was the kind of thing people said automatically, like, 'I'll call you,' or 'Let's have lunch some time,'; but Madeline didn't care. To her the words had sounded like a promise for the future, and if he hadn't really meant them that way, well, she'd just pretend that he had. She'd been pretending for most of the day already, after all—pretending the town was hers when she'd shopped for paint; pretending Giorgio had really meant it when he'd said she was family— why not carry the pretence one step farther? Why not pretend she could have Elias forever?
She turned fully sideways in the seat and stared at him openly, her mouth softened with a secret smile. Why had she been afraid to do this before? Why had she let her pride keep her from memorising the features of the man she loved; a memory that would last long beyond the brief limits of their relationship?
'What's wrong?'
Her smile deepened at his question. 'Nothing's wrong.'
The puzzled drop of his brows pulled at her heart, and for the rest of the ride back to Rosewood—back home, at least for this one night—Madeline watched his every breath, every movement of his beautiful, long-fingered hands on the wheel, every shadow that passed over the strong, crisp lines of his profile. The sheer freedom of allowing herself to do such a thing intoxicated her.
As if they were ending an awkward first date, Elias unlocked the door, gestured her inside, then hesitated on the step. 'May I come in for a while?'
Her smile was immediate, brilliant. 'It's your house,' she reminded him.
He shook his head. 'No. I promised you that it would be your house, for as long as you stayed.'
'All right, then; it's our house,' she replied softly, because that was part of the pretence.
Once inside, Madeline rubbed her arms against the evening chill of the house.
'Cold?' Elias asked.
'A little.'
'It's the dampness. It takes this house a long time to dry out after a rain.'
She turned to him suddenly, child-like anticipation shining in her eyes. 'Would a fire help?'
He arched one dark brow in surprise, then his face softened into a wistful smile. 'I haven't sat in front of a fire for years.'
'I've never sat in front of a fire.'
His eyes held hers for a moment, then without warning he reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. 'Then tonight you will,' he said gently.
From the very wing chair Elias had sat in earlier, Madeline watched with mute fascination as he laid a fire in the parlour grate. Crouching before the hearth, he was so focused on the placement of logs and kindling that he was unaware of Madeline's gaze. Her grey eyes narrowed as the flames began to lick at the birch logs, lighting him from behind. The outline of his torso beneath his shirt sprang into view, and through a trick of the fickle, wavering light of the fire, his body seemed to shimmer gold beneath the sheer white fabric.
Madeline sat spellbound, memorising the rounded lines of broad shoulders she had never seen before, the ripple of muscles in his back as he lifted another log. She caught her breath, thinking it was like seeing him naked, wondering why she wasn't ashamed to be staring so boldly.
It startled her when he rose suddenly to his feet, brushed his hands against his thighs, then turned to face her. He looked like a god, standing there in the shadows with fire breaking around him, and Madeline found that she couldn't avert her eyes.
She couldn't make out his features with the light behind him, and when he sai
d, 'We need some wine,' it was as if a disembodied spirit had spoken, rather than a flesh-and-blood man.
She took a deep breath when he left the room, and rose to her feet to try to regain her composure. Move, she commanded legs that seemed oddly weak, thinking that the simple act of walking would bring her back down to earth. She paced twice in front of the roaring blaze before she felt the heat caressing her calves beneath the hem of her dress. She stopped suddenly and faced the fire, entranced by the sensation, her lips curved slightly in bemused wonder. Without consciously engineering the act, she sank to her knees and felt the warmth and the light wash over her face.
After a time, she felt a presence and turned to see Elias standing in the doorway, staring at her in quiet wonder. His hands hung forgotten at his sides, a bottle of wine in one, glasses in the other.
I should say something, she thought, filling her eyes with the tousled black crown of his hair, the hard lines of his slender body; but the sight of him seemed to render her speechless. She was helpless to do anything but stare up at him, her lips parted in a moist circle.
'I brought the wine,' he said mindlessly, his voice rumbling across the room and rippling through her body.
She held her breath as he moved slowly towards her, his eyes still locked on hers. She felt the terrified thrill of something grand and powerful approaching, something she would not be able to resist if she allowed it to get too close. Yesterday she would have jumped to her feet and fled, but not tonight. Tonight she was living a dream and in dreams there was no future, no fear of consequences; only the moment.
He towered next to her for a moment and Madeline looked up, awed by the sensations of being a woman shadowed by a man. It was a submissive posture, kneeling at a man's feet like this, and it should have been degrading; but instead there was a strange sense of everything finding its proper place, as if this were exactly where she was supposed to be. He looked down at her, the reflection of yellow flames sparking in the green of his eyes, then sank to his knees facing her, setting wine and glasses aside.
Gently, tenderly, he took her hands and turned her towards him until their knees touched. Dark brows tipped expressively, eyes narrowed in almost painful contemplation, his gaze swept over her face as if he were seeing her for the first—or perhaps the last time.
She was unaware of his hands leaving hers, but they must have, because now his fingers were threading through the silvery lightness of her hair, pushing it away from her face, lifting it from her neck. She shuddered as his hands brushed the tiny hairs at her nape, and her eyes fell closed. 'Elias?' she whispered, and the word was both a question and a plea.
'Say it again,' he murmured hoarsely, and her eyes flew open at what she heard in his voice. 'Say it again, Maddie. Say my name.'
Her heart fluttered in her chest, and for some reason she thought of the old superstition that if you said someone's name, you took possession of their soul—or they took possession of yours; she couldn't remember which. She shook her head wordlessly, suddenly afraid, and he must have seen that in her eyes because he said, 'Don't think about it, Maddie. Don't think about what might happen, or what should happen, or what tomorrow will bring. Think about what we can have now, at this moment, because no other moment exists.'
It was true, she thought, letting her head fall back slightly, shivering at the touch of his hand on her neck. Everything he said was true.
She took his hands in hers and held them as reverently as he had held hers that first night; the beautiful hands that carried poetry from his mind to the music of the keyboard. 'Elias,' she whispered, because that was what he had wanted to hear. 'Elias, Elias, Elias…' She repeated it over and over, in time with the beating of her heart, thrilling to the feel and the sound of it rising from her throat, passing through her lips, but then suddenly he was leaning towards her, his hands cradling either side of her head, his mouth brushing hers to silence.
'Maddie,' he murmured hoarsely against her lips, his hands quivering on her upper arms with passion barely held in check. His jaw tensed as he pulled her ever so slowly upwards and against him until their bodies touched from mouth to knee, as if they were kneeling together on the altar of desire.
His eyes wandered over her face, touching each feature in the poignant act of taking possession, and for a moment he said nothing. It was as if he wanted her to see what his words would only echo. It was a rare thing, to see naked emotion on the face of a man; to witness the awesome passion that made a strong man suddenly vulnerable.
'From that very first night, Maddie,' he whispered hoarsely. 'This was destined to happen from that very first night.'
When he kissed her again, every part of her body strained into his; her face, her hips, her breasts, filling and growing now with the frantic pulse of liquid fire, reaching for him, needing the hard press of his body against hers.
She felt his hands on the back of her neck, heard the ratchetting sound of her zipper being pulled down, then heat from the fire on her bare shoulders as he slipped her dress down to her waist. He whispered her name over and over again, pulling away, then brushing her mouth with his, then pulling away again. Maddie heard a small, distressed cry of longing leave her lips, and then heard an echo of that cry from his. Finally his arms convulsed, pulling her more tightly against him, and she shuddered as his mouth opened over hers. She gasped when tongue met tongue, and felt herself sag at his answering groan as he lowered her gently on to her back and straddled her on his knees.
Even though they were safely contained within the fireplace, the flames seemed to lick at her bare shoulders and arms, and then suddenly he was opening the front closure of her bra and her breasts felt the lick of his gaze, even hotter than that of the fire, and then the delicate, awed touch of his fingers. He made a sound deep in his throat as he jerked her dress down over her hips and tossed it heedlessly aside.
When he hovered over her, braced by his arms, Madeline reached up and began to fumble at the buttons of his shirt. The graze of her nails against his chest catapulted him to his feet, and he jerked his shirt open, sending buttons flying.
Madeline lay there watching him, clad only in her panties, amazed by her own boldness. Every part of her body throbbed to the beat of an inaudible drum. Her heart stuttered at the sound of his zipper, and she had to concentrate fiercely to keep her eyes locked on his in virginal modesty.
He knelt at her side, carefully removed her panties, then tossed them on to the heap of his own discarded clothing. Madeline glanced over at the untidy pile, struck by the intimacy of their clothing mingling together. She gasped involuntarily as she felt the heat of his bare legs straddling hers, then the great push of air as the rest of his body lowered on to hers.
With his tongue he traced the imaginary lines of a bra beneath her breasts, over the gentle upper swell of the taut mounds, and down into the valley between. She shuddered, then lay still as wisps of his hair trailed behind the path of his mouth. She cried out when his lips finally closed over the quivering, aching peak of her left breast; and when his hand pressed firmly against the flat of her stomach, and then slid downward to part her thighs, she arched her back convulsively upwards, in woman's instinctive welcome to man.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hours later Madeline drifted upwards from sleep to feel the gentle sweep of a hand across her brow.
'Maddie? Maddie?' a voice whispered, and she rolled to her side and scowled, wanting to sink back into that dream where she and Elias had made love by the fire…
Her eyes flew wide open and she found herself staring at the dead ashes in the grate. One by one, her senses came to life. She realised first that she was cold; second, that she was naked.
'It's almost morning, Maddie.' In the faint, sickly light struggling through the windows, she could see him kneeling next to her, dressed already in last night's wrinkled clothes, the buttonless shirt hanging open.
She looked around desperately for something to cover herself because it was all wrong that he shoul
d be dressed and she shouldn't, as if his clothing somehow mocked her nudity. It wasn't the way she'd dreamed she would wake up after her first night of love. He was supposed to be cradling her in his arms, murmuring the unimaginable things lovers must say to each other in the morning.
She jerked to a sitting position, hugged herself and rubbed briskly at the goose-flesh on her arms. Elias grabbed an afghan from a nearby chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, but the gesture seemed more hurried than solicitous.
'We have to hurry, Maddie. We'll have to leave soon to get to the city on time.' He smiled and chucked her under the chin, as if she were a child he was cajoling out of bed.
Her grey eyes warmed to a near-charcoal colour, she reached over with one finger and touched the corner of his mouth. The memory of what that mouth had done to her last night made her blush furiously. 'We fell asleep,' she mumbled, still groggy. She smiled as her gaze wandered over the dark morning stubble peppering his strong jaw, the tumble of black hair falling over his brow.
'We did indeed.' He stroked the long tangles of her light hair back from her face, and she shivered under his touch as the afghan slipped from her shoulders to puddle at her waist. She felt her nipples pucker in the cold, and, astonished by her own boldness, she took Elias's hand and pressed it against the swelling firmness of her breast.
'God, Maddie,' he hissed between his teeth, his eyes narrowing, the black pupil expanding to nearly obscure the green; but then suddenly his face tightened and a line of urgency appeared between his brows. 'We can't do this,' he whispered hoarsely. 'We have to hurry.' He flashed a brief, hard smile, then rose to his feet and looked down at her. 'Becky will be here any minute. We certainly don't want her walking in on this, do we?'
Madeline's smile faltered and it seemed that the floor shifted beneath her as the reality of morning pushed last night's fantasy aside. Last night there had been no music, no past, no future—and no Becky—but last night was over. She felt an icy chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, and scrambled to her feet, clutching the afghan around her.
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