by Nora Roberts
“I like it best of anything.”
“Then why did you run away, Kevin? Are you mad at me?”
He shook his head, then dropped his chin on his chest. “I thought you and Nate were mad at me because he got beat up. But Nate says it's not my fault and you're not mad. He says it doesn't matter about him. You're not mad at me, are you?”
Her horrified eyes flew to Nate's, held there as she drew Kevin close again. “Oh, no, baby, I'm not. No one is.” She looked at her son again, cupping his face in her hands. “Remember when I told you that sometimes people can't be together? I should explain that sometimes they shouldn't be together. That's the way it was with me and—” She couldn't refer to him as Kevin's father. “With me and Baxter.”
“But I was an accident.”
“Oh, no.” She smiled then, kissed his cheeks. “An accident's something you wish hadn't happened. You were a gift. The best one I ever had in my life. If you ever think I don't want you again, I guess I'll have to stuff you into a box and tie it up with a bow so you'll get the point.”
He giggled. “I'm sorry.”
“Me too. Now let's go get you cleaned up.” She rose, gripped her son's hand in hers and looked at Nathaniel. “Thank you.”
In the way of children, Kevin bounced back from his night on the cliffs and threw himself into the holiday. He was, for the moment, a hero, desperately impressing his siblings with his tales of the dark and the sea and a white bird with green eyes.
In keeping with the family gathering, all the dogs attended, so Sadie and Fred raced with their puppies and the children over the rolling lawn. Babies napped in playpens or rocked in swings or charmed their way into willing arms. A few hotel guests wandered over from their own feast provided by The Retreat, drawn by the laughter and raised voices.
Nathaniel passed, reluctantly, on the impromptu softball game, figuring one slide into third would have him down for the count. Instead, he designated himself umpire and had the pleasure of arguing with every batter he called out.
“Are you blind or just stupid?” C.C. tossed down her bat in disgust. “A sock in the eye's no excuse for missing that call. That ball was outside a half a mile.”
Nathaniel clamped his cigar in his teeth. “Not from where I'm standing, sugar.”
She slapped her hands on her hips. “Then you're standing in the wrong spot.” Jenny took the opportunity to attempt a cartwheel over home plate, and earned some applause from the infield.
“C.C, you've got one of the best-looking strike zones I've ever had the pleasure of seeing. And that was strike three. You're out.”
“If you weren't already black-and-blue...” She swallowed a laugh, and sneered instead. “You're up, Lilah.”
“Already?” In a lazy gesture, Lilah brushed her hair away from her face and stepped into the box.
From her position at short, Megan glanced at her second baseman. “She won't run even if she connects.”
Suzanna sighed, shook her head. “She won't have to. Just watch.”
Lilah skimmed a hand down her hip, cast a sultry look back at Nathaniel, then faced the pitcher. Sloan went through an elaborate windup that had the children cheering. Lilah took the first strike with the bat still on her shoulder. Yawned.
“We keeping you up?” Nathaniel asked her. “I like to wait for my pitch.”
Apparently the second one wasn't the one she was waiting for. She let it breeze by, and earned catcalls from the opposing team.
She stepped out of the box, stretched, smiled at Sloan. “Okay, big guy,” she said as she took her stance again. She cracked the low curveball and sent it soaring for a home run. Amid the cheers, she turned and handed her bat to Nathaniel. “I always recognize the right pitch,” she told him, and sauntered around the bases.
When the game broke for the feast, Nathaniel eased down beside Megan.
“You've got a pretty good arm there, sugar.”
“I coached Kevin's Little League team back in Oklahoma.” Her gaze wandered to her son, as it had dozens of times during the afternoon. “He doesn't seem any the worse for wear, does he?”
“Nope. How about you?”
“The bats in my stomach have mellowed out to butterflies.” She pressed a hand to them now, lowered her voice. “I never knew he thought about Baxter. About... any of it. I should have.”
“A boy's got to have some secrets, even from his mother.”
“I suppose.” It was too beautiful a day, she decided, too precious a day, to waste on worry. “Whatever you said to him up there, however you said it, was exactly right. It means a lot to me.” She looked over at him. “You mean a lot to me.”
Nathaniel sipped his beer, studied her. “You're working up to something, Meg. Why don't you just say it?”
“All right. After you left yesterday, I spent a lot of time thinking. About how I'd feel if you didn't come back. I knew there'd be a hole in my life. Maybe I'd be able to fill it again, part of the way, but something would always be missing. When I asked myself what that would be, I kept coming up with the same answer. No matter how many ways I looked at it or juggled it around, the answer never changed.”
“So what's the answer, Meg?”
“You, Nathaniel.” She leaned over and kissed him. “Just you.”
Later, when the sky was dark and the moon floated over the water, she watched the fireworks explode. Color bloomed into color. Waterfalls of glowing sparks rained from sky to water in a celebration of freedom, new beginnings and, Megan thought, hope.
It was a dazzling display that had the children staring upward, wide-eyed and openmouthed. The echoing booms shivered the air until, with a machine-gun crescendo, color and light spewed high in the finale. For a heart-pounding interlude, the sky was bright with golds and reds, blues and blinding whites, circles and spirals, cascades and towers, that shattered into individual stars over the sea.
Long after it was over, the dregs of the party cleared away, the children tucked into bed, she felt the power of the celebration running through her blood. In her own room, she brushed her hair until it flowed over her shoulders. Anticipation vibrating inside her, she belted her borrowed robe loosely at her waist. Quietly she slipped out the terrace doors and walked to Nathaniel's room.
It hadn't taken much pressure to persuade him to stay another night. He'd been tired and aching, and he hadn't relished even the short drive home. But the long soak in the tub hadn't relaxed him, as he hoped. He was still filled with restless urges, and with flashing images of Megan's face, lit with the glow of rockets.
Then he stepped into the bedroom and saw her.
She wore a silky robe of deep blue that flowed down her body and clung to her curves. Her hair glinted, golden fire, and her eyes were as dark and mysterious as sapphires.
“I thought you could use a rubdown.” She smiled hesitantly. “I've had a lot of experience loosening stiff muscles. With horses, anyway.”
He was almost afraid to breathe. “Where did you get that?”
“Oh.” Self-consciously she ran a hand down the robe. “I borrowed it from Lilah. I thought you'd like it better than terry cloth.” When he said nothing, her nerve began to slip. “If you'd rather I go, I understand. I don't expect that you'd feel well enough to— We don't have to make love, Nathaniel. I just want to help.”
“I don't want you to go.”
Her smile bloomed again. “Why don't you lie down, then? I'll start on your back. Really, I'm good at this.” She laughed a little. “The horses loved me.”
He crossed to the bed, touched her hair, her cheek. “Did you wear silk robes to work the stock?”
“Always.” She eased him down. “Roll onto your stomach,” she said briskly. Pleased with the task, she poured liniment into her hands, then rubbed her pahns together to warm it. Carefully, so that the movement of the mattress didn't jar him, she knelt over him. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
She started on his shoulders, gently over the bruises, more firmly over knotted musc
les. He had a warrior's body, she thought, tough and tight, and carrying all the marks of battle.
“You overdid it today.”
He only grunted, closing his eyes and letting his body reap the pleasure of her stroking hands. He felt the brush of silk against his skin when she shifted. Drifting through the sharp scent of liniment was her subtle perfume, another balm to the senses.
The aches began to fade, then shifted into a deeper, more primal pain that coursed smoothly through his blood when she lowered her lips to his shoulder.
“Better?” she murmured.
“No. You're killing me. Don't stop.”
Her laugh was low and soft as she eased the towel from his hips, and pressed competent fingers low on his spine. “I'm here to make you feel better, Nathaniel. You have to relax for me to do this right.”
“You're doing just fine.” He moaned as her hands moved lower, circling, kneading. Then her lips, skimming, whisper-soft.
“You have such a beautiful body.” Her own breathing grew heavy as she stroked and explored. “I love looking at it, touching it.” Slowly she took her lips up his spine, over his shoulder again, to nuzzle at his ear. “Turn over,” she whispered. “I'll do the test.”
Her lips were there to meet his when he shifted, to linger, to heat. But when he reached up, groaning, to cup her breasts, she drew back.
“Wait.” Though her hands trembled, she freshened the liniment. With her eyes on his, she spread her fingers over his chest. “They put marks on you,” she murmured.
“I put more on them.”
“Nathaniel the dragon-slayer. Lie still,” she whispered, and bent close to kiss the scrapes and bruises on his face. “I'll make it all go away.”
His heart was pounding. She could feel it rocket against her palm. In the lamplight, his eyes were dark as smoke. The robe pooled around her knees when she straddled him. She massaged his shoulders, his arms, his hands, kissing the scraped knuckles, laving them with her tongue.
The air was like syrup, thick and sweet. It caught in his lungs with each labored breath. No other woman had ever made him feel helpless, drained and sated, all at once.
“Megan, I need to touch you.”
Watching him, she reached for the belt of the robe, loosened it. In one fluid movement, the silk slid from her shoulders. Beneath she wore a short slip of the same color and texture. As he reached up, one thin strap spilled off her shoulder.
She closed her eyes, let her head fall back, as his hands stroked over the silk, then beneath. The colors were back, all those flashing, dazzling lights that had erupted in the sky. Stars wheeled inside her head, beautifully hot. Craving more, she rose over him, took him into her with a delicious slowness that had them both gasping.
She shuddered when he arched up, gripping her hips in his hands. Now the colors seemed to shoot into her blood, white-hot, and her skin grew damp and slick. Suddenly greedy, she swooped down, devouring his lips, fingers clutching the bruised flesh she'd sought to soothe.
“Let me.” She moaned and pressed his hands against her breasts. “Let me.”
With a wildness that staggered him, she drove him hard, riding him like lightning. He called out her name as his vision dimmed, as the frantic need convulsed like pain inside him. Release was like a whiplash that stung with velvet.
She tightened around him like a fist and shattered him.
Weak as water, she flowed down, rested her head on his chest. “Did I hurt you?”
He couldn't find the strength to wrap his arms around her and let them lie limp on the bed. “I can't feel anything but you.”
“Nathaniel.” She lifted her head to press a kiss to his thundering heart. “There's something I forgot to tell you yesterday.”
“Hmm... What's that?”
“I love you, too.” She watched his eyes open, saw the swirl of emotion darken them.
“That's good.” His arms, no longer weak, circled her, cradled her. “I don't know if it's enough, but—”
He turned his lips to hers to quiet her. “Don't mess it up. 'For love's sake only,' Megan. That's enough for tonight.” He kissed her again. “Stay with me.”
“Yes.”
Chapter 12
Fireworks were one thing, but when the Calhouns put their heads together planning Coco's engagement party, there promised to be plenty of skyrockets.
Everything from a masked ball to a moonlight cruise had been considered, with the final vote going to dinner and dancing under the stars. With only a week to complete arrangements, assignments were handed out.
Megan squeezed time out of each day to polish silver, wash crystal and inventory linens.
“All this fuss.” Colleen thumped her way to the closet where Megan was counting napkins. “When a woman her age straps herself down to a man, she should have the sense to do it quietly.”
Megan lost count and patiently began again. “Don't you like parties, Aunt Colleen?”
“When there's a reason for them. Never considered putting yourself under a man's thumb reason to celebrate.”
“Coco's not doing that. Dutch adores her.”
“Humph. Time will tell. Once a man's got a ring on your finger, he doesn't have to be so sweet and obliging.” Her crafty eyes studied Megan's face. “Isn't that why you're putting off that big-shouldered sailor? Afraid of what happens after the 'I-dos'?”
“Of course not.” Megan laid a stack of linens aside before she lost count again. “And we're talking about Coco and Dutch, not me. She deserves to be happy.”
“Not everybody gets what they deserve,” Colleen shot back. “You'd know that well, wouldn't you?”
Exasperated, Megan whirled around. “I don't know why you're trying to spoil this. Coco's happy, I'm happy. I'm doing my best to make Nathaniel happy.”
“I don't see you out buying any orange blossoms for yourself, girl.” “Marriage isn't the answer for everyone. It wasn't for you.”
“No, I'm too smart to fall into that trap. Maybe you're like me. Men come and go. Maybe the right one goes with the rest, but we get by, don't we? Because we know what they're like, deep down.” Colleen eased closer, her dark eyes fixed on Megan's face. “We've known the worst of them. The selfishness, the cruelty, the lack of honor and ethics. Maybe one steps into our lives for a moment, one who seems different. But we're too wise, too careful, to take that shaky step. If we live our lives alone, at least we know no man will ever have the power to hurt us.”
“I'm not alone,” Megan said in an unsteady voice.
“No, you have a son. One day he'll be grown, and if you've done a good job, he'll leave your nest and fly off to make his own.”
Colleen shook her head, and for one moment she looked so unbearably sad that Megan reached out. But the old woman held herself stiff, her head high.
“You'll have the satisfaction of knowing you escaped the trap of marriage, just as I did. Do you think no one ever asked me? There was one,” Colleen went on, before Megan could speak. “One who nearly lulled me in before I remembered, before I turned him away, before I risked the hell my mother had known.”
Colleen's mouth thinned at the memory. “He tried to break her in every way, with his rules, his money, his need to own. In the end, he killed her, then he slowly, slowly, went mad. But not with guilt. What ate at him, I think, was the loss of something he'd never been able to fully own. That was why he rid the house of every piece of her, and locked himself in his own private purgatory.”
“I'm sorry,” Megan murmured. “I'm so sorry.”
“For me? I'm old, and long past the time to grieve. I learned from my experience, as you learned from yours. Not to trust, never to risk. Let Coco have her orange blossoms, we have our freedom.”
She walked away stiffly, leaving Megan to flounder in a sea of emotion.
Colleen was wrong, she told herself, and began to fuss with napkins again. She wasn't cold and aloof and blocked off from love. Just days ago she'd declared her love. She wasn't letting Baxter'
s shadow darken what she had with Nathaniel.
Oh, but she was. Wearily she leaned against the doorjamb. She was, and she wasn't sure she could change it. Love and lovemaking didn't equal commitment. No one knew that better than she. She had loved Baxter fully, vitally. And that was the shadow. Even knowing that what she felt for Nathaniel was fuller, richer, and much, much truer, she couldn't dispel that doubt.
She would have to think it through, calmly, as soon as she had time. The answer was always there, she assured herself, if you looked for it long enough, carefully enough. All she had to do was process the data.
She tossed down her neatly counted napkins in disgust. What kind of woman was she? she wondered. She was trying to turn emotions into equations, as if they were some sort of code she had to decipher before she could know her own heart.
That was going to stop. She was going to stop. If she couldn't look into her own heart, it was time to...
Her thoughts trailed off, circled back, swooping down on one errant idea like a hawk on a rabbit.
Oh, God, a code. Leaving the linens in disarray, she flew down the hall to her own bedroom.
Fergus's book was where she'd left it, lying neatly on the corner of her desk. She snatched it up and began flipping frantically through pages.
It didn't have to be stock quotations or account numbers, she realized. It didn't have to be anything as logical as that. The numbers were listed in the back of the book, after dozens of blank sheets—after the final entry Fergus had written. On the day before Bianca died.
Why hadn't she seen it before? There were no journal entries, no careful checks and balances after that date. Only sheet after blank sheet. Then the numbers, formed in a careful hand.
A message, Megan wondered, something he'd been compelled to write down but hadn't wanted prying eyes to read. A confession of guilt, perhaps? Or a plea for understanding?
She sat and took several clearing breaths. They were numbers, after all, she reminded herself. There was nothing she couldn't do with numbers.
An hour passed, then two. As she worked, the desk became littered with discarded slips of paper. Each time she stopped to rest her eyes or her tired brain, she wondered whether she had tumbled into lunacy even thinking she'd found some mysterious code in the back of an old book.