She made it back to Rory's bedroom, too. That evening, and four more after, she promptly knocked on his door when she was done for the day. They never spoke, not beyond his low groans and her soft moans. But each session of lovemaking was sweeter and wilder, and each time he made her body shudder, she bit her bottom lip to make sure the words "I love you" would not escape.
Rory liked control and power and she knew he'd sap hers if he suspected she loved him. Domineering people did that. They could use your feelings to manipulate your actions. She couldn't, wouldn't, let him. She could let him use her body so beautifully, but she dared not let him have her heart. Her grandmother had taught her never to give that up.
On the fifth day, she was approaching Rory's door when Greg came out, shutting it behind him. He paused, staring at her.
Jilly self-consciously ran her fingers through her tangled hair. It was dusty, her skin was gritty, and she was so tired she couldn't think of an excuse to explain why she was obviously heading for Rory's bedroom. That morning, Mrs. Mack had directed her to a small attic previously overlooked, and Jilly had spent the day foraging through old boxes and trunks.
Greg seemed to grasp the situation in one look. "He's going to hurt you," he said quietly. "Maybe he won't want to, but what happened before has hardened him."
Jilly rolled one shoulder as if she didn't care and refused to see if there was pity in his eyes.
"Jilly, you can't know what it was like for us growing up. Photographers everywhere. Parties, drunks, drugs. Kids would talk about it at school. Hell, some of them were constantly angling for invitations to the next Kincaid orgy."
Her heart clenched. "Rory hated it."
Greg nodded. "It was so damn sleazy. And he always tried to protect me from the worst of it. But there was no one to protect him."
"So he…" Jilly swallowed. "He was hurt." By what people said, by what people thought about his family, by that woman who had pretended to want to marry him. By his father.
Greg met her gaze. "So now he protects himself. He won't let himself care for you."
She checked out the grimy toes of her pink, high-top sneakers. "What makes you think I want that from him?"
"Takes one to know one," she thought he murmured, but then his voice sounded louder. "Do you understand? Rory's stubborn and Rory's cynical."
Jilly sighed, suddenly so darn weary. She couldn't think now of what she'd pay later for loving Rory. "I know what he's like," she said. "I just want this time for … myself. Can't I have that?"
Avoiding Greg's gaze, she started to take the remaining few steps toward Rory's door.
But Greg wouldn't let her go. He touched her shoulder. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
She smiled faintly and held out her hand, palm up. Then she slowly made a fist. "I'm closing it Greg, and holding on for as long as I can."
He didn't stop her this time, and when she knocked on Rory's door, Greg had disappeared from the hall. Then her pulse leaped as she saw the knob turn and the door ease open.
Rory leaned one shoulder against the jamb, his casual pose at odds with his intense expression. She recognized what she saw on his face now, its stark planes made even starker by desire. Despite her tiredness, heaviness and heat pooled between her legs. Her breasts ached.
Last night they'd barely had the door shut before he was pulling off her clothes and taking her against it. The memory made her shiver, made her sensual aches sharpen. Like always, just one look, and he brought out the bad in her. She swallowed.
With his knuckle he slowly rubbed at a spot on her cheek. "You have smudges all over your face," he said softly.
Her eyelashes drifted down in response to the unexpectedly tender touch. She swayed.
He caught her upper arms with his big, hard hands. "Let's get you in a bath," he said.
"No, I can—"
"Shh." He half carried her into the bathroom. The mosaic-tiled room was as decadent as he made her feel, and as he filled the huge sunken tub, he slowly undressed her.
Jilly trembled and licked her lips. His touch was so gentle that each stroke of his hands felt like a caress. "Rory." She tried to put her arms around him, but he forced her hands away and lifted her into the tub full of deliciously warm water.
Then he knelt on the floor beside her and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He washed her skin, drawing a thick bar of Rory-scented soap over and over her.
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. He continued stroking and caressing, his fingers slipping and sliding everywhere: between each one of her fingers, over her ticklish toes, around each breast.
This was worse than making love—more intimate, more dangerous, she thought. This sweetness, this gentle solicitude, was going to be her undoing. He lifted the coiled hand nozzle and thoroughly doused her hair. Then he washed that, too, massaging her scalp with his strong fingers until she wanted to purr.
He pulled her from the water just moments before she fell asleep and gently dried her with a towel. Then he carried her, nearly boneless, back into the bedroom and laid her across Quasimodo's sheets. When she languidly reached for Rory he ignored her, tucking the covers around her.
She closed her eyes. "Just for a minute," she murmured.
His hand was so achingly tender against her cheek. "Take all the minutes you need."
* * *
Greg watched Iris stuff a pink toy rabbit and her hairbrush into a purple backpack. "You're only going to Mrs. Mack's for dinner, bug, not a decade. Do you really need all that?"
She ignored the question, frowning as she pushed the bare feet of a baby doll into the pack's opening. Frowning deeper, she pulled the doll free and tucked it under her arm. "I'm not putting Daisy in there," Iris muttered to herself.
She named her dolls after flowers, as she had been.
Four-plus years ago, he and Kim had been in one of the Caidwater gardens. Kim had been wandering with a book in her hand, using it to identify the different kinds of flowers. He'd been pretending to be interested, when the only true fascination he'd had was in watching Kim. Suddenly she'd gasped, her palm flying to caress her round belly. Then she'd smiled—he'd never forget its glow—and looked at him.
So excited, so certain, so … damn happy. "Her name is Iris," Kim had said. "She just this moment picked it out."
As at just that moment his heart had picked out the woman he'd love for the rest of his life.
Now the baby named that day was sitting on her bed, cuddling a fluffy-haired doll. "You're my own special bug," Iris whispered, then kissed a rosy, plastic cheek.
Greg briefly shut his eyes. "Bug" was his pet name for Iris, and hearing his own special girl use it for her own special baby cut through him.
She looked up. "Will you be here when I get home?"
He kept his voice upbeat. "When you wake up in the morning, for sure. Mrs. Mack will bring you home and put you to bed after you have dinner and watch a video with her granddaughter."
Iris kissed the top of Daisy's head, then looked at him again. "Where will you be?"
He smiled at the daughter of his heart. "Since my best girl is going to be busy, I thought I'd drive over to Malibu and check out the new house." He was finally rebuilding on his beach property. Four years too late.
Iris played with the baby doll's hair. "What about my room?" she asked offhandedly. "Did you paint it yellow? I want yellow."
Greg sucked in a sharp breath. They'd been over this before. She knew that she was supposed to leave Caidwater and go with Rory to northern California. Greg hadn't given up hope of convincing his brother—there was indeed an airy, creamy yellow room at his Malibu house—but he wasn't going to make promises to Iris that he couldn't guarantee.
"Rory still wants you with him, honey. But no matter what happens, we'll see each other lots."
Iris squeezed Daisy against her chest. "I want you," she whispered.
The world ending couldn't have stopped him from taking the little girl in his arms. He held her tightly, D
aisy's plastic heels digging into his ribs. "I want you, too, bug," he said. "So much."
"Then tell Rory he can't have me," she said fiercely "Don't let me get away."
Don't let me get away. The words tumbled into Greg's brain as he sat on the edge of the bed and rocked Iris back and forth. He'd tried to reason with Rory several more times in the past month. But it was clear his brother took his responsibility toward Iris seriously and Greg couldn't fault him for that. On each occasion that Rory had refused to consider leaving Iris with Greg, he'd bitten his tongue and told himself to bide his time.
But time wasn't going to change Rory's mind.
Closing his eyes, Greg accepted the truth of that. He'd been too patient. He'd acted—once again, and just like always—the laid-back, easygoing character who used hope instead of action to get what he wanted.
He'd hoped Rory would see that Iris belonged with him.
He'd hoped Kim would come back one day and love him. He'd told her he'd searched for her—yes, he had—but once again he'd given up too easily.
Too soon.
And still he struggled with the hardest question of all. How much of this predicament was his fault, his punishment for loving Kim?
Mrs. Mack came to stand in the doorway of Iris's room. "Is there a little girl in here who wants French fries?"
Greg reluctantly loosened his embrace. Iris slipped away from him after one backward glance and a wave of her small hand.
He rubbed his palms against his thighs, thinking about his choices and his past. When events at Caidwater had turned against Rory he'd left and made his own way When Kim had found herself alone and homeless, she'd built a new life for herself.
Why didn't he have the same kind of courage? Dammit, why couldn't he take what he wanted?
Kim. Iris. Don't let them get away. Not this time. Greg turned his hands palms-up and deliberately curled all ten fingers into two fists. Don't let them get away.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
The door to Kim's apartment was at the top of a flight of steps cut into the stucco side of the Things Past building. Both Jilly's apartment, "A," and Kim's, "B," sat on the second floor over the shop itself.
A smile and an autograph had been all Greg needed to worm that information out of a Things Past salesclerk the day after Kim had left him in his car. No matter what my heart says, my body's just not in it.
Those words had frozen him then, but now, now they gave him hope—at least her heart wanted him. But as he'd promised himself earlier that evening, he wasn't relying on mere hope any longer. He raised his hand and knocked briskly on the door.
As if the occupant welcomed an interruption, it swung open quickly "Jill—" Kim broke off.
"Surprised to see me?" Greg asked. She looked stunned, actually, and even tried to shut the door in his face.
He stuck his foot against the jamb and the door bounced off his cowboy boot instead.
She stared down at the scuffed leather, then stared back up at his face. "What do you want?" With his palms flat to the wood, he pushed the door open wider and let himself in. When he closed it, he locked the two dead bolts and leaned back, his shoulders against the cheap raised panels and his arms crossed over his chest.
"I want what's mine."
Kim took a step back. For once, her long blond hair was down, and it slid over the shoulders of her T-shirt. His gaze followed it, and he could tell her breasts were braless beneath the thin cotton.
He set his jaw and raised his gaze to her face. "I'm tired, damn tired, of playing this same role over and over again."
She shuffled back another step. It almost made him laugh, because in baggy sweatpants and bare feet, she looked so achingly young and vulnerable that he found it hard to believe he'd been more than half scared of her since the moment they'd met. But that was over.
He raised his brows. "Aren't you going to ask me what role?"
She wet her mouth with her tongue. "What role?"
"I've played the guy who doesn't get the girl so many times, I have all the lines memorized. And every single one of my cues." He pushed away from the door. "I realize it's a role that's come too damn easy."
Kim shuffled back again.
He smiled. "I let Roderick cast me in it. I've let your guilt cast me in it again. But no more." Thanks to Iris, Jilly, Rory, even Kim herself. "I'm holding out for the lead role this time, Kim." I'm holding onto you.
She licked her lips nervously "Greg, I told you—"
"But this time I'm telling you. After you were gone, I spent four years in that house, living with Roderick and the truth festering between us. But I didn't tell him how I felt about you. I wouldn't give him that excuse to throw me out. I spent four years there for Iris. First, because I loved her as your daughter, Kim. And second, because I loved her for herself."
Kim's hand flew to her chest as if to halt a sharp pain. Tears sprang into her eyes. With a visible effort, she blinked them back, then crossed her arms, hugging herself, and rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms.
Maybe she was feeling something after all. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Good. Because it didn't matter what she said. Only what he knew. "For four years I lived in a kind of hell that I wouldn't wish on anyone, and you know what? I don't give a damn if you don't think you deserve any happiness. After these past years, I do."
"Of course you do," she choked out. "Of course." She rubbed her arms again.
He smiled and came so close to her that he could see the pulse racing at her throat. "I'm glad you think so. Because I won't get it unless I have Iris … and unless I have you."
"No!" She shook her head vigorously, her golden hair swirling around her shoulders. "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes," Greg said, not the least deterred by her denial. He slid his hand into her long, silky hair and closed his fingers, holding it, holding her. He pulled her head back and leaned toward the mouth he'd never touched … never tasted.
That pulse in her throat thrummed wildly against her skin. "But I can't—I don't—"
"But you will," Greg said with certainty. "And I'll keep trying until you do. After four years, I've earned this."
He touched her mouth with his.
The sensation blasted his senses. Groaning, he pressed harder, felt her mouth open, and he pushed his tongue inside as another explosion rocked his nerve endings. The heat, the blinding light that her mouth brought to his soul, burned away the years of pain. The years of shame.
Releasing her hair, he pulled her to him, her body aligning itself sweetly, so rightly, against his. Through their shirts he could feel her nipples harden. "Kim," he murmured against her mouth. "All my life I've waited for this. This is what I deserve for loving you. Just this."
She melted against him. There were tears running down her face and their saltiness only increased the poignancy of their kiss. He'd waited all his life to have her. Every day, every minute, every breath had led to this moment, this moment when she gave to him the strength that he needed, the strength to be the man whom he wanted to be.
He lifted his head and stared down at her wet mouth. She was trembling. "Maybe, long ago, we were wrong to feel the way we did. But we've lived through the pain it caused us. It made us different. Stronger. Wiser, I hope. And maybe even deserving."
Another tear rolled down her cheek.
"It's made us better, Kim," he whispered. "And you make me better."
Her knees buckled and he tightened his arms around her. "You're hurting me, Greg."
He didn't know if he was hurting her body or her heart. He eased his hold on her, then lifted his hand to palm her breast. Her nipple was still hard. "Do you feel that?" he whispered.
But she was already shuddering. "Yes, yes, yes."
And Greg took that as the answers to all the other questions he had. Her bed was soft and warm, but she was softer and warmer, and when he felt her come and heard her cry out with shock, with joy, he wasn't surpri
sed to find his own face wet with tears.
* * *
Jilly's eyes slowly opened. She blinked against the soft daylight, and blinked again. It was morning. She was in Rory's massive bed, whose sheer white hangings were draped over its canopy and then tied back with tasseled cords to the heavily carved posters.
She'd slept the whole night with Rory. Naked. Every other time she'd left immediately after lovemaking, but last night he had bathed her, put her to bed, and then let her sleep.
Turning her head on the pillow, she blushed as she looked at him. He was fast asleep, his lashes dark crescents against his high cheekbones. The sheet was pushed down to his waist and he slept on his back, one arm flung across the wide bed, the relaxed fingers of his hand just inches away from her breast.
With her gaze she traced the heavy muscle of his shoulder and then the hard expanse of his chest. Dark hair edged down its center to disappear beneath the sheet. Her body tingled and she felt her skin go even hotter as she imagined the intriguing shapes and textures hiding below.
But this beautiful man she'd made a bargain with had let her sleep—only sleep—beside him last night. She shivered.
Then jumped when he spoke, his eyes still closed. "You're looking at me, aren't you?" He let out a long, resigned sigh. "You can tell me. How bad is it?"
She scooted farther away from him and pulled the sheet up to her neck. "What are you talking about?"
"I can't help it," he said.
She frowned. "Help what?"
One eye opened. "Morning hair. Really bad bedhead. It's my curse." He ran a hand over his dark hair.
It looked fine to Jilly, a little rumpled, but fine. "I thought I was your curse." It was almost pitiful, how she wanted to be something of his. Even that. Then her thoughts suddenly jumped to her own hair. It had been wet when he'd brought her to bed.
She slid down farther under the covers and tucked a curl behind her ear. "But, uh, speaking of bedhead…" she mumbled self-consciously.
THIS PERFECT KISS Page 22