Tempest in Eden

by Sandra Brown

  He tilted her head back once more and, holding her jaw firmly between his fingers, kissed her with a passion that stole her breath and her reason away. "All weekend, from the moment I took that towel off my head and saw you standing there with that devilish grin on your beautiful face, I didn't know which I'd rather do, spank the daylights out of you or kiss you."

  She grappled with his hands in order to bury her face in his shirtfront, to inhale the scent that belonged uniquely to him. "Me, too. I wanted to kill you one minute and kiss you the next. You ignored me. I couldn't tolerate that. Half the time you acted as if I wasn't even in the same room."

  His chuckle rumbled in his ear. "Oh, I knew. I was biting imaginary bullets to keep my eyes and hands off you."

  She lifted her head to weigh the measure of truth in his eyes. "And my portfolio. You analyzed the pictures aesthetically. You didn't even notice me."

  His eyes, burning with an internal light, dropped to her breasts. "I noticed … everything. More than I should have."

  He kissed her again, applying a sweet suction to her mouth, as though he wanted to draw all of her into himself. His hands roamed over her back with caressing motions. One slipped beyond her waist to cup her full hip. "Did you have a bruise?" he asked.

  She smiled against his mouth, though they didn't pull away from each other. "About the size of a tennis ball. First it was royal purple, then it faded to a mute blue. Green set in next, and then it turned a sickly shade of yellow."

  "I'm sorry," he said, rubbing the spot gently.

  "I'm not. It proved that you're human."

  "I'm all too human," he said with a growl, devouring her mouth with unleashed hunger. Not only his lips and tongue testified to his human nature, but also the steel evidence of his desire that pressed against her. She welcomed and responded to both, opening her mouth to his delicious ravishment and moving with reciprocal need against his aroused manhood.

  When he pushed away at last, his chest heaving and his face flushed, he choked out, "We'd better talk." Taking her hand, he pulled her into the living room. Her feet seemed disinclined to move. His last kiss had drained her, leaving her with a debilitating lethargy. Conversely, her whole body was quivering with newfound life.

  They settled close together on the couch. He took both her hands and held them on his knee. "Your mother told me you weren't involved with anyone. I want us to start seeing each other regularly, be together often. I thought we—"

  She yanked her hands away as his words cooled her fevered senses like an icy bath. "Wait a minute. Back up. You asked my mother about me? About my love interests?" She trembled with anger.

  For a moment he seemed stunned by her abrupt change of mood, then he answered levelly, "No, not directly. We were talking about you one day, and she expressed her regret that you weren't married, didn't have a family, and lived alone. I asked her if you'd been … involved … with anyone since your husband, and she told me no."

  "What were you doing?" Shay asked, rising to her feet. She made a beeline to the plants in the bay window, where she viciously pinched off a dead leaf. "Checking up on me to see if I was good enough to be seen with you, the holy pastor of Brookside?"

  "Now, Shay," he said tightly, also coming to his feet and planting both hands on his hips, "don't fly off the handle and lose your temper."

  "I'll lose my temper if I damn well please. And you would too if someone were sneaking around, snooping into your private affairs."

  "I wasn't sneaking," he denied. "I was having a conversation with your mother. She brought you into it, I didn't. Why are you getting so upset? There weren't any affairs for me to find out about."

  "But if there had been, what then?" she fired back. "What if she'd told you I'd had a horde of lovers since the day my divorce to Anson became final? Would you have come here today pouring out your pretty poetic speeches and kissing me?"

  He ran an agitated hand through his hair as he made an attempt to control his own rising temper. "I have the same drives and needs of any man. I'm attracted to you. I want you. I've confessed that to myself, to you, to God."

  He went to stand in the other window. She stared out sightlessly. The sun was beginning to set. A dog barked. "I'm trying to be totally honest with you," Ian said. "I'm a man, Shay. But I'm also a minister. I take my commitment to God very seriously. Everything I do, every decision of my life, has to revolve around that."

  She had no argument for such an avowal, and her furious bearing slumped in defeat. She turned her back to him and absently picked up a brass atomizer to mist a fern. "Then why did you come here? The situation is hopeless. I am what I am, and you are what you are."

  She heard his heels on the hardwood floor only a moment before he lifted the mister from her hand. He set it on a black wrought-iron shelf nearby and turned her to face him. "If I thought it was hopeless, I wouldn't be here. I've known nothing but torment since I saw you last. The only way I could cope with myself and the fantasies I was having was to come here and lay all my cards on the table. I, probably more than you, realize that it won't be easy. Nothing may come of it. We might part as mortal enemies or great buddies or unfulfilled lovers, but I have to find out, Shay. We owe it to ourselves to see what happens, don't you think?"

  "I don't know," she said with a groan. "Ian, you're a minister. A minister. In all my wildest imaginings, I never thought of being involved with a clergyman."

  His teeth shone whitely when he smiled. "Believe me, I never imagined myself courting a nude model either." His grin softened and faded until his countenance grew serious again. "How do you feel about spiritual matters, Shay?"

  The quiet intensity of the question told her how important her answer would be to him. "I was raised a Protestant. Mom and Dad and I attended church every Sunday when I was growing up, more because Mom wanted to go than Dad. I think he felt as I do, that it's not the organization that's important but what one feels inside that counts, an individual's personal relationship with God. Anson forced me to attend services with him. I went, but rebelliously. He attended to see and be seen, not for any spiritual uplifting. I abhor that kind of hypocrisy."

  "So do I. We probably have more in common than you think."

  He was trying for a lighter mood, but she was still concerned. Uppermost in her mind was the thought that she might be hurt again. She had married a man who had wanted to change her. She had made him unhappy because she obviously wasn't what he had really wanted. The wounds he had inflicted on her spirit had been slow to heal. He had made her feel unworthy, shameful. And if she'd been made to feel that way by a social climber like Anson, how would she fare with a spiritual man like Ian? Dismally.

  "I couldn't change, Ian. I wouldn't if I could. I prefer to think freely, to form my own opinions about things, and to voice those opinions when and where I feel like it. I'd never want to cause you embarrassment or shame, but I couldn't be stifled."

  "I knew all that when I came to see you today. I like you as you are, or I wouldn't be here. As I said earlier, you're a far cry from the women who are usually pawned off on me."

  "Do you have blind dates arranged for you by so-called friends?"

  "When I don't adamantly refuse them. You know, so-and-so's cousin who's visiting from Iowa, or so-and-so's kid sister who just graduated from an all-girl school and has a 'very good personality.'"

  Laughter took away her worried expression. "I think we have the same friends!"

  He pulled her to him, and they rocked from side to side as they laughed. She wondered how she had spent the whole weekend with him yet never realized how much fun they could have together.

  "Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand are going to be at Madison Square Garden next Friday night," Ian said. "Would you meet me in the city for dinner and the concert?"

  "You like Neil Diamond, too? Along with Blondie and the Bee Gees?"

  "Don't forget the Beach Boys," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

  "I'll never forget the Beach Boys." She sighed as hi
s mouth closed over hers. His tongue sought out the vulnerable spots in her mouth and stroked them. He was an inordinately talented kisser, and Shay meant to ask him how he had acquired such a technique, but he was asking his own question.

  "Will you meet me? Those tickets were expensive, and I live on a minister's salary, don't forget."

  She struggled to back away from him. "Are you sure you want to pursue this, Ian? I won't hold it against you if you want to shake hands and part friends now." She might die, but she wouldn't hold it against him.

  "I want to do more than shake hands with you." The kisses he was planting on the side of her neck confirmed that.

  It was incomprehensible to her how his mouth could so effortlessly convince her that what they were about to do was wise. "I'll meet you," she heard herself half-whimper, half-sigh.

  "Penn Station? Six o'clock? Will you have any trouble getting a train?"

  "Penn Station at six will be fine, but I'll drive. I don't want to take the train home late alone."

  "Good idea."

  More exquisite kissing followed. Finally Ian raised his head and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I've got to go so you can get your dinner."

  "I could fix something for both of us," she said hopefully, swaying toward him.

  He shook his head. "We've got to take this slowly. An invitation to coffee was the only way I could see to get you out of the shop and alone. I can't tell you how glad I am that there's a scarcity of coffee shops in this town."

  "Absolves you of guilt?" she teased.

  He grinned. "Something like that."

  Still holding her hand, he hooked his sportcoat over his shoulder and went to the door. "Till Friday?"

  She nodded. "Till Friday."

  They stood very close, the tips of her breasts lightly grazing his shirtfront. Long ago she'd given up trying not to look at him, to pretend indifference. Having survived the weeks of loneliness since their first meeting, she feasted her eyes on him, as he did on her.

  She watched, mesmerized, when his fingers came up and untied her bow tie. She felt the fabric first tightening then relaxing around her neck, or she might have thought she was imagining the whole thing. The first button on her blouse fell free. The second. She held her breath. She wouldn't stop him, no matter what he did, but she couldn't believe this was happening.

  He went only as far as the third button. With heart-stopping slowness, he carefully parted her blouse. His hand slid around the column of her throat. He pressed his thumb against the pulse point at its base. It was beating erratically. "I had to touch you with some degree of intimacy." He sighed. She closed her eyes just as his mouth fused with hers.

  The kiss was hot, wet, and turbulent, evoking the very act of love. His thumb kept up that hypnotic massage along her neck. It was only a suggestion of the things she wanted him to do. It was only a suggestion of the things his eyes had told her he wanted to do. He could well have been caressing her nipples for their hard contraction against his chest. His answering groan as she pressed closer told her his thoughts were running along similar lines.

  The forbiddenness of such thoughts, the forced suppression of the passion they shared, only heightened the sexuality of their kiss. Deep inside, the core of her femininity exploded with sensations that rose into her chest, setting her breasts afire and making her heart swell with what felt like love. Rationally, she knew that such a possibility was both electrifying and insane, but the desire that rushed through her veins diffused its message.

  Ian didn't speak again, only withdrew his hand from around her neck, regret written on his handsome face. He shut the door softly behind him.

  She listened to his footsteps receding down the hallway and wondered mournfully how she was going to survive until Friday.

  Chapter Six

  « ^ »

  Somehow she did survive, though during the following days she was absentminded at work, going through the motions but lacking any interest in her customers. Every time the bell on the door jingled, her eyes flew toward it in the hope that he had come to see her. If he were finding it as difficult to keep his mind on his work as she was, his arrival wouldn't be too farfetched a possibility.

  Vandiveer noticed her lackadaisical attitude. "That woman would have bought that vase if you'd cared enough to talk her into it," he chastised when an indecisive customer left the shop. "Snap out of it, Shay, or go home and sleep it off. You're useless to me here walking around like a zombie."

  "I'm sorry." She sighed. "I … I haven't been feeling well the last few days."

  Vandiveer coughed behind his hand. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were in love." Her head snapped to attention. "Well, well, well." He laughed.

  "Have I struck a nerve? New beau, Shay?" His tone was silky and taunting. He'd asked her this question many times over the years she'd worked for him, with the salacious curiosity of an old maid. Her answer had always been an unqualified no.

  "Possibly," she said blithely, taking up a newly framed lithograph and trying it in several display positions on the wall. "He's a minister." The days since Ian's departure from her door had been dreary enough. She might as well have some fun at old Vandiveer's expense.

  She got the astonished reaction from him she had anticipated. "A minister!"

  "Yes, a minister. Like in church. Have you ever been to a church, Mr. Vandiveer?"

  "Once.When my mother had me christened. And then I didn't have anything to say about it." Shay chuckled. "I must admit my image of clergymen run along the lines of Bing Crosby in Going My Way. Where in the world did you ever meet a minister? In church?" he asked cattily.

  "No," Shay replied vaguely. "No … uh … somewhere else." This was only for fun, after all. She wasn't going to divulge the ins and outs of her private life to Vandiveer. Tiring of the game and more than a little piqued by her employer's lewdly cunning expression, she added, "I know that last customer's house. I helped her with a wall arrangement. If I choose some silk flowers to match her living room and call her, she may come buy the vase."

  Vandiveer seemed mollified, but at the moment Shay couldn't have cared less. Her thoughts had already gravitated back to where they had been all week—on Ian.

  If her days seemed long, her nights seemed endless. As she had feared, once Ian had been in her tiny apartment, it had undergone a metamorphosis. It now seemed mammoth and hollow. She roamed the rooms, searching out projects, anything to occupy her mind with something else besides Ian.

  She was obsessed with him. She saw him standing in the window, his face serious and grave. She saw him sitting on her sofa, his expression earnest and intense. She saw him lounging in the chair at her kitchen table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was everywhere, but he wasn't there. And more than she wanted to admit, she wanted him to be with her.

  Before their troubles began, she and Anson had enjoyed a healthy and active sexual relationship. Their lovemaking had been frequent and lusty. But it had been the lovemaking of two children suddenly granted the privilege. It had been rowdy and playful, frequently hurried, and a trifle selfish for both of them.

  Ian's passionate kisses bothered her in shocking, wonderful ways. She sensed that beneath his austere bearing there beat the heart of a fierce and tender lover. It was an exciting prospect, but one she mustn't dwell on. She might be crushingly disappointed if they ever overcame their differences and actually became lovers.

  But she was wasting her time speculating on what kind of lover Ian would be. Much as she wanted to deny it, she knew the situation was impossible. She was convinced of his dedication to his calling. Had he not been so dedicated, he couldn't have left the other night with their desires unsatisfied.

  Dead end. She'd never had an affair. Ian Douglas was the one man who could interest her in one. That they shared a sexual attraction was undeniable. But he wouldn't compromise his convictions. He would stand firm on all matters relating to morality. He wouldn't sleep with a woman unless he were married to her.r />
  That was an absurd notion!

  So, why is your heart pounding and why are your palms perspiring? she asked herself as she negotiated the choking Friday afternoon traffic into Manhattan. Why did you ever agree to meet him in the first place? She remembered their last kiss at the door of her apartment and knew that hell or high water couldn't have kept her from seeing him tonight.

  She was thankful that most everyone else was leaving the city, heading in the opposite direction. Still, by the time she found a parking garage and walked down Seventh Avenue toward Penn Station, she felt as if she'd run a long race. The train station was like a macabre carnival, with harried commuters pushing and shoving to make their trains.

  She saw Ian before he saw her. He was standing in front of the newsstand where they had agreed to meet, his eyes scanning the crowd. Shay was pleased and proud that he didn't go unnoticed by the women rushing by. More than a few turned their heads for another look after they had passed him.

  They would be fools not to. He was dressed in a sportscoat and tie. His shirt was baby blue and enhanced the brilliance of his eyes. His black trousers were impeccably tailored to his muscled thighs. As always, his hair was carelessly, irresistibly disarrayed.

  Moistening her dry lips, Shay walked into his field of vision. His searching eyes darted past her, skidded to a stop, and sprang back as though on an elastic band. He drank in the sight of her. When he smiled, his face lit up with warmth and happiness. Three long strides brought him to her. Closing his fingers around her elbow, he moved her against the wall out of the flow of traffic.