by Kathryn Shay
“When I interrupted you before, you were about to talk about what happened earlier today,” she gently reminded him.
He allowed himself another faint, deliciously sexy smile. She recognized it as a sign that he wasn’t sure of what to say, what to do, how he felt. Matt had always seemed so assertive, so positive about everything. He knew where he stood and what he was after. Doubt never threw a shadow across his path. She used to admire that about him, but it often irritated her, too. Sometimes he was wrong. Sometimes he was clueless. Yet he could never acknowledge that, and she recognized in hindsight that what had appeared to be a strength had actually been a weakness.
Conor’s willingness to let her see his ambivalence, his confusion and apprehension, made her like him even more.
He sighed. His beautiful blue eyes narrowed on the flames dancing in the fireplace. “I’m not really good at this,” he said.
“Good at what?”
“Daddy, I think it’s my bedtime,” Amy announced, materializing suddenly in the arched doorway to the living room.
“Well, that’s a first,” Conor muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “Usually she fights me about bedtime.”
Eliza smiled. “She’s trying to be good.”
Conor pulled a face. “If I ever meet Santa, I’m going to tear him a new one. He’s got the poor kid tying herself in knots.” But he crossed the room, gave Amy a pat on the shoulder and nudged her toward the stairs. “Go on up and get into your pj’s. And brush your teeth.”
“For two minutes. I know,” Amy said.
“Give a holler when you’re ready for me to tuck you in.”
“I will.” Amy took a step toward the stairs, then paused and turned back. “Can Eliza help us decorate the tree tomorrow?”
Conor didn’t look at Eliza. “We’ll see.”
Amy peered past him to meet Eliza’s gaze. “Thank you for making cookies with me,” she said, clearly earning herself another few points in Santa’s esteem. Then she scampered up the stairs.
Conor glanced over his shoulder at Eliza. “Do you mind sticking around a little longer?”
A little longer. Long enough to discuss their kiss? Long enough for another kiss?
She nodded. Either way, yes. She would stick around.
Chapter Seven
CONOR DIDN’T WANT his daughter hitting her classmates. But he wasn’t comfortable with her behaving perfectly, either. It wasn’t natural. He wanted her to be a normal kid, not an angel.
He spent a few minutes in the kitchen, adding soap to the dishwasher and draping the damp dishtowel over the oven’s handle while he waited for Amy to summon him. Eliza remained in the living room, which suited him. He needed a few minutes alone. Perhaps she did, too.
What was he getting himself into? Eliza was beautiful. She was smart. She was reassuring. She was gentle, not just with Amy but with him. Merely looking at her made his body vibrate with awareness. He wanted her.
But wanting her made him feel disloyal to Sheila. Was it too soon to desire another woman?
His groin said no. Definitely not too soon. Maybe not soon enough. He was a healthy man, hungry for sex.
His mind said yes. Too soon to love another woman, and wasn’t love what a woman deserved if you were going to have sex with her?
His heart… His heart said, I don’t know. That kiss—he hadn’t expected it, hadn’t planned it, yet it had been the most exciting few minutes he’d experienced since the day Sheila died. His heart couldn’t say yes or no, but it wanted more. Much more.
What did Eliza’s heart want? More than he could give?
“Daddy, I’m ready!” Amy hollered.
He avoided peeking into the living room as he headed for the stairs and up. Amy stood in her bedroom doorway, clad in a pair of pajamas with pink teddy bears printed across the fabric. Her wrists stuck out of the sleeves and her ankle bones were visible above the lace-edged bottoms. She must have grown an inch in the last month. He’d have to buy her some new clothes, a task he dreaded. What did he know about girl clothing? Who could he ask for guidance?
His thoughts drifted to the woman seated on his living room couch. No, he couldn’t ask Eliza. He already felt like an ass for hinting that he’d like her to babysit for him again.
Amy smelled like minty toothpaste and soap when he joined her upstairs. She climbed into her bed, hugging her favorite doll, Lambie, to her. “I love our tree,” she said as Conor tucked the blanket around her and the stuffed animal. “And the cookies. Baking is cool. Maybe I’ll be a chef when I grow up.”
“You’ll be a better cook than me,” Conor assured her. “It was very nice of Dr. Powell to make those cookies with you.”
“Ask her to help us decorate the tree tomorrow, okay? She’ll make it extra pretty for Mommy.”
With one request, Amy had managed to trip every landmine buried in Conor’s psyche. A resigned laugh escaped him. Damn Sheila for leaving behind such a mess: a grieving daughter. A horny husband. A kind, generous school psychologist who deserved better than the Malones. A Christmas tree that was going to cause Amy despair on what should be the happiest morning of her life, once she discovered that Santa hadn’t an angel beneath its fragrant branches.
He kissed Amy’s brow, turned off her lamp and descended the stairs to the living room.
Eliza had abandoned the sofa for the window. She stared at the black-velvet night outside, her arms crossed her expression pensive. He studied her for a moment, her hair tumbling in soft waves down her back, her turquoise sweater emphasizing the sleek lines of her shoulders and the graceful nip of her waist, her black denim jeans making her legs look impossible long and slim. He swallowed, his mouth aching for the taste of her.
She must have sensed his presence, because she abruptly pivoted to face him. “It’s snowing.”
“Will you have trouble driving home?”
She shook her head. “Before I moved here, I lived in upstate New York. I can drive through a blizzard without blinking an eye. Anyway, this is just flurries. It’s pretty.”
He joined her at the window. Flecks of snow swirled in the air, silver-white, as if angels were shaking the dust from their wings.
He’d been spending too much time with Amy. He had angels on the brain.
And he was standing next to a woman who could qualify as an angel, just on the basis of this one long, tiring, exhilarating day.
He thought about everything he’d meant to say to Eliza about why he’d kissed her. About how he hadn’t come on to a woman since Sheila had died—how he hadn’t even looked at another woman after Sheila had entered his life twelve years ago. About how he’d been a one-woman man for so long, he no longer remembered the proper way to court and woo and seduce a woman. About how he wanted to relearn everything with Eliza, and he was afraid of screwing up.
About how guilty those wants made him feel. About how guilt wasn’t going to hold him back.
He gathered Eliza into his arms, pulled her close, covered her mouth with his. The taste of her lips was better than he’d remembered, because now it was seasoned with wine and familiarity and trust that having her, spending the night with her, taking her to his bed and loving her would be worth all the guilt, all the confusion, all the complications.
She kissed him back. Hard. Eager. Every bit as passionate as he was.
He didn’t want this moment to end. He wanted her arms around his waist forever, her hands flattened against the small of his back, her hips pressed to him, her breath and then her tongue filling his mouth. He wanted the angles of her shoulders pressing into his palms, the sweep of her hair against his fingers, her soft, tremulous moan singing in his ears. He wanted this. Her. Now.
Somehow, they staggered together to the couch. She fell back against the cushions, reaching for him, pulling him onto her, into her arms. He sprawled on top of her, settling between her legs, gliding his hands over the soft skin of her face and throat, the soft curves of her breasts. He kissed her eyelids, the edge of her j
aw, the bridge of her nose, the hollow at the base of her throat. No other woman existed for him now. No other woman ever had.
Hastily, without words, they undressed each other. Her sweater. His shirt. Her shoes. His belt. Her hands glided along his back and he swelled rock-hard. His hands skimmed her thighs and she gasped. He kissed her naked belly and her hips lurched. He kissed lower and a muffled cry escaped her.
“I should get something,” he murmured.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s okay. I’m safe.”
“Are you—?”
“I’m sure. Don’t leave me.”
He couldn’t. He didn’t.
Her body took his, warm and wet and honey-sweet. Her skin glowed golden in the flickering light of the fire. Her eyes closed and then opened again, gazing up at him with a trust he wasn’t sure he had earned. He tried to slow his movements, but she rose to him, absorbing him, urging him on. God, she was amazing. The sexiest, most desirable woman he’d ever—
Another cry escaped her, muted as she bit her lip. Her eyes closed again, her body shuddered and she clung tightly to him as her pulsing body pushed him to his peak. He groaned as sensation swept through him, fierce, pummeling his body, leaving him drained and weary and content
For an endless moment they lay still, sweat filming their skin, breath emerging in short, shallow bursts. Her hands moved lazily over his back, no longer clinging and digging into his muscles. Her head sank into the upholstered arm of the sofa, the tension in her face easing and her lips, those sweet, kissable lips softening into a smile.
When he finally found the strength, he kissed that smile and propped himself up on his elbows. She opened her eyes. “You were wrong,” she said.
Damn. She’d found him out. Yes, he was wrong—about seducing her, about hoping she wanted him as much as he wanted her, about convincing himself that this wasn’t a bad idea.
“You said you weren’t good at this,” she reminded him. “You are.”
“Oh.” Was that the best he could do? Oh? Thank you didn’t seem quite right. “I was inspired,” he said instead.
She laughed wearily. “I don’t think I’m that inspiring.”
“Then you’re the one who’s wrong.” He sat up and eased her into a sitting position, pulling her snugly to himself. “Are you sure this was—I mean, safe? I usually…” Actually, he hadn’t used a condom in more than a decade. Did he even have any? Renewing his sex life hadn’t been a high priority before the instant he’d stepped into Eliza’s office at the Adams School a week ago.
He’d wanted her from that moment, the first time he’d seen her. He hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t wanted to admit it, but there it was. He should have bought some contraceptives that day.
“I’m okay,” she assured him. “And I assume you are, too.”
“I really did intend to talk to you,” he said, sounding apologetic to himself. Yet the feel of her against him, her breast pressing into his chest and her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder, vanquished any regrets. He wasn’t sorry about this. He wasn’t sorry about anything.
“There are ethical issues,” she said, jolting him. “But as long as Amy is seeing Rosalyn Hoffman instead of me, I don’t think we’ve crossed any lines.”
Oh, they’d crossed lines, all right. They’d crossed the line of a man who’d vowed to love only one woman and now wanted another woman. They’d crossed the line of a man who ought to be keeping the mental health of his daughter first and foremost in his mind. He was sure there were other lines, too, dozens of lines he couldn’t even discern. He felt them like trip-wires tangling around his feet.
Tomorrow he would worry about them. Not tonight.
“I can’t stay,” Eliza said.
Whoa. That was a line he hadn’t anticipated.
“I can’t let Amy find me here.”
“She’s dead to the world,” he assured her. “She could sleep through a category-five hurricane.”
“But eventually she’ll wake up,” Eliza pointed out. “I can’t be here when she does.”
Amy never woke in the middle of the night. Surely Eliza could stay a few more hours. They could spend at least part of the night together. They could lie in each other’s arms, kiss, touch. He could arouse her slowly. He could make her come with his fingers, his mouth. They could talk. They could retire to his bed, which was a lot more comfortable than the sofa.
The bed he’d shared with Sheila for twelve years.
One of those lines he’d crossed rose high enough to clothes-line him. Had he betrayed Sheila? Betrayed her memory?
“I wish I could drive you home,” he said. He couldn’t, not with Amy asleep upstairs and Eliza’s car parked in his driveway.
“Really, Conor, I’m okay.” He sensed that she was talking about more than birth control now. She was talking about independence and the fact that she was okay with what they’d just done, that she hadn’t expected him to drive her home, let alone invite her into his bed.
Then again, after so many years of monogamy, he was pathetically ignorant about what women expected.
Surely Eliza expected something. A few words about how much she meant to him, how much this meant, how much he wished he could offer her but couldn’t. Words implying a commitment he wasn’t in any position to make.
Instead, he said, “Amy wants you to help decorate the tree tomorrow.”
“I’ll see,” she murmured, and he felt as if she was slipping through his fingers. She literally did, easing out of his embrace, pushing her hair from her face, searching the floor for her clothing.
He’d only just had her, and now he was losing her. And he realized that, angel or no, Eliza Powell was still a complete mystery to him.
Chapter Eight
I’M OKAY, SHE told herself as she pulled into the garage of her condo. Snow was falling more heavily, starting to stick, but she’d felt compelled to drive home through it. She couldn’t stay at the Malone house. Not just because of Amy but because of Conor.
He was in mourning. He was in need. As a shrink, she knew what was going on: two lonely people, drawn to each other, going way too far.
Her body ached in unexpected places—her insteps, her spine, the backs of her knees, the hinges of her hips. The hollow of her heart. She entered the condo, and it took all her willpower not to race back to her snow-dusted car and retrace the route through town to Conor’s house, where a fire glowed in the fireplace and a beautiful evergreen filled a corner of the living room. Where an unbearably sexy man had briefly made her feel reborn.
Where a little girl slept at the top of the stairs.
After the debacle with Matt, she’d resolved not to fall in love again, at least not for a while. Her heart still required healing. She wasn’t ready to trust.
Yet she was falling in love with Conor Malone. Whether or not she trusted him, she loved him.
Big mistake. Bad move. The curse of being a psychologist was that she knew too well how the human mind worked. She was Conor’s first woman after the death of his wife. She was the bridge back to normal for him, the path he’d take to the land of physical and emotional wholeness. The first person you had sex with after losing a partner of long-standing was the rebound, the event that assured you you could return to the land of healthy adulthood.
That first person proved that you could be complete again. But she wasn’t the person you wound up being complete with. She was just the therapy that got you where you ultimately wanted to be.
How many times had she told Conor she was all right? Had she only been trying to convince herself?
If so, she’d failed. She wasn’t all right. She was alone in her cold, sterile townhouse, thinking about Christmases past with her family, about all she’d hoped Christmas would be this year with Matt and their friends in Albany. About a little girl who wanted her mother back for Christmas, and a man who wanted his daughter to be happy and well.
Who wanted Eliza? She couldn’t think of anyone.
T
HE PHONE IN her office issued a bird-like twitter shortly after lunch on Monday. Why phones couldn’t ring the way they used to, she couldn’t say, but the airy, fluty sound her phone emitted somehow didn’t sound legitimate.
Then again, everything aggravated her Monday morning: the IEP’s she’d evaluated, the two boys with ADHD she’d had sessions with, the second-grade genius who was already doing basic trigonometry and probably should be bumped up to middle school, but was nowhere near mature enough to handle such a leap. Eliza had spent a half-hour on the phone with the girl’s mother, discussing private-school options and consoling the woman, who lamented that being too smart was almost as much of a handicap as being too slow.
Throughout the morning, memories of the weekend thrummed in Eliza’s skull like a low-grade migraine. She’d wanted to return to the Malone house Sunday to decorate the tree. She’d wanted to spend more time with Amy, and especially with Conor. She’d wanted things she shouldn’t want, and when she’d seen his name pop up on her caller-ID several times Sunday morning and afternoon, she’d refused to answer her phone, aware of how easy it would be to say yes to anything Conor suggested.
Instead, she’d driven to the nursery and purchased a wreath. Not as satisfying as a tree, but at least it held the promise of Christmas in its curving holly branches. She could survive this holiday, she assured herself. She didn’t need Matt or her mother or her brother—or, especially, the Malones—to celebrate Christmas.
She lifted her phone. “Eliza Powell,” she said.
“Hi, this is Linda Rodriguez,” the fourth-grade teacher’s voice came through the phone. “I’m sending Amy Malone to your office. We’ve had another incident.”
No! Eliza wanted to shout. She didn’t want to see Amy. She couldn’t see her. Amy was Rosalyn Hoffman’s patient, not Eliza’s.
But every student at the Adams School was Eliza’s patient to some extent. She squared her shoulders and suppressed a sigh. “Did she hit someone again?”