“I’m the one who’s sorry, Josh.” She put a hand on his shoulder, startled to find herself unfairly comparing it to Link’s broader one. “It’s me. I’m a mess right now.”
“I am, too. I want you so much. But I know if I push too hard, you’ll go running back to Link because it’s safe with him.” He leaned forward so his face was inches from hers. “I’m dangerous because your feelings for me are hot and confusing. Aren’t they?”
She stared down at her knees and nodded. Barely.
“And your feelings for him are cool and calm and safe. Aren’t they?”
She stopped another nod before it happened, feeling panic starting. “They’re not safe. They’re real.”
“Then why are you here with me? Look at me, Lucy.” He pulled her chin up so she had to look into his eyes, had to feel that attraction again. “This is real.”
His mouth was on hers before she knew to stop him, a long, hot, wet kiss that traveled places no kiss on its own should travel with anyone but Link.
She pulled back and stared at him, breath coming too fast, starting to tremble. “No.”
“God, Lucy, don’t do this. Didn’t you feel that?”
“I have to go.” She fumbled frantically for her coat and purse, left the bar without even saying good-night to Dick, aware Josh was right behind her.
Outside in the icy air, he grabbed her arm, spun her to him and kissed her again, pressing her back until the outside brick of Eddie’s cut into her back.
“This is real, Lucy.” He grabbed her hips, drove his pelvis against her; she could feel him hard through his jeans and her thin dress.
“Please don’t.”
He stopped immediately, breathing hard. For a second she thought he was going to get angry with her.
Instead he moved back. Stroked her face with his thumbs. Kissed her gently again. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be patient. It’s just…I’m sorry, I don’t want to blow this. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Please. Let me do something right.”
She relented, let him help her with her coat and let him hold her hand in an awkward, miserable silence for the mercifully short trip to her beloved, familiar Mazda.
“Good night, Lucy.” He kissed her again, apologized again.
She started the car and drove away, carrying a mental picture of him walking away, head bowed, hands jammed in his pockets.
Her heart ached, her head pounded…and the dark thrill of sexual excitement, the sense memory of his bulging fly pressing against her, wouldn’t leave her alone.
Trouble with a capital T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
She needed to see Link. When she saw him everything would be clear. Her deep soul would speak to her—one way or another. All she needed was see him and she’d know what to do. She couldn’t go on this way anymore, telling Josh yes with everything but her words. She owed it to him, to Link and to herself to make some kind of decision, take some kind of positive action instead of lying down and letting life walk all over her.
She reached Cambridge in fifteen minutes and parked on Garden Street. Marched firmly up the walk, into their building and up into their third-floor condo.
Link was up. The TV was blasting its usual deadening nonsense in the living room. She glanced in, but he wasn’t there. “Link?”
“Yeah.” His strong, deep voice came from the kitchen.
She walked lightly, arranged her features pleasantly, guilt warring with excitement.
“Hi.”
He turned from the refrigerator where he was standing, door open, eating leftover potato salad out of the deli container with a fork. A blob of potato salad had caught on the bristles on his unshaven chin. “Hey, how was your show tonight?”
She stared. He was Link, as usual. Broad shoulders filling out his T-shirt, well-toned biceps emerging below, leading to strong forearms. Boxers, well-muscled legs, feet bare—did he ever get cold?
Link. Josh.
No clarity. Nothing. Her deep soul wasn’t saying a blessed thing.
Figured. Krista’s undoubtedly would have.
“Fine. The show was good tonight.” She stepped forward and kissed him, tasting potato salad and the familiar—safe?—taste of Link.
“Want some?” He scooped up a forkful and squinted at her, mischief lighting his blue eyes. He knew how much she hated when he ate out of the container, not to mention that he left the refrigerator door open while he was doing it.
She laughed unwillingly, guilt sickening her even to the thought of food. “No, thanks. You going to bed soon?”
He shook his head. “Late movie, Full Metal Jacket. No way I’m missing it.”
“Even if you get a better offer?” She lowered her voice, soft and sultry. See how her siren act worked on him….
Link looked at her strangely. “Like what?”
Lucy sucked in a breath, shocked at how much it hurt.
“Luce.” He closed the refrigerator door and put down the potato salad, pulled her into his arms for a brief hug. “I was kidding. Lighten up.”
“Sorry.” She smiled, but her heart started cooling, along with her libido.
“I’d love to, but I’m…Long day, and my head is in the movie thing. I’m sorry.”
She nodded. Not as sorry as she was, though she should have predicted it. Link was appallingly bad at switching gears, and if he’d planned a movie, nothing short of hurricane warnings would budge him—and maybe not even those. Not that she was Miss Spontaneity herself. She tried not to compare it to an invitation to walk under the stars…. “I understand.”
She didn’t. She didn’t understand. They’d be spending yet another evening apart. The gulf between them had gotten so wide she didn’t even know how to try anymore.
“You want to watch with me?” He chucked her under the chin and lifted his eyebrows hopefully.
Of course she didn’t. She detested movies like that. He knew as much. “I think I’ll turn in. But thanks. The chance to watch people blown to bits is really enticing.”
He chuckled and leaned in for another potato-salad kiss. “Okay, puss. Sleep well.”
She hated when he called her puss. “Don’t call me that.”
“All right.” His expression turned defensive; he backed off. “Sorry. Sorry again. Sorry for everything.”
She closed her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m tired tonight. Maybe hormonal or something, too.”
“Gotcha. Not a problem.” His voice was forced cheerful, not that she blamed him.
“Good night.” She turned and left the kitchen, hoping against hope he’d at least say something about her dress, about how great her ass looked in it walking away….
She turned the corner, glanced back and saw only his torso bent over, his head already back in the refrigerator.
Great. She followed the hallway to the bedroom she shared with him. Showered, changed into her nightie and shut the bedroom door, grimacing at the machine gunfire noises coming down the hall from the TV.
Yeah, much more exciting than having sex with her.
In bed she tried to interest herself in a holiday catalog, in what to get her father—always the most difficult to shop for, anything to keep her mind off Link….
Who was she kidding? Off Josh. No luck. She couldn’t concentrate. Finally she turned out the light and slid under the covers.
Immediately her traitor brain replayed the evening—the way Josh had looked at her, the way he’d kissed her, the way he’d pushed her against the building as if he was starving for her. As if his desire—and his heart—could barely be controlled.
She whimpered and her hand found its way down into her panties. She stroked there, imagining herself saying, Yes, yes, please. Imagining him taking her right there against the side of the building, in full view of passersby, strong and relentless, thrusting into her, riding her up the brick until she was nearly there, nearly there….
And then it was Link, not Josh, holding her, his bigger
build, bulging muscles everywhere, his hips pumping her savagely.
Lucy shook her head in frustration. No, no, this was her fantasy, for heaven’s sake. Please, at least let her cheat on Link in fantasy.
She forced Josh back into the scene, had Josh make love to her and made sure it was Josh’s name that came to her lips when her orgasm swept through her.
Yes. She did it.
She let the bliss recede, fingering herself gently until the final shocks slowed and were past.
And then the moment she’d hoped for in the kitchen, the moment of clarity, hit her, so pure and perfect and simple that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t been able to get through to this place before.
She loved Link, but the thrill was gone. Krista was living a fantasy come true, a new wonderful lover in the mysterious dark of hotel rooms.
Why couldn’t she? Without risking her life with Link. Have her cake and eat it, too?
She laughed and turned over, hugging her pillow to her chest and her new thrilling secret to her heart.
She, sensible, practical Lucy Marlow, was going to have an affair.
“WOMEN ARE SIMPLE.” Seth’s father gestured expansively with his walking stick, which he carried for show as far as Seth could tell since he’d recovered from his stroke. Speak loudly and carry a big one. “You find out what they want and give it to them. Shuts them up and makes life happy for everyone.”
Seth rolled his eyes. He and his father were sharing his father’s daily constitutional—out the door of the Joy Street condo he shared with his second wife, Aimee’s mother, around the border of the Boston Common and the Public Garden and back home. “So it’s fine if Aimee sells a billion copies of a piece of crap and God knows what else she’ll cook up and still represents the stores?”
“Aimee’s young. She’s having fun. If she wants to write a book, let her. Believe me, you try standing in her way, you’re asking for trouble. Her mother and I learned that a long time ago.”
Because her mother and you never wanted to be bothered by anything as pesky as discipline.
“I don’t want my rear end fried over this. I pushed Aimee at the board. A lot of them were hesitant enough even before this ludicrous stint at novel writing.”
“The board is a bunch of old farts.” He glanced side-long at Seth. “I know because I’m one of them.”
Seth chuckled and mumbled the obligatory remark about his father’s vigor and youthful appearance.
“Well, thank you, son.” His surprised pleasure seemed so genuine, Seth chided himself for being flip. His father was still thick-haired, trim and handsome, he’d recovered most of the strength on the left side of his body after his stroke and was able to set an unflagging pace on the one-and-a-half-mile walk every day, leaning on his stick only occasionally, using it to gesture often. So far he’d made no noises about his return as CEO of Wellington, but Seth expected the rumbles to start any day.
“So you don’t see the book causing problems for the stores’ image?”
“You wanted young and hip, that’s what you’re getting.”
“True.” Seth chose to ignore the drip of acid in his father’s tone. “But I didn’t want young and hip and laughing stock.”
“She won’t be. Although…”
His father loved trailing off, cueing questions from his listeners. Seth curbed his impatience. “Although what, Dad?”
“So far Aimee’s antics have been played on the local scene—that disgraceful cult hit album she put out, the part in Sweatshock—she’s still a Boston phenomenon. Being the spokeswoman for Wellington will take her throughout New England, possibly farther, which means certain of her critics will gain a wider and louder mouthpiece, especially after the press conference tomorrow.”
“True.” Seth braced himself. He could see this particular train wreck coming a mile away. The board obviously had his father’s ear on the topic of Krista.
“You know this Marlow woman?”
“I know of her.” He kept his voice casual, pretending fascination with the holiday storefronts along Tremont Street.
“She gets yammering loud enough, too many people are going to start listening. Local newspapers are one thing, but the whole world has access to the Internet. I don’t want her garbage ruining the announcement of this change. Fine if she keeps the criticism to Aimee’s questionable acting, singing and writing skills, but I don’t want to hear a word against our stores from that bitch.”
Seth opened his mouth. The hot rush of annoyance had been instant; he was ready to draw a sword and defend Krista’s honor, when he knew by now it was easier to agree with his father and then do or think whatever he wanted on his own.
He closed his mouth and waited until his anger cooled.
“In general, Dad, I’d say the more publicity, the better. Even a little controversy can help.” They rounded the corner from Tremont onto Boylston, toward the corner onto Arlington, home to the Ritz-Carlton where he and Krista had spent several passionate hours last week. He couldn’t help smiling, replaying a few key moments….
“Every wagging tongue is another wag that keeps the Wellington name in people’s minds?”
“Exactly.” He was surprised to find himself replaying more of their conversation than sex. When had he felt so comfortable talking to a woman? Or to anyone since he’d lived with Hank that summer in Maine, nearly two years ago. Didn’t say much for his romantic choices or the friends he surrounded himself with. He and Mary had been all about sex. Other women since college had barely made an impression—at least intellectually. On the road, then back here in his corporate life, he hadn’t had many opportunities to forge long-lasting friendships.
Or maybe he’d squandered them.
“As long as she keeps her viciousness away from the stores and the Wellington name as a whole.”
“Yes.” They passed the Ritz and Seth stopped his train of thought. What the hell was he doing thinking about Krista in terms of a long-lasting friendship? He’d managed two incredible encounters in total darkness without letting on who he was. But already the strain was showing. When they’d parted at the Ritz, the will-I-see-you-again question had hung thick as mist in the darkness between them.
The answer was no, it had to be no, but the power of their encounter still held him, and he’d asked for some way to contact her directly. She’d given him an e-mail address she used when she wanted to be anonymous, with no hint of her name.
Perfect. Except why the hell had he even been thinking of e-mailing her?
Because the second she’d left, all the life and magic and energy in the room had gone with her. Turning on the light and illuminating the luxurious anonymity of a hotel room had been the final blow.
Back then, standing in the black hole of her absence, the scrap of paper she’d scrawled her address on in the dark had felt like a blessing. Like the glass slipper Prince Charming clutched at the ball after Cinderella fled. He knew he held not a shoe but a means to find her again.
And then what?
“The sad truth is that people are idiots.” Seth’s father sent a flock of pigeons fluttering with his stick. “They’ll undoubtedly love the book no matter what reviewers say or no matter how bad it is.”
“Undoubtedly.”
From e-mail, one short step to a phone number. Krista Marlow wasn’t Mary. She wasn’t a woman he could evict from his brain when she was out of the room. When she’d surrendered so completely to his tongue and fingers, gone so quiet and still, become so accepting and open in body and mind, they’d connected on a much deeper level than sexually. She’d been as shaken as he was, wanted to leave, wanted to stay, exactly as he felt. In the end they’d both chosen to stay, tangled under the covers, talking, until her nearness and scent had driven him to make love to her again, slowly and intensely. And if he’d been shaken once before, he was twice after.
Krista wasn’t the kind of woman who would bore him after a few times together. The more frequently they corresponded, the more
frequently they met, the harder it would be to either end it or reveal himself, which of course boiled down to the same thing.
Selfishly he wasn’t ready to give her up. Holding back felt wrong, moving forward felt wrong—and standing still wasn’t his style.
“…but this Marlow woman…”
Seth jerked himself out of his thoughts and tuned into what his father was saying.
“…there’s something about her I really dislike. Sarcasm is not attractive in a woman. Gossip either.” He turned and regarded Seth solemnly from under his graying eyebrows. “That’s one thing about your mother, son, she never had a harsh word for anyone.”
Seth accepted the compliment to his mother, glad his father hadn’t been around to hear what she had to say after he’d dumped her for a trophy bimbo.
“Krista Marlow manages to be downright unfeminine. Her rants are ugly and personal. Good criticism doesn’t stoop to that level.”
Seth nodded automatically, trying to wrap his brain around Krista Marlow and unfeminine in the same sentence and failing.
“What does that woman have against Aimee?”
Seth shrugged. “Probably the same thing many people do. That Aimee has the world at her feet and doesn’t deserve to.”
His father indulged in The Frown, the expression that sent little boys and grown men alike scurrying for safety. “I’m surprised at you, son, talking about a family member like that.”
Seth peered ahead, measuring the distance, ready for the walk to be over. Right. Family. The accidental genetic glue that bound people together for all eternity. “Sorry, Dad. But Aimee’s a walking target.”
“Maybe.” He sighed and touched the brim of his fedora to an elderly lady passing with her poodle. “Probably.”
They turned the corner onto Beacon Street, past the bar that inspired the old Cheers television series and up the hill toward Joy Street.
“I’m thinking…”
Cue question. Seth dutifully complied. “Yes, Dad?”
His father turned and regarded Seth seriously. “I’m thinking that Marlow woman needs to get laid.”
Somehow Seth managed to keep his burst of laughter down to a chuckle, but that’s as far as he could contain it. Luckily his father joined in.
All I Want… Page 12