by Sandra Brown
Just as the man disappeared to get the car, Ian caught up with her. He yanked her around, catching a wrist in each of his fists. He pressed his body into hers to still her attempt to escape.
"You know better, Shay, you know better," he said.
The words came out in breathless gasps. He pressed closer to her, buried his face in her hair, and repeated the words again and again until she grew calm and her body sank against him in submission.
His arms went around her, and they clung to each other in the gloomy, echoing cavern of the garage, mindless of the danger they were foolishly courting.
When he raised his head, he smoothed back her hair with both hands. "You're wrong. I don't think of you as anything but what you are, a beautiful woman. I know what you do. I do. Here"—he thumped the side of his head with the heel of his hand—"I can accept it. It's here"—he placed his hand over his heart—"that I can't."
He burrowed his nose into the side of her neck. "I don't like what you do. I admit it. Not for the reasons you think, but because I can't bear the thought of slime like Armand, or any man, any man, having the opportunity to look at what I crave to look at so much, what I crave to touch, to taste."
She uttered a short, joyful cry and turned her mouth toward his. "Ah, Shay, Shay," he breathed before he sealed their mouths together in a timeless kiss.
The air left his lungs and gushed into her mouth. She swallowed it greedily. Her arms lifted and closed around his neck as her head went back to allow him greater access to her mouth. He was voracious, roughly varying the angles of their lips, plunging deeply into the sweet crevice of her mouth with a debauching tongue.
She wove her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, tasting him and loving the taste, loving the texture of his mouth. There had always been a part of herself she had held inviolate. Neither her parents nor Anson nor anyone else had ever touched that secret part of her that was her soul. She had kept that in reserve. Now she opened it up and offered it freely to Ian, making it his for the taking.
When his initial appetite had been appeased, he sipped at her mouth tenderly and let his tongue glide leisurely over lips that were swollen from the passion of their kisses.
"You taste the way you look," he whispered hoarsely. "Warm and sweet and golden."
His hands caressed her. Their strength gave her a sheltered, protected feeling that she basked in. She'd been alone for too long. She reveled in being treated like a prized treasure belonging to someone special.
"I can't get enough," he said in anguish as he took her mouth again.
He was a man of God; she had no doubt of that. But from the way their bodies were moving against each other as his legs straddled hers, she knew, too, that he was of the generations of Adam. He was a man. And everything in her that was woman cried out for him.
Tentatively his hand crept up her ribs. She held her breath, then expelled it on a long, shuddering sigh when the tips of his fingers stroked the under-curve of her breast, back and forth, twice, three times, while her mind went spinning out in space and her heart leapt within that which he touched so softly.
He lifted his hand until it hovered over her nipple, which was hard with yearning. For endless seconds he kept his hand suspended over her, and she heard his breathing entering and leaving his lungs, felt it warm on her neck.
"Shay," he said in a strangled voice. He dropped one hand to his side, but pulled her tighter with his other across the middle of her back. He nestled his face in the warm hollow between her neck and shoulder.
She suppressed an impulse to scream in frustration. Instead, as the attendant drove her car around a corner, pulled to a stop, and got out, she disengaged herself from Ian's arms, opened the car door, and slid inside.
"Shay—"
She slammed the door shut but rolled down the window to say, "I told you this wasn't going to work. It's impossible."
Leaning down with his arms braced against the car, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "No," he rasped. "No, it's not."
Quickly he brushed a kiss across her forehead. Straightening, he said, "Drive carefully."
Chapter Seven
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It was over. She knew it. From the moment she drove out of the parking garage and left him standing alone in the shadows, staring grimly after her, she knew that her love of Ian Douglas was a lost cause. It always had been. She'd only been fooling herself to think otherwise. Her passionate nature had been buoyed by his caresses. He couldn't have been unaware of it. Nor could his moral code fail to feel threatened by it.
Why hadn't she resisted? Or why hadn't she feigned indignation and slapped his face? Or why hadn't she taken his hand away and kissed it sympathetically, softly suggesting that they shouldn't play with fire? Why hadn't she done something, anything except return his kisses and caresses with such wanton eagerness?
No doubt he now saw her as an instrument of the Devil sent to tempt him into jeopardizing his career and all he stood for.
When she didn't hear from him by the end of the second week, she knew that he was trying to expunge her from his soul. He couldn't have misinterpreted the language her body had spoken to his. She had wanted his touch. She had wanted it all over her. Arms and shoulders, back and hips and breasts and thighs, and the most secret parts of her body had cried out for him in a silent demand that he must have heard. Nor had she camouflaged her frustration when he had removed his hand from her nipple that yearned for his touch. Her kiss, too, had been unrestrained and thoroughly revealing.
By the end of the third week she was asking why she should care what the provincial, stodgy minister of Brookside, Connecticut, thought of her. After all, her dalliance with him had only been an experiment, hadn't it? From the very beginning, hadn't she used him for her own amusement? The time she'd spent with him had provided her with a few hours of diversion. Now it was over. So, fine.Fine. She didn't care.
Besides, in addition to keeping busy with her job at the gallery, she was going into the city every third day to pose for Robert Glad. She appreciated his professionalism. His talent was remarkable and unsurpassed, although his dour personality left a lot to be desired.
Whenever she arrived at his studio, a bearded, rumpled Robert Glad ushered her in with hardly a word and indicated the back room where she should change. Emerging draped in a long sheet, she would allow him to position her and settle her into the pose she might have to hold for hours. He fussily adjusted the sarong-type garment around her waist, then he would begin, scowling as he applied his tools to the block of mahogany that was slowly taking form. When he was finished for the session, he slung the metal tools on his worktable and said a terse, "Thank you," then she changed hastily back into street clothes and left.
She didn't mind his disinclination to speak. While she stood posed before him, she felt removed from the world, temporarily relieved of responsibility, and free to let her thoughts wander.
Her mind seemed determined to dwell on Ian and their brief, tumultuous relationship, if that term was appropriate. Round and round, again and again, in ceaseless circles, she reviewed their problem. The solution always came out the same: the situation was hopeless. It always had been. It always would be. She must resign herself to that fact.
Then why was the prospect of never seeing Ian again so devastating? Why did his rejection hurt so much? From the beginning she had known their flirtation would be temporary. But it came as a surprise to her to find that life was so very bleak without him. Not nearly as great, however, as her surprise in finding him waiting for her outside Robert Glad's studio one afternoon.
Despondently, as had been her mood for the past three weeks, she had pushed through the front door, sucked out by the autumn wind that sped through the urban canyons. When she saw him pacing the sidewalk, she came to an abrupt halt. He was staring down at his feet as he painstakingly measured out his steps. He was wearing a light overcoat. The wind's disarrangement of his hair was far sexier than any hairstylist could have ach
ieved.
He looked up and saw her as she stood there clutching her oversized bag to her chest. His pacing stopped abruptly.
"Ian?" she asked, looking back at the building she had just left to assure herself that she wasn't dreaming.
"Hi."
"How did you know where I was?"
"I followed a hunch and looked up. Glad's address in the phone book. I wanted to see you. I've been waiting for over an hour."
She gathered her resolve, drew herself up straight, and marched brusquely past him. "Well, you could have spared yourself the time and effort," she said. "I've got to catch a train back to Woodville. I promised Vandiveer I'd put in a couple of hours at the shop before closing."
"Shay," he said, catching her arm and pulling her to a stop, "are you angry with me for not calling?"
The wind made a riot of her wheat-colored curls. She shook them impatiently off her face. "Don't flatter yourself." Her efforts to pull free from his grip only made him increase the pressure on her arm.
"After what happened last time, I thought it would be better if we didn't see each other for a while," he said quietly.
"And you were right. Only I think it would be better if we never saw each other again." She had to force the words from her throat. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself at him, to wrap her arms around the body that haunted her fantasies, to feel the heat of his mouth on hers. In the gray light of the cloudy afternoon his vivid blue eyes seemed to be the only bright thing, offering the only hope and happiness in her life. Yet they were denied her. "I know why you didn't call," she said. "You don't want to be tainted by a scarlet woman like me. I can't tell you how relieved I was when you didn't persist in seeing me. Good-bye, Ian. I'm in a hurry."
She pulled her arm away and even took a few steps before he pulled her to another jarring halt. His face was only inches above hers as he drew her against him. "I didn't call because I wanted you too much." She stared up at him wordlessly, her eyes wide, her lips parted. "Don't you understand, Shay? It was killing me to stop myself from making love to you."
She tugged on her arm to no avail. He wouldn't release it. Perversely, she was glad to know that he had suffered as much as she had, and for the same reason. That he could continue to tamper with her shattered emotions spurred her temper. "Thank you very much, Reverend Douglas, but I don't like being considered the evil influence in your life." Tears filled her eyes, which made her even more furious. She didn't want him to know how much he had hurt her. Maybe he would think the cold wind was responsible for the moisture beading her lashes.
"No, no," he said, shaking his head and gathering her to him. He opened his coat and pressed her head against the soft, warm sweater that covered his chest. His fingers threaded through her hair and settled on her scalp, holding her fast. "Neither of us is evil, Shay. Sex isn't evil. We've responded to each other as God intended two healthy adults attracted to each other should." Propping his chin on the top of her head, he enclosed her in his coat. "It's how we're going to deal with that sexual attraction that I've been deliberating about for the past three weeks. And I couldn't risk having your distracting influence close by to cloud my good judgment."
She sniffed back her tears and raised her head to look at him. "Well, I suppose being a distracting influence is better than being an evil one." She smiled shakily.
Lowering his head, he planted a tender kiss on her mouth. "I missed you."
"Did you?" She pretended coyness to keep from raising on her tiptoes and covering his face with kisses.
"Yes. I came here today to invite you personally to spend the weekend with me in Brookside."
She stared at him incredulously. "Have you lost your mind?"
He laughed and squeezed her tight. "Come on, I'll treat you to a cab ride to the train station. On the way I'll convince you that I haven't taken leave of my senses."
When they were ensconced in the lumpy backseat of the cab, he took her hand and placed it on his knee. He studied it as his thumb caressed each knuckle.
"Come to Brookside this weekend. See what it's like, what my life there is like. Come on the train Saturday morning. We'll spend the day acquainting you with the town. I want you to attend church with me Sunday morning. I'll drive you home Sunday evening."
The invitation portended more than a fun weekend. What was left unsaid far outweighed what he had spoken aloud. The question of a commitment implied in his invitation frightened her. She hedged, turning her head to gaze out the window in order to avoid his opinion-swaying good looks. "Where would I stay?"
He chuckled lightly. "Did you think I was suggesting something illicit? No. In all humility, I think that my congregation holds me in nothing but the highest regard, but I don't think any of them would approve of their pastor inviting an attractive young woman to stay the night under his bachelor roof. I'd get a room for you at the local inn."
Her mind was warring with her desire to be with him and her fear that she wouldn't fit into his world. What opinions would the people of his church form of her? Not much that was good, she was sure. "I don't think so, Ian," she said finally. "Maybe some other time."
He sighed heavily. "You've forced me to tell you the real reason behind the invitation." Alarm at his guilty tone brought her head around, but she was instantly relieved to see amusement in his eyes. "I confess to an ulterior motive. Saturday night we're having a church supper climaxed by a raffle drawing. A member of the church has donated a mink coat as the prize. I thought that a stunning woman modeling the coat would create interest and perhaps urge the gentlemen in the audience to buy more chances. That's the real reason I invited you. Would you please come and model the mink for us?"
A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she drew her brows together speculatively. "I don't know. What does it pay?"
Imitating her seriousness, he said, "All the clam chowder you can eat … and my company, of course."
"Clam chowder's not one of my favorites, but…" She pondered a while longer. "What are you raising money for?"
"A retirement home for aging nude models."
She lit into him with both fists flying. Laughing, he dodged them and finally managed to capture her flailing arms before she could do much damage. She was slow to be subdued, but he finally held her against him, his arms across her back barring her escape.
"I thought that'd get a reaction out of you. Actually the funds will go toward outfitting a youth center."
"You consider that to be a worthy cause?"
"Very much so." His eyes impaled her with lances of brilliant light. "Please come, Shay. I think it's important to us that you do."
Yes, it would be important to them. Could she adjust to his lifestyle? Could he bend to her free way of thinking? For some reason she didn't resent this experiment of his. She herself needed the answers to questions that had plagued her for weeks. Were there any terms on which they could come together?
While she was still mulling over her decision, they left the cab and entered Grand Central Station. He didn't press her; he gave her time and space to sort out her thoughts.
"Our parents will hear about it," she said after Ian had bought her train ticket and they were waiting in the most private spot they could find.
"I thought of that, too. How do you feel about it?"
She shrugged. "I guess they have to know sooner or later."
"Okay. We'll let them know beforehand. I certainly don't want to be furtive about it."
"No." She stared blindly at the ribbing of his sweater directly in front of her. He was waiting for her answer. When she came right down to it, all her justifications and rationalizations were just that. The heart of the matter was that she wanted to go. She wanted to be with him. The anger and resentment she had manufactured out of her hurt had dissolved the moment she'd seen him pacing outside Robert Glad's studio.
All her life she'd felt a loneliness, a separateness from other people, but she hadn't known what loneliness was until the past three week
s. If only for a little while, she wanted to believe she and Ian could belong together.
"Shay."
He whispered her name, and despite the noise and bustle around them, she heard. Lifting her face to his, she welcomed the firm pressure of his lips on hers.
His tongue slipped between them like a predator assured of the kill. Each shallow, rapid thrust sent an electrical charge missiling through her body.
"This is coercion," she said breathlessly against his throat when at last he freed her mouth.
"Can you be coerced?" he asked in a hot, fervent whisper that rushed into her ear and raised gooseflesh on her skin.
She pushed slightly away from him and looked beguilingly up at him. "I've never had a fur coat. What does one wear under a mink?"
Shay caught an early Saturday morning train. Ian was waiting at the station for her. Upright minister or not, he hugged her heartily and kissed her soundly when she stepped off the train.
The town was charming, absolutely charming. A picture of it belonged in an almanac as the stereotypical Connecticuttownship, Shay decided. Built around a green, the town spread out over several symmetrical blocks. Even the architecture of the commercial buildings was quaint. The colonial houses could have come out of a history book.
Driving her down the tree-lined streets, Ian proudly showed off his community. "This is the high school. Championship basketball team two years in a row. The center is a member of my church. And that's Griffin's Hardware Store. Mr. Griffin is a deacon. You'll see the church later."
He pulled his station wagon into the driveway of a two-story colonial house set on a vast lawn colorfully littered with fallen autumn leaves. It was built of white clapboard, and hunter green shutters flanked with windows.