My Valentine

by Sheridon Smythe

  Rosalyn closed her eyes, fighting her natural instincts. Her fingers slowly curled in the surprisingly soft matt of hair. Despite her good intentions, she found herself exploring, moving down to brush her palms against his flat nipples. They sprang erect and she jerked her hands away, her eyes going wide.

  "I can't..."

  "Why not?"

  The man really was deaf, or just too stubborn to be believed, Rosalyn thought dazedly. She made a half-hearted attempt to stop him when he unfastened her blouse, but found she lacked the strength. What harm could a little touching do? They weren't in a bedroom, and she wanted—

  He echoed her wicked thoughts, baring her breasts to his hungry gaze and loving hands.

  "I want you, Rosalyn. I want to touch every inch of you until you scream my name."

  Oh, no. Now she knew she was in trouble. Scream his name? She wanted to scream his name now. What did he mean? Was there more, really more? She couldn't take much more. It was too wonderful, too good. They had to stop. He had to stop what he was doing.

  Lord, his hands. His hands did strange, exciting things to her breasts. When his mouth descended to tease and torment where his hands had been, she tangled her fingers in his hair and jerked his head back.

  Breathlessly, she scolded, “No, you can't do that—” His slow smile melted her insides.

  He did. Slowly, thoroughly, until Rosalyn thought her breasts would explode from sheer pleasure. How in the world was she supposed to resist this rapture? Father Acorn surely had never experienced such pleasure or he wouldn't condemn it...

  When he captured her mouth again, Rosalyn gave up and explored his mouth with a boldness that shocked her. His pleased moan urged her onward. He began rocking his lower body against her, making her ache in places she didn't know she could ache. The hair on his chest teased her sensitive breasts each time she moved.

  Rosalyn came to her senses when she felt the shock of his hand on her thigh beneath her skirt. She tore herself loose and rocked unsteadily on her feet. Her breath seared in and out of her lungs. Shaking her head, she panted, “No. We can't—I can't—” He stared at her, a sensual smile quirking his lips. Braced with his legs apart, and with the tantalizing sight of his chest bare to her view, he looked like a man who knew how to get what he wanted.

  And he wanted her. Rosalyn didn't doubt this, but he couldn't have her. And she couldn't have him. It was wrong, and she wasn't the kind of woman he obviously thought she was. Yes, she loved kissing him and touching him, and yes, she loved him touching her and kissing her. Lord, but she loved it.

  Yet, she knew she had to look at herself in the mirror every day, and she wouldn't be able to if she let him have what he wanted—if she took what she wanted from him. Love without marriage was lust—Father Acorn said so.

  "I'm sorry, Chris. I can't. Please don't—don't touch me again.” Her fingers shook as she buttoned her blouse. When she finished, she opened the door to the sewing room, refusing to look at him. “I'll just get those beads and we'll both leave before someone finds out we're here.” Her laugh came out shaky, breathless. Lord, but there wasn't a nerve on her that didn't tingle. “I don't doubt Christian Garret would love to catch me here."

  "Yes, he would."

  She stopped just inside the room, slowly turning to look at him. Something in his tone—an odd nuance of regret?—alerted her. “H—how do you know he would?"

  Her fingers tightened on the door knob. Moisture became scarce in her mouth.

  Did Chris know Christian Garret?

  * * * *

  Christian shrugged and avoided her question, inwardly bracing himself for the battle to come. That there would be a battle, he didn't doubt. “Tell me, Rosalyn. Why are you really here?” From the moment he recognized her on the stairs, he suspected she'd come back for the rubies, having hidden them somewhere. Hell, he couldn't imagine a place, a nook, a cranny that he hadn't checked, but he couldn't think of another logical explanation for her being here.

  And he'd nearly convinced himself she was innocent.

  What a fool...

  "I—I told you, the beads—"

  "You can do better than that.” Christian buttoned his shirt and began walking toward her. She backed further into the sewing room, the passion of earlier overshadowed with alarm. “Tell me."

  Rosalyn lifted her chin. “I'll show you.” She reached into her coat pocket and produced the candle and matches. Within seconds a steady flame brightened the swiftly darkening room. She headed straight for the secretary and a large square basket, her mouth pursed in a thin line, her expression mirroring both alarm and bewilderment. “What are you, an investigator or something?” she demanded, opening the basket and dumping the contents onto the surface of the desk.

  Clearly, she hadn't put the pieces of the puzzle together, Christian thought. Either that, or she genuinely didn't have a clue. He heard the ping of pins and other small objects hitting the floor. Sweeping something into her hand, she swung around and marched back to him, thrusting her fist beneath his nose.

  Staring into his eyes, she slowly uncurled her fingers.

  Christian looked down at the brightly colored collection of tiny glass beads, unmoved by her defiant display. This didn't mean a thing to him, other than she was quick with a lie.

  "Well?” Anger darkened her eyes. “I've shown you what I came for. Miss Howland's sponsoring a fund-raiser to raise money for Jamy and his family. Each of the employees are to create their own valentine, which will be auctioned off on Sunday. There will also be a contest for the most original valentine, and I intend to do my best to win that ribbon. The beads are for decoration."

  Christian admired her imagination. He also admired the way her chest heaved. God, what glorious breasts—

  "Well? Don't you think you owe me an explanation? Why are you here?"

  Leaning against the door jam, Christian crossed his arms and studied the passionate beauty before him. He took his time, committing each unique feature to memory. Regret pulled the corners of his mouth downward. Damn.

  He shattered the silence—and their relationship—with four words. “I own this house."

  She didn't gasp. She didn't blink. She didn't move. Just as Christian wondered if he had actually spoken the damning words aloud, she came alive. Her first reaction was disbelief.

  "You do not. Christian Garret ... owns this ... house.” She shook her head vigorously, disrupting her careful chignon. “No, you can't be him, because you're Chris...” Her voice lowered to a stunned whisper. “Chris—Christian. It can't be."

  Christian doubted if she was aware of him as realization dawned. He wasn't proud of himself, far from it. In fact, he wished he'd never started this game of pretend. He wanted to tell her it didn't matter that she had taken the rubies, he wanted her anyway—

  "You bastard."

  He expected her fury, but not profanity. It wasn't Rosalyn. Also unexpected was the deep hurt in her eyes. She'd barely whispered the curse, but he felt cut to the bone by her thick tone of contempt. Irrationally, he found himself trying to explain. “I've taken the game too far—"

  "Oh, that's an understatement.” A tear slipped from her eye and fell onto her coat. Christian flinched, watching the liquid spread and stain the pink velvet until it formed a perfect circle. She flashed him an accusing look that bothered him more than he cared to admit before turning away. Falling onto her knees, she began picking up the scattered sewing articles.

  Christian suspected she needed to keep her hands busy so she wouldn't be tempted to wring his neck.

  "You lied to me. You let me say all those nasty—true—things about you that night at the restaurant. You've let me blather on about how happy Callie was with Henry—your father.” She lifted her eyes and glared at him, then jerked her head down as if she couldn't bear the sight of him. “How you must have laughed."

  "No."

  With a savage snort, she shoved a handful of items into the basket and began searching for more. “No? No, what?
No, you didn't lie? Or no, you didn't laugh? Which one—Christian?"

  Christian decided he didn't like the way she said his name. He much preferred Chris. “No, I didn't laugh.” His voice hardened. “I didn't find anything amusing about how happy my father was.” He wondered if she would notice he didn't include Callie. Callie was an innocent in his father's immoral game, and Christian had never enlightened her despite the temptation. Would knowing this make a difference to Rosalyn? Christian didn't think so.

  "What is it with you! You think a person should mourn their spouse the rest of their lives and never seek happiness again?” She lurched to her feet, the heavy skirt and coat making her clumsy. Marching to him, she poked his chest with a sharp finger. In the other hand, the candle danced wildly.

  Christian thought she looked glorious. She was furious now, having dealt with the hurt and either decided he wasn't worth it, or buried it deep inside where he couldn't see. He didn't know which.

  "Well, I think that's childish, Christian Garret-Brown. Childish! Why shouldn't your father have been happy? Can you tell me that? Well? Didn't Callie deserve the chance to make him happy? Didn't he deserve the chance to make her happy?” She shot the questions at him without giving him time to answer, her entire body quivering.

  Christian was tempted to take her in his arms and settle this here and now, but for the first time in his adult life, he wasn't certain seduction would work. This wasn't a lover's tiff, and Rosalyn was not, by any means, an ordinary woman. Hell.

  "It's not only childish, but selfish, you know."

  That did it. Christian grit his teeth. “He divorced my mother."

  Another stunned silence followed. He watched her mouth open and close, watched the conflicting emotions race across her face and knew she wanted to call him a liar. Wanted to—but obviously couldn't. Christian knew he had never looked or sounded more serious.

  He wouldn't have told her if there had been any other way.

  "That's a despicable thing to say!” Rosalyn finally sputtered. She kept staring at his face, waiting, Christian suspected, for him to smile or laugh.

  He didn't.

  Her voice dropped, became less forceful. “Tell—tell me it's a lie, Christian."

  Softly, he said, “It's not a lie. Don't you know I wish it were?"

  "Callie never told me—"

  "Callie didn't know."

  She wiped a hand down her face, looking so lost, Christian hurt with the need to hold her.

  "I'm glad she never knew. She wouldn't have married him if she'd known."

  "I know.” What else could he say?

  "It would have broken her heart if she'd found out."

  "Which is why I never told her."

  With a heart-tugging little cry, she pressed her forehead into his shoulder. No other part of her body touched him, as if she didn't trust herself, or him. Christian hesitated, wanting to put his arms around her, but sensing she wasn't ready. She just needed a place to rest her head. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the fresh, clean scent of her hair. Lemon ... and something light and flowery. Honeysuckle. Yes, it was honeysuckle. The scent reminded him of a lazy summer day.

  Her voice was muffled by the folds of his coat. “You didn't hate Callie, then?"

  "I wanted to, but when I met her I realized I could never hate anyone like Callie. She was a gentle soul, wasn't she?"

  Rosalyn sniffed, her voice cracking. “Yes, she was. She was the most wonderful person I've ever known."

  "My father was fortunate to have Callie.” He couldn't disguise his bitterness and knew she heard it by the way she stiffened.

  Lifting her head, she searched his taut features, her eyes large and luminous. “You didn't like your father, did you?"

  Christian smiled, but it felt stiff on his mouth, as if it didn't belong there. “That's an understatement."

  "Will you tell me about it?"

  "Maybe.” God knew he wanted to, if only to make her understand why he didn't believe as she believed. In love and happiness, and all those things that made Rosalyn the woman she was and made him the man he wasn't.

  "Will you also tell me why you tricked me, why you lied about who you are?"

  He tensed for an instant, caught off guard by the way she shot the question at him. She was sly. “Let's go down to the kitchen where it's warm."

  She hesitated, but nodded. “Wait—I need to get the beads.” Crossing the room, she closed her fingers around a handful of the glass baubles, pausing to give him a questioning look. “You don't mind?"

  He didn't smile. “No. Of course not."

  She stuck them in her coat pocket and closed the sewing basket, running a loving hand across the woven surface before turning away. When she met him at the door again, Christian bent his head and kissed her, surprised when she allowed it. In fact, she opened her mouth and kissed him back as if she couldn't get enough.

  The feeling was mutual, Christian thought with a sigh, reluctantly moving aside to let her pass. His gaze followed the glow of her candle out of sight before pulling the door closed.

  Rosalyn Mitchell had certainly made his visit to Worcester an interesting one. In fact, Christian couldn't imagine his life without her.

  Chapter Ten

  Tales Untrue I Know You've Spread

  Wrongful Words it Seems You've Said

  But Still You Live Inside My Head

  Please Let Me Know...

  Rosalyn cupped her chilled hands around a mug of hot tea, watching Christian as he banked the fire in the cook stove and took the kettle off the hot plate. He joined her at the small oak table in the kitchen with his own mug of tea.

  "Tea's good,” Rosalyn murmured politely. Her anger remained just below the boiling point, but most of all she felt humiliated. How could she not have suspected he was Christian Garret? But then, to be honest with herself, why would she suspect that a strange man would approach her, and lie about who he was? It didn't make sense. Maybe he would offer a simple, logical explanation for fooling her. Then maybe she could forgive him. She also intended to ask him why he didn't answer Callie's letters.

  Miserably confused, Rosalyn despaired of ever separating her dashing Mr. Brown from the cruel, heartless Christian Garret.

  "Thank you."

  She jerked her gaze from her frowning contemplation of the cup and looked into the most devastatingly seductive set of eyes she'd ever had the misfortune to see. She waited for the chill to melt away from her heart, and was a bit relieved when nothing happened.

  His usual charm wasn't working.

  "You were going to tell me about your parents,” she reminded. Not that she planned to believe a single word from his mouth. How could she, when she knew he lied even as he kissed her silly? A man who could lie to a woman he claimed to desire—ah, but she understood now. The key word was desire, as opposed to love. More proof that he didn't love her, not that she needed any.

  Christian rubbed his jaw. “I was five when he left."

  "Why did he leave?” Rosalyn lowered her gaze so he wouldn't see the distrust in her eyes. What a tear-jerker, as if she would swallow his sad story. Maybe he was one of those actors, she thought. Yes, he appeared wealthy, but what if it was all an act? He'd never said what he did for a living, had he?

  "I don't know. All I do know is he left and never came back. After a year, he divorced my mother. The scandal nearly destroyed her. Later, we heard he'd married again."

  "Callie,” Rosalyn murmured, before she caught herself. What was she saying? He lied. Every word was a lie.

  "Yes. I refused to believe it. By that time, we lived with my grandmother. When I was old enough to travel alone, I came to see for myself. It was then I discovered my new step-mother knew nothing of my father's past life. She believed my mother was dead.” His face twisted into an ugly snarl. “He begged me not to tell her—offered me money."

  Rosalyn caught herself just before she gasped. No, she wasn't falling for his game again. It was a tragic story, but it wasn't true.
She had to keep reminding herself of this. If Henry Garret was the blackguard Christian described, Callie would have known.

  The chair creaked as he leaned back. Rosalyn could feel his burning gaze on her, but she kept her eyes focused on her tea. She'd caught the look of pain in his eyes, remembering that day in the carriage when she'd mentioned how happy Henry and Callie had been. That day, she'd glimpsed the same expression.

  But it didn't mean it was true.

  "Y-you must have been very bitter after that.” Platitudes, nothing but platitudes to convince him she swallowed his pitiful story.

  His laugh echoed that bitterness, scraping across her nerves and settling into her stomach. Lord, but he was good. As he was in all things, a shameless voice whispered. Hastily, Rosalyn took a sip of her tea, uncomfortably warm in her coat but not daring to take it off. Not with Christian around.

  "Oh, I was bitter enough before. Even more so after I returned home and my grandmother informed me that my father had stolen the family heirloom."

  Bravely, she met his gaze, striving to keep hers innocently blank of the disbelief she felt. “Heirloom? You're saying your father stole the family silver or something?"

  "No, not silver. A valuable piece of jewelry, from my mother's side of the family."

  "Why didn't you take it back when you came to visit?"

  "Because my father gave it to Callie,” came his soft response. “I came back again for just that purpose, but I couldn't do it."

  "H-How manly of you.” Rosalyn nearly choked on the words. How could she love such a fraud? The thought was disheartening, to say the least.

  "Aren't you curious as to what the heirloom was?"

  Rosalyn's eyes widened. Nervously, she lifted her cup of tea, shielding her expression from his penetrating gaze. What was he getting at? It was obvious by his tone he was hiding something. Because she didn't know what else to say, and since she couldn't say the truth—that she didn't care—she said, “What kind of heirloom did your father steal?"

  There was an odd, telling silence before he said, “A ruby necklace."

  Rosalyn spewed tea onto the table, choking and gasping for air. Christian patted her politely on the back, having risen so fast she didn't see him move. Wiping her streaming eyes, she carefully set the cup down as Christian returned to his chair.