by Peggy Webb
"Yes."
And they both knew. They were exactly right. Fate had brought them together. Every moment of every day of their lives had been leading up to the magical moment when they would finally find each other.
They slow danced… whether or not the music was slow. At midnight when they kissed, they both knew it was forever.
The next day headlines in the trade papers screamed "The King of Theater Meets his Queen."
She had found her king… found him and then lost him.
A great sadness welled up inside her, and she had to press her hands over her eyes to stop the tears.
"Headache, Helen?"
Brick leaned toward her, his black eyes searching hers.
"Can I get you something?"
The wonderful thing about Brick was that his concern was absolutely sincere. No matter what they had done to each other, he would never stop caring for her as another human being.
"No," she said. "I'm fine."
"Why don't I get a bottle of wine? Meals are always more civilized with wine, don't you think?"
"Yes."
She watched him prowl through the cabinets until he found wine and a corkscrew. He was giving her an opportunity to pull herself together. At that moment, she almost fell in love with him all over again.
She closed her eyes, letting the feelings wash over her. They felt so good, so very good.
Brick could hardly keep his eyes off her. Under the guise of getting the wine, he watched Helen. In her white silk gown and robe, she looked like a fragile, long-stemmed rose.
She was exquisitely beautiful. In the two years they had been apart he had not forgotten one single detail—the way her hair fell forward over her right eye, the blue vein that pulsed in the side of her throat when she was upset, the way she moistened her lower lip when she thought about making love, her walk, her voice, her throaty laughter, the soft, satiny feel of her skin, the tiny curve of her waist, the long, shapely legs.
His hands trembled on the wine bottle. Helen had no head for wine, and here he was in the kitchen pouring her a generous glass of chardonnay.
He was courting danger.
"Here you are." He set the glass in front of her, then watched her eyes sparkle when she glanced up at him. It was gone as quickly as it had come. Still, he'd seen the glow, felt the heat.
"Drink up," he said, straddling his chair.
"Thanks."
The blue vein pulsed in the side of her throat when she lifted her glass. He had to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching out and caressing the fragile, creamy skin.
"Aren't you drinking?" she asked.
"In a while."
Her eyes sought his over the top of her glass.
Why did she look at him with such intensity? What was she thinking?
"So… tell me how you met Barb."
"Barb?"
"Barb Gladly… your fiancée."
"Oh, that Barb."
Helen narrowed her eyes at him. He reached for the bottle and filled her glass to the rim. Maybe if she had enough to drink, in the morning she wouldn't remember that he hadn't even known his fiancée's name.
"Where does any man meet the love of his life?" he asked, trying for nonchalance and missing. "At a dance."
"A dance?"
"New Year's Eve," he said, watching to see if his remark hit home.
Helen flinched. Brick was immediately contrite, but he didn't do a thing about it. He sat in his chair feeling a bit of self-righteous triumph at having caused her to remember their New Year's Eve dance.
"Friends introduced us," he said. "We knew right away that we were meant for each other."
Stony-faced, Helen slugged back her wine and held out her glass for more. He filled it to the brim, then watched her take another long swig. Already her face was flushed and her hand unsteady.
He guessed he should be ashamed of himself, but he wasn't. A man who had suffered hell for two years deserved a little revenge.
Especially since he felt himself falling in love all over again with the woman who had betrayed him.
FIVE
Helen knew she had no business drinking so much wine. She'd never been able to hold more than half a glass without losing control.
Brick sat across the table from her looking dangerously delicious. Who needed control? What she needed was anesthesia.
She lifted the glass to her lips and took another swig. A drop of golden liquid sloshed over the edge of her glass and onto her chin.
"You should be careful there, Helen."
Brick's touch was exquisitely tender as he reached across the table and wiped her chin with his thumb—tender and addictive. She leaned toward him and closed her eyes. His thumb moved up the side of her face, drew slow circles on her chin.
Helen sighed.
Brick groaned.
His chair toppled as he scraped it back and stood up. Bereft, she looked up at him. His eyes were the color of the ocean right before a storm.
Helen knew she looked a mess, bright with wine and expectation. She drew her silky robe and the tatters of her dignity around her.
"I don't need your tender solicitations." To her horror, she slurred her words. Well, great. She'd just have to make the best of a bad situation.
"Those were not tender solicitations, my dear. I was merely wiping wine from your chin."
Brick never called her my dear unless he was furious with her. She could tell by his face that he was absolutely furious. And she knew why.
She had left him. It was the ultimate insult to a man. Not only that, but she had left him without telling him why.
As he stalked around the kitchen, slamming drawers open and shut, she thought about explaining everything to him. But it was far too late for explanations. It was too late for anything except trying to get through this charade with a little dignity.
"Stop slamming things," she said. "It makes my head hurt."
"Good." He slammed another drawer, then plopped back at the kitchen table with an enormous knife. The blade gleamed in the overhead light.
"What in the world are you doing?"
"I thought I would cut a little piece of that cake you dragged out of the refrigerator." Holding the knife aloft, he watched her over the edge of the blade. "That is, unless you plan to eat it all yourself."
"Well…" Why did everything he say make her think he was saying something entirely different? She wet her lips with her tongue. "I like eating the whole thing."
"That's a dangerous thing to say to a starving man, Helen. Especially in the kitchen at this time of night."
The kitchen. Frought with memories. All of them delicious.
"Don't you threaten me, Brick Sullivan." Helen's legs were unsteady as she stood up.
"That's not a threat; it's a fact."
"Well, you should get your facts straight." She took the knife from his hand and leaned toward the cake. Her silk robe whispered against his thigh. His hand snaked around her wrist.
"What are the facts, Helen?"
Her skin burned where his fingers touched. She felt as if her entire body were about to go up in flames.
"The fact is, I'm the one who stole this cake. I deserve the biggest piece."
Their eyes locked, blazing. She was the first to look away.
"By all means, my dear." He towered beside her, then leaned so close, their bodies were fitted together like bookends. "Have the biggest piece."
She tried to twist free, but it was useless. She might match him line for line onstage or off, but she was no match for his strength.
The knife blade sank into the thick chocolate icing, then deeper, into the moist, tender layers of cake. A huge slice of the succulent dessert toppled sideways onto the platter.
They both watched it fall, their breaths sawing through their lungs. She made a move to break free. It only served to meld their bodies closer. She could feel the tension in him, the hard muscles in his legs pressed against hers, his heart thudding hard in his
chest.
He held her wrist in a viselike grip. She could no more free herself than a bird could escape the jaws of a cat.
Helen swallowed her panic.
"I'm not sure I can eat that much."
"I'm sure you can, Helen. As a matter of fact, I'll help you."
Brick finally loosened his grip on her wrist, but before she could break free, his big hand closed around her waist.
"Brick. What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you. You always did have that fragile, helpless look that brought out the gentleman in me."
"Where is that gentleman now?"
"Right beside you."
"You're no gentleman: You're a beast."
His chuckle was wicked. Shivers skittered over her skin.
"You were always good at taming beasts, Helen." With one flick of his wrist he turned her so they were face to face, nose to nose, chest to breast, groin to thigh. "Tame me, Helen."
"Let me go."
"Afraid?"
"No. I'm not scared of the devil."
"You should be."
She might have been really alarmed if she hadn't been so hot and bothered… and so thoroughly anesthetized with wine.
In one swift motion he captured her lips. He was Sherman sweeping through Atlanta, Hannibal crossing the Alps, Tarzan swinging through the jungle with Jane, King Kong beating his chest in triumph.
And she was totally swept off her feet.
As soon as she could get her breath she was going to protest. Loudly. As soon as she found the energy she was going to clamp down on his lips with her teeth. Hard. As soon as the moon turned to green cheese she was going to stop kissing him back. Fast.
But for now, she was in meltdown. Her bones were liquid, her skin was on fire, her heart and soul and spirit were in flames. She wound her arms around his neck, leaned hard against his chest, and pressed her thighs between his. He was all the things she remembered… and more. Ever so much more.
He was gentle and fiery, poetic and passionate, slave and master. What had started out to be a punishment turned into exquisite torture. Pressed together, fully clothed, they were making love as only true lovers can.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
"No… don't… stop."
Familiar smells washed over her, the cool, out-doorsy fragrance of his after-shave, the clean just-pressed smell of his linen shirt, the tart/sweet aroma of his skin, like apples dried in the sun. She soaked up familiar tastes and textures, reveling in them, drowning in them—the deep richness of his tongue in her mouth, the feel of crisp hairs on the back of his hands and arms, the wondrous feel of linen caressing silk, the indescribable joy of hard chest against tight, hard nipples.
He backed her against the table, lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around him. Wanting him and not caring if he knew it.
Desperate. Shameless.
He shoved the chocolate cake out of the way, then spread her across the table. Silver clattered to the floor. Glass clinked against glass.
Her robe fluttered open. Or did he pull it open? It didn't matter. All that mattered was the ecstasy of his wet, warm mouth on her breasts, the exquisite torture of his hands molding her thighs, parting them, delving inside.
Was it too late to stop?
"No," she whispered.
His eyes were dark pools with demon lights in the center.
"No, what? Stop?"
She drew a hitching breath. How could he stop a dying woman from reaching for paradise?
"I'm a dying woman," she whispered.
"Not yet."
He spread her out like a prisoner he meant to torture… or a banquet he meant to devour.
She was at his mercy.
Except that you can scream.
The voice of her conscience was far too small and came far too late. She was beyond listening, beyond caring.
He closed his mouth over her and devoured.
She had always been a noisy, grateful lover, and it was no different now. No matter that any one of a dozen staff members or half a dozen guests might hear her moans and rush through the kitchen door to save her.
She didn't want saving. She didn't want anything except the spiraling joy that carried her upward toward the stars.
Her fingernails dug into his back. She felt them score flesh, even through his shirt. Tomorrow he'd have scars.
She already had scars. Scars of the heart, scars of the spirit, scars of the soul.
He caught her face between his hands.
"You always did drive me wild."
"It's not intentional."
"Oh, no?"
"No… yes… I don't know."
His hot breath on her neck destroyed her reason. If she had ever had any where he was concerned. Marsha had said she hadn't.
She didn't know. All she knew was that she didn't want this forbidden ecstasy to stop.
He slid her straps down her shoulders, slid the gown down to her waist.
"My God…" Leaning back, he looked down at her, awe clearly written on his face.
Female pride made her want to gloat aloud. Better than Miss Mt. Rushmore.
Caution kept her silent. Tomorrow would be the time to gloat.
Or the time to regret.
Brick hardly knew what he was doing.
Revenge, his mind said. Love, his heart told him.
Reason had never been a part of his relationship with Helen, only gut instinct and raw emotion and the dead-level certainty that they had been brought together by the invisible hands of fate. Nothing could break that bond. Not their separation, nor their divorce, nor the two long years of silence.
She was good, so good. There had never been another woman like her. He was lost in her sweet flesh, in the long, silky legs pressed around him and the soft sounds of satisfaction she made.
This is revenge, he kept telling himself. He would make her want him—already had, as a matter of fact. And when she reached a certain state of torture that only he could satisfy, then he would back away. Then he would leave her the way she had left him.
Ah, but not yet, not until he had feasted, had memorized, had absorbed the look and feel and taste of her into his very soul. It had been so long. Two years. Two lost years without the love of Helen, the love that had always been a miracle.
"Brick." Her whisper was anguished, desperate.
Good. That was what he wanted.
Wasn't it?
Her fingernails scored his flesh. He felt the sting through his shirt. His heart slammed so hard against his chest, he thought she must hear, must feel, must know. He skimmed the inside of her legs with his tongue and felt her shiver.
Power pulsed through him. And something else, something he didn't want to think about, didn't want to acknowledge.
Now. Walk away now.
Not yet.
In his emotional turmoil he must have made a sound, must have cried out.
"Brick? What's wrong?"
He raised himself on his elbows so he could see her. The strong kitchen light slanted across her face and her naked breasts. Any other woman might have suffered under the harsh illumination. But not Helen. She glowed.
No woman had a right to be so beautiful. No woman had a right to be so desirable.
Damn her soul to black everlasting hell.
"What's wrong, Helen? You want to know what's wrong?"
Her nostrils flared wide, and she reached to pull up her gown. He caught her wrists.
"No. Leave it. I want to look at you."
She didn't struggle, didn't make a sound. Instead she cut him to pieces with her eyes.
He felt lower than a toad, lower than a worm. That was all wrong. She was the one who was supposed to feel bad.
Silence thundered around them. The air became heated, heavy, electrified, much the way it does in prelude to a violent storm.
She must have made some small movement. Or perhaps it was he. A silver fork clattered to the floor. Neither of them moved.
"Tha
t body," he said. "That exquisite body."
Still, she said nothing.
"Damn you," he wanted to scream. But he was not the kind of man to curse a woman. Never had been. Never would be.
The silence was brutal.
Why didn't she say something? Why hadn't she said something the day she walked out the door?
He raked her body again with a heated glance, then with the back of his hand, chin to navel, one long, smooth expanse of fragrant, silky flesh.
Once it had all been his.
"Perfect. You always knew how to keep yourself perfect, Helen."
"Does this conversation have a point?"
Her voice betrayed no emotion. But her eyes. They were kaleidoscopic, splintered with an unholy light.
"Yes. It has a point." He trapped her so swiftly, she had no time to react. Hands bracketed on either side of her head, he leaned so close, his chin brushed against hers.
"The point is this, Helen. Your body was too perfect, too perfect to be marred by children."
She sucked in a sharp breath. Still, she said nothing.
He pressed on, relentless in his accusations.
"Things were going fine for us until I mentioned having children. Then suddenly everything changed. I felt you pull away, Helen. Literally felt it."
Her nostrils flared again, and her lips trembled.
He hoped she didn't cry. He couldn't bear it if she cried.
Why didn't she say something?
"That was it, wasn't it, Helen? You couldn't stand to mar your perfect body with a pregnancy. You didn't want my seed planted in you. You didn't want to grow fat and heavy with my child."
She damned him with her silence… and her eyes.
Say that's why you left me, he wanted to scream. Say you didn't stop loving me.
He was breathing so hard, his chest heaved. Sweat inched down the side of his face and dripped onto her cheek.
She didn't blink. Didn't move.
His body was so rigid, he felt tied in small knots. It would take hours of soaking under a hot shower to get out all the kinks.
"Are you finished now?" Her voice was polite. Remote. She might have been asking him if he'd finished his dinner.
Why didn't she react to him? That's what hurt him most of all, that she didn't react.