Home Fires

by Barbara Delinsky

  So he had returned! A ripple of excitement flowed through her veins and she felt suddenly freer, relieved of a burden she hadn’t known she carried. He looked warm and wonderful, all tanned and handsome as he held her gaze unwaveringly. And then he smiled gently and she melted.

  Deanna had never been as touched as she was by the silent reunion she shared with this man. She felt as though she’d found her special friend after a very long search, though the search had been solely in her fantasy life and had only spanned the four days since she’d seen him last. But he was flesh and blood, a far cry from imagination, and she knew that the vibrant awareness he sparked was no fantasy.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Hunt?” Frank asked by her ear. Taken off guard, Deanna swung her head around abruptly and began to blush at having been caught in an uncharacteristic state of distraction.

  “Uh, yes, everything’s fine,” she gasped quickly, then added on impulse, “but I wonder if you could do something for me?”

  The waiter sobered in response to her gravity. “Of course.”

  Allowing herself no chance to back down, Deanna spoke directly. “There’s a gentleman in the far corner. No, please don’t look around now. He’s sitting by the large bay window and has breakfasted here before. But I can’t seem to recall his name or whether he’s actually staying at the hotel. Could you possibly … ?” Her raised brows and softly pleading expression said the rest

  Frank’s pleasure at the mission brought a conspiratorial smile to his lips. “Certainly, Mrs. Hunt. And I’ll be discreet.”

  “You always are. I appreciate it” She paused awkwardly. “It’s embarrassing … when I can’t remember …”

  “Please don’t worry. I’ll have the information you want in no time.”

  “No time” seemed to stretch on indefinitely as Deanna waited. She poked at her French toast, sipped her fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, fingered the dull edge of the marmalade knife and tried to understand what it was this man stirred in her. It seemed to be a far-reaching passion that encompassed the emotional, the intellectual and, yes, the physical. The last was by far the most enigmatic. Why him? Why now? Or was she simply fantasizing that this stranger would be a panacea?

  Daring to cast another glance his way, she found him staring solemnly out the window. What were his thoughts? she wondered as she hastened to freely admire the strength of his profile highlighted by the sun, the breadth of his shoulders beneath a fine-tailored navy blazer, the commanding air of his body even when seated and at ease. Who was he? she asked a final time and he must have heard, for he turned.

  At that moment Deanna knew for certain that her need was not the only one. Despite her skepticism, she could not deny what she saw. His face held the same expression that had fascinated her that first day. It held a look of vulnerability, of searching, of loneliness. It seemed to beam a message that surged from his depths to penetrate his outer aura of composure. Deanna felt that he was asking her help—she, who had spent a lifetime on the receiving end of love, indulgence and protection. It frightened her, this gaze that pleaded with such dignity, yet she couldn’t turn away from it

  Only the delivery to her plate of a small white card diverted her attention. She instantly knew that it was from the maître d’s desk and reached to open it, her pulse hammering loudly, her teeth worrying her lower lip. For the same mystical reason that she was so drawn to the man, this information seemed crucial to her. She read the words as though her life depended on them.

  Mark Birmingham. Architect with the firm of Birmingham and Swift, Inc., Savannah, Georgia. Registered at the Hunt International-Atlanta through Thursday.

  Mark. First and foremost, Mark. A name for the face and a fitting one at that. Mark. Deanna spoke it silently several times, testing its strength in her mind and finding that it matched him well.

  Mark. An architect. Obviously successful, most probably involved in a project requiring his midweek presence last week, now this. Smart man, she smiled in delight, to have chosen such a fine hotel!

  Her smile was still in evidence when she looked up, but faded quickly at the sight of this smart man in the process of leaving. He stood taller than she had imagined and moved calmly and deliberately, with a liquid grace, toward the door. Her heart was in her throat as she helplessly watched him go. It was only at the last that he paused, head down, faltering. Then he looked up and made her day with a warm and gentle smile just for her before he disappeared into the hotel lobby.

  Deanna let him go, somehow knowing she would see him again. For, whatever the long-range wisdom of it was, she knew that she wanted to see him again. If this was to be her first-in-a-lifetime stab at frivolity, so be it Nothing could stop her from thinking of this man, from daydreaming and wondering what it might be like to be with him.

  Cushioned by these daydreams, she passed the hours with a special spark to her smile. After a morning at the hospital she returned home for lunch, at the end of which she nonchalantly made the commitment she’d been toying with since breakfast.

  “Irma, why don’t you and Henry take the evening off? I think I’ll eat downstairs tonight”

  Irma’s surprise was in direct proportion to the number of weeks it had been since Deanna had last done this. “Why, Mrs. Hunt, you don’t have to do that on our account!”

  “I know, but I’d like to eat in the dining room for a change. I’ve kept abreast of the breakfast crowd. Now it’s about time I took a look at what goes on in the evening.”

  What Deanna had offered half in jest Irma interpreted quite differently. “It would be good for you to get out more. It’s better that you be with people …” Fearing that she’d been too forward, she let her words trail off and scurried toward the kitchen. “If you should change your mind, just let me know,” she called over her shoulder. “I can easily cook something up.”

  But Deanna had made her decision and notified the dining room of it on her way to the car. Though the late luncheon crowd was substantial, a cursory glance revealed no tall and auburn-headed architect among the lot. Perhaps he might be there tonight

  That, of course, was the motivating factor behind her deviation from habit and she was too honest to deny it When Larry had been alive they’d taken the evening meal downstairs several times a week, in part to be accessible to friends and in part to be assured of the consistently fine quality of the restaurant Since his death Deanna had preferred the nighttime sanctuary of her own suite on all but those few occasions when she accepted an invitation to be with a group. But an opportunity to see Mark Birmingham again was worth the effort of venturing forth and she was determined to do it

  Henry dropped her at the office at two and fetched her again at five. She spent the interim hours as usual, talking with different members of the foundation staff, then meeting alone with Bob to discuss and sign the inevitable stack of papers that required her formal approval. Bob was his usual patient self. If Deanna seemed to ask more questions than normal, to probe deeper into one decision or another than she had tended to do in the past, he accepted it all with good-natured indulgence. In turn, she graciously accepted his able explanations and the pat “Don’t-worry-about-it‘s.” and “It’s-all-settled’s” and “I’ll-take-care-of-it’s” he offered. He did have everything under control. For that, since her own mind was beginning to wander, she was grateful.

  After returning home with Henry she settled into a bath filled to the brim with hot water and lemon-scented oil. An hour later she stood before the bathroom mirror with a towel wrapped sarong style around her. Before her was a woman she’d seen every day of her life. Or had she? Had she seen only part of the woman, that part that fit the image of the docile daughter and the loving wife? Was there another part she’d refused to see, a part that had only recently begun to beg for recognition?

  Perplexed, she stared at her reflection. Her face was devoid of all makeup, yet it was bright and tingling with a hint of pink from the heat of the bath. Her hair was piled high, but loose wisps
rebelled against restraint and curled gently toward her shoulders where the skin was moist, creamy smooth and soft. In a moment of curiosity Deanna reached for the point above her breast where the towel was tucked, pulled its end loose and slowly let it fall. Then, almost timidly, she looked at her body in a wholly new light. It was the body of a woman, with firm, full breasts and a narrow waist, a flat stomach and gently curving hips. Her legs were long and slim and of the same satin texture as the rest of her.

  Slowly and with a dawning awareness, Deanna let her eyes retrace the route, moving intently upward. Would he admire her body as she had just done? Would he want to see it? To touch it? To know it? Her fingers were unsure as she lifted them to her breast, where they lay against the wild beat of her heart. Would he desire her as she’d long ago dreamed to be desired?

  Larry had loved her as a husband loved a wife, but without any of the passion she’d once dared to imagine. And she had neither questioned his lack of demand nor her own passive acceptance of it, because she had been young, innocent and naive, contenting herself with his evident satisfaction, finding pleasure in the overall tranquillity of their lives and the orderly show of love that compensated for unleashed passion.

  Unleashed passion. Was that what she craved? Would she know what to do with it? How to handle it? Sighing, she stooped to lift the towel from the floor and wrap it around herself as she passed through to her room in search of underclothes. Unleashed passion, hah! The only thing to be unleashed this day was a very naughty fancy that was destined for frustration. With a swift if rueful headshake she cast the thought aside.

  But eight o‘clock found her dressed nonetheless and on her way to the hotel dining room as she had preordained. She wore a dress of black silk that was soft yet sophisticated, scooped at the neck and draping her body with just enough fullness to suggest the fragile femininity within. There were solitary pearls at her ears, a fine strand around her throat and an exquisite wristlet to match the delicate gold-and-pearl creation she wore on the third finger of her left hand. Her hair was caught up with twin clasps of silk, her makeup blended with a light but skillful hand. In an utterly unaffected way she carried with her an aura of distinction as she smiled at the maître d’ and preceded him to her table.

  Far beneath this stunning surface she quivered, however, filled with trepidation that he wouldn’t be there. It was a grand shot in the dark that she had made and she suddenly wondered why she had ever allowed her fantasy such freedom. Some dreams were meant to remain no more than dreams. Perhaps this was one of them.

  “Enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Hunt” The maître d’s parting words inspired her. Mark Birmingham or no, she was going to try. Settling into her chair, she took several deep and calming breaths. But she was unable to appreciate the grace around her, the soft notes of the piano as its music strove to soothe her mind, the flicker of a slender candle bringing to life the brandy-hued rose that stood proudly before her in its sterling bud vase. Opening her menu, she made a pretense of studying the elaborate list of offerings. But the exotic titles merged meaninglessly into one another; her mind was very definitely elsewhere. Finally, unable to restrain herself, she risked a glance up through the shade of her lashes toward his corner, where evening’s atmospheric lighting had replaced the morning’s sun.

  Deanna raised her head higher and opened her eyes with the breathless realization that Mark Birmingham was at his table, nursing a drink and infinitely aware of her own arrival. His dark eyes locked with hers and he smiled a greeting. She smiled back almost shyly, lingering for a moment’s pleasure before lowering her gaze in defense against the potent attraction she felt But her brown eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, the pulse at her neck throbbed in excitement. It was an auspicious start for dinner, indeed, for the night itself.

  Deanna barely knew what she ordered or ate, only that it was the most delicious meal she’d had in months. The service itself was faultless, its pace properly relaxed to allow her to greet friends and the occasional well-wisher, as well as indulge in periodic visual exchanges with Mark. At some point she actually wondered why they kept their distance, why one didn’t approach the other and end their separation. But then her mind moved one step further and she was suddenly frightened. Fantasy was one thing, reality another. What if her dream man turned out to be a bore? Worse, a brute? What if his teeth were false or his hair sewn on or the breadth of his shoulders artificial? What if, when she finally heard it, his voice had a high nasal twang? As it stood, he had at least the illusion of perfection. Did she dare jeopardize the vision? No, some dreams were better left untouched. But the thought of that saddened her even more. She did want to touch Mark Birmingham … and that was the least of it!

  It seemed it wasn’t to be. Deanna had barely begun to sip her coffee when Mark rose from his table, sent her a last soulful stare and, to her disappointment, left the dining room. Her pleasure in her evening suddenly faded. Within minutes she followed his example, graciously thanking and complimenting the dining-room staff, then walking to the elevator, head down in thought

  She wasn’t quite sure of the moment when he approached because there were other people quietly milling about. But something drew her head up and she found herself face-to-face with him. Her breath caught in a quiet gasp. At close range he was that much taller, that much more handsome, that much more intense. And his effect on her was staggering, the reality of him something to behold.

  For the first time his features were near enough to study and know. His nose was strong, with a faint crook at its bridge, his lips firm and masculine, his jaw square and clean-shaven. The eyes she had only known to be dark now revealed themselves as a deep charcoal brown, and they were studying her just as intently as she was studying him. His hair was thick and rich and entirely his own, his chest broad enough to fill his jacket on its own sinewed merit. And when his lips curved in the hint of a smile she saw that his teeth had just enough of an irregularity to vouch for their authenticity. He was every bit the real thing. And she couldn’t restrain a sigh.

  At that moment the elevator arrived, demanding their immediate attention. But when Deanna felt a hand lightly take her elbow she knew it was Mark’s. He held her back to let several others enter, then gently guided her aboard. Though his hand fell away she stayed by his side as the car whirred upward.

  At the tenth floor one couple disembarked, at the eighteenth floor another. By the time the elevator left the twenty-seventh floor Deanna and Mark were alone. She stared expectantly at the lighted panel above the doors, watching the floors pass. Thirty. Thirty-one. Had she even pressed her own? Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. The car hummed to a halt and its doors slid back. As she held her breath she felt her hand taken by a larger, warmer, surer one. Taking courage from it, she met Mark’s gaze. It held every bit of her own need and want, plus a sense of promise she hadn’t seen before. His eyes silently offered the same invitation conveyed by his hand as, still holding hers, he stepped tentatively forward. Deanna hesitated for a final moment. Then, seized by an overpowering urgency, she followed him.

  2

  When the door to his suite quietly and irrevocably shut out the rest of the world, Mark drew her around to face him. He stood no more than a gasp away, tall and dark and silently demanding. In a fleeting moment of panic Deanna wondered where she was, why she was there, whether she could even begin to give this man what she knew he wanted. He was so real now. For the first time in her life she felt totally inadequate.

  Reading the fear in her large fawn eyes, Mark moved to ease it. He raised his hands to touch her face, framing it with long, adoring fingers that wove lightly into her hair and tipped her features back for his tender exploration. His melting gaze transmitted wordless reassurance that she was everything he wanted and more. Gaining courage, Deanna held her breath in anticipation of the moment

  Release came with the slow lowering of his head and the soft touch of his lips against hers. She closed her eyes, timidly yielding to a new realm of sensati
on that bridged the gap between fantasy and reality. His mouth moved so lightly at first that she wondered on which side of that chasm she remained. But as the pressure increased slowly, demanding her response, Deanna knew that this kiss was no dream. There was nothing paternal or protective about it, nothing token or simply affectionate. As it deepened, it became a thing of passion, a kiss such as she’d never experienced before. And it induced the rising surge of an echoing need that in turn triggered her response.

  But that response was tempered by the newness of it all; Deanna had never been so stirred before. Beneath Mark’s sensual caress she relaxed her lips at first, moving them experimentally against their firm male counterparts, then gradually lost herself in the pleasure until she was as caught up in the mindless play as he was. It was indeed fantasy, and she yielded to its glory. She knew nothing but the euphoria of this man’s touch.

  With a ragged catch in his breath, Mark gently drew back his head. It was only when his hands fell to encircle her waist that Deanna realized that her own were clinging to his shoulders. She slid them to his back as he drew her tight against him. It was the first time their bodies had touched.

  “Hi,” he whispered, his smile bright

  Deanna gathered the bare remnants of breath he’d left her to falteringly whisper back, “Hi, yourself.”

  “Do you know,” he pressed her closer, “that that’s been a fantasy of mine?” It was still a whisper. She had yet to really hear his voice.

  “What has?”

  “To say hello for the very first time with a kiss.” Where his manner might have held triumph or arrogance, there was only pleasure.

  Deanna’s face was a rosy reflection of that pleasure even as she softly corrected him. “But you have said hello before …” she began, remembering those first visual greetings before fearing once again that she might have imagined them. But she hadn’t