“Some things people refuse to tell their organizers,” she said lightly. “You know, like analysts.”
“Page—”
“I’m serious. If I’d been acting professionally instead of just being her friend, Millie never would have told me about that trip to Jamaica. As it was, she called and asked me if I wanted to come along.”
“Did you?”
“Want to? Yes, very much. You remember last winter. It was awful. But I didn’t go. I couldn’t. I had commitments. And what kind of example would that have set for my clients? Anyway, that doesn’t answer my question about William. Would he ever do anything like that?”
“I don’t know, but I wish he would. He’s gotten to be a workaholic—almost a recluse—since his divorce. He lives for his work and doesn’t really go out much.”
“Unless you’re bribing him with hockey and basketball tickets.”
Chris gave her an unrepentant look as she sat with her legs folded and her spine straight about a yard from his feet. “Why do you think I chose sports tickets instead of money? He needs to get out more. He used to be pretty impulsive. No trips to Jamaica, but he liked to do unexpected things, like buy a dozen roses for his wife for no reason or go on spontaneous day trips to New Hampshire or Vermont. But his wife was the type who only saw the money that went into the roses and wished he’d bought her a blouse or a blender instead, and who preferred one big vacation a year and the rest of the time to stay home weekends and wash the car or mow the lawn. William drove her crazy. She couldn’t appreciate him for who he is—and vice versa, I have to admit.”
“Sounds as if they were just too different,” Page said, hating the note of dread in her voice.
“Not different in the right ways. There are differences that are compatible, enriching, and there are those that aren’t. Theirs weren’t.” Chris drew up his knees and looked over the tops of them. “But we’re not supposed to be talking about Millie Friedenbach and William Norton, are we?”
Page shook her head and picked rug fuzz off her dress, aware its hem had ridden way up above her knees when she folded herself up in a tailor squat. “Heart-to-heart talks have to be spontaneous,” she said, not looking at Chris. “You can’t plan them.”
“You’re not comfortable talking about our relationship.”
It was a statement, but she said, “That’s right. And don’t say ‘Okay, then tell me about yourself,’ because that seems contrived, too. I figure all that stuff will come out as we spend more time together.”
Chris rolled onto his knees and, stretching out on his stomach, propped himself on his elbows at her side. He said quietly, “So you do want us to spend time together?”
She faked a nonchalant shrug and said teasingly, “Do I have a choice?”
“Yes.” He inched closer, all his concentration on her. “Yes, you do have a choice. Always.”
“I was just—” She broke off with a sigh. “I was just not being very funny. I know I have a choice. If you were doing a column on me, maybe not. But you’re not. And anyway, yes, I do want us to spend time together. I’d like to get to know you better.”
He smiled, and she could see the relief in his eyes. “But long talks deep into the night aren’t your thing.”
“I’m not really a talker....”
“You’d rather listen.”
She laughed a little. “And organize.”
Reaching out with one finger, he drew a circle on her exposed knee. “But of course.”
Transfixed, she watched the motion of his finger and took a breath that was meant to be deep but wasn’t. Its shallowness, the movement of his finger, made her winded and slightly dizzy. For a moment she stopped breathing and just listened. All she could hear was Chris’s steady breathing. It was strangely comforting.
“Tell me,” she said, “that night you called with your ‘two questions’... were you really taking me up on my offer?”
“What do you think?”
“No. But did you have two questions? Ever since I cut you off I’ve been wondering.”
He began to make wider circles, using two fingers and moving higher, onto her thigh. “Yeah, I did.”
“Were they legitimate?”
“To me they were.”
“That leaves a lot of leeway.”
“Now, now,” he chided, not offended.
“What were they?”
“You really want to know?” He scooted another few inches closer and drew a circle whose circumference licked the edge of her hem high on her thigh. “All right. But do you still plan to answer them ‘honestly and to the best of your ability’?”
His fingers were making her shiver, not with cold but with the spidery sensations they sent radiating through her. She took a moment to answer and finally said, “Sure, why not?”
“Okay. First question. What’s the B in Page B. Harrington stand for?”
She grimaced. “And the second?”
“You have to answer the first one first.”
“It’s not a legitimate question, and you know it.”
“Bertha?”
“No.”
“Beatrice.”
“No, now—”
“Belinda.”
“No. Look, I’ll tell you if you tell me what the O in Christopher O. Battle stands for.”
“Another deal.”
“And you don’t make deals, so let’s forget middle names. What’s the second question?”
He suspended his circle making and gave her a direct, unwavering look. “Do you want us to make love?”
“That’s the kind of question you ask in interviews?”
‘‘Ass. It’s the kind of question I ask beautiful, organized, turquoise-eyed women who make me crazy with ultimatums and their uncanny ability to upstage me. It’s the kind of question I ask you.”
She leaned back on her elbows and said lightly, “I figured that.”
He gazed at the full length of her, his eyes lingering on her stomach, then her breasts, then her eyes. His hand was still on her knee. She could see herself taking quick, shallow breaths. She could feel her breasts swelling and see her nipples hardening beneath her dress. Since Chris Battle missed nothing, she didn’t think he’d missed those very obvious indications of what the answer to his question would be.
He asked, “Are you going to answer honestly and to the best of your ability?”
There was something in his expression she hadn’t seen before, and at first she didn’t recognize it for what it was: uncertainty. It couldn’t be something he liked to feel, or even liked to tolerate. He didn’t measure the control over his life in terms of schedules and systems and organized working conditions but in terms of spontaneity and emotional certainty. She saw now that Chris Battle, tough and cynical as he was, could be hurt. That he could want. That he could feel rejection and anguish.
Simply put, he couldn’t put words into her mouth. But he wanted to. He cared very much what her answer would be, but he wasn’t sure what she was going to say.
“To answer to the best of my ability would probably mean not answering at all,” she told him, hoping her sincerity would take any sting from her words. “I’m not very good at talking about my feelings. Traditionally women are supposed to be good at that sort of thing, but... I’m not.” She looked away, grateful he hadn’t tried to say anything. “But to answer honestly...” Swallowing, she bit her lip and wished all this came more easily to her. But she’d never been forthcoming about her feelings; she’d long avoided exposing herself in that way. Chris made a move toward her, and she knew instinctively that he wanted to tell her she didn’t have to answer. But she refused to look at him, to signal an opening to interrupt, and finally she simply whispered, “Yes.”
Chapter Eight
Chris sat on the edge of Page’s neatly made bed and watched her pull the drapes, the lights of Beacon Hill—including the one in his attic window—disappearing. Her bedroom was sophisticated and feminine, done in pale neutrals, spotless
. No dust under the bed; he’d already peeked. And he hadn’t said a word when he saw that her drawers weren’t labeled after all.
He could tell she was feeling a little self-conscious. But she smiled when she turned back to him.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked, although he could see no indication in her face that she wanted to change her mind and ask him to leave.
“Yes. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’ve no doubt that you do.”
He sensed what her admission had cost her: a bit of that control she prized so highly. In admitting she wanted to make love to him, she’d made herself vulnerable.
“But I think I know something of how you feel,” he went on softly. “For us to move forward, there are going to be risks—for both of us.”
There was a touch of surprise in her expression as she looked at him. “Thank you for understanding that. But I don’t have a high degree of risk tolerance.” She pulled open a drawer on her bedside stand and tossed him a little package. “See what I mean? I leave as little as possible to chance.”
Chris blew dust off it and grinned when he saw what it was. He ignored her slight blush. “Always prepared, huh?”
She laughed. “I also keep bottled water, powdered milk and canned goods, too.”
He arched a brow, not sure he wanted her to know just yet how much the dusty package inflamed him. “What more does one need?”
“Are you offended?” she asked, sitting down beside him.
“Are you kidding? I’m sitting here on your bed and you hand me the means of keeping us from getting into a mess and you think I might be offended? Sweetheart, what I am is turned on.” He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down flat on the bed, sideways under him. She was so damn lean and sexy. He grinned at her. “It must be the dust.”
As he held himself above her, he lowered just his mouth to hers, forcing himself not to pounce. Her lips were dry and tasted faintly of brandy. He moistened them with his tongue. Desire rushed through him, urging him toward her, but still he held back. Her lips parted, and his tongue delved in. He moaned at the sweet taste of her, every fiber of his body tensed with wanting her.
She reached up and grabbed his sides. He could feel the indentation of each of her fingers as they dug into the solid muscle just under his ribs. Her tongue circled his with such heat and urgency he could barely hold himself under control. He wanted to take her now, just tear off her clothes and his and get on with it.
But he eased back and smiled, feeling his stiffness as he held his ache for her rigidly in check. She was breathing as hard as he was, her face flushed with longing, further inflaming him.
“You haven’t changed your mind?” he asked wryly.
“No!”
It came out as an emphatic breath.
“Good,” he murmured, slowly sliding his hand up her thigh, “because I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I do you right now.”
His hand stopped at the top of her panty hose, and he helped her out of them and her underpants, shuddering at the feel of her soft, warm skin under his hands.
He cupped her bottom and kissed her again. “I can’t stand this....”
“Then don’t,” she whispered hoarsely, tearing at his clothes.
They pulled them off together and tossed them on the floor. “Want me to tidy up?” he asked.
“Not funny, Battle.”
She was breathless as she lay back on her elbows, her dress hiked up, and let her gaze travel from his eyes down to his toes. There was a look of eagerness and longing in her expression that overwhelmed him with passion and a keen sense of rightness.
“Page B.,” he said, his voice hoarse with the frustration of wanting her, “I wish you knew how many times I’ve looked out across the Public Garden and wondered if there was a woman out there who’d make me feel the way you do....I wish I knew. You can see how much I want you—”
He broke off, moving toward her, and she surprised and further aroused him by giving him a secretive little grin. “I guess it was the dust,” she said. “I’ll have to remember that.”
With a lust-filled growl he pushed her gently back on the bed, following her down as he scooped her up in his arms. He never wanted to let her go. He was bursting with emotions he’d given up on ever having the chance to feel. They nearly took his breath away. His entire being was filled with the feel of her, the soft smell of her, the possibilities of her. He couldn’t imagine himself without her.
“Chris... I want you. I need you.”
All he could manage was to speak her name, but he could hear all his tortured longing in his whisper.
She slipped her arms around his back and pulled him on top of her, and this time it was she who found his mouth. Her tongue plunged in, and her dress was hiked up above her hips…and all he knew was a passion so great he lost all sense of time and place. There was only her.
She was arching toward him, rubbing erotically against him, her every move telling him that they had gone beyond words. He started to get rid of the dress, but she shook her head never mind and grabbed at him. It was all he could do to deal with the matter of protection; he tore the package with his teeth and it was done.
He didn’t know if he’d cried out or she had or they both had. He only knew that he was suddenly surrounded by the liquid warmth of her and his world had exploded. There was no longer a need to hold back. He couldn’t.
And she urged him on, grabbing his hips and urging him into her. He thrust deep and hard, and she responded with a wild abandon that made his heart pound. And she pulled him deeper and harder until his head was spinning and his body burning and his world a mass of volcanic fire. Her fingers dug into his buttocks and she cried out, not holding back, either. Then they both were thrashing together, their release coming simultaneously, in great, monstrous bursts of flame that left them gasping and spent... and utterly satisfied. For him, never so satisfied. Never so at peace with himself and his future.
This is where I belong, he thought, holding her. Now... forever.
* * *
Page woke up shaking violently, her pulse racing. She didn’t know where she was. Somewhere she wasn’t sure she belonged. Somewhere she didn’t understand.
She couldn’t remember ever being so terrified.
She bolted upright in her bed and gulped in a breath, then forced herself to let it out slowly as she tried to calm herself. Had she had a nightmare? What was wrong?
Suddenly she realized she was naked. The air was chilly, and goose bumps had broken out on her arms. Shivering, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders and looked around the room. It was her bedroom. Everything there was familiar. What she’d picked out, bought herself. What she knew. Waking up, she’d felt herself in alien territory. But nothing had changed.
She glanced at the figure with the tousled dark hair sleeping alongside her.
Everything had changed.
It was after dawn. A shaft of sunlight angled through a crack in the drapes and hit the pale rug. She felt uncomfortable having no sense of what time it was; usually she could guess within thirty minutes. What was it now? Five in the morning? Six?
She glanced at her clock radio and felt a stab of panic: 8:30.
Eight-thirty!
She threw back the covers and leaped out of bed but stopped herself so abruptly she stumbled. It was Saturday.
She’d forgotten.
She’d never forgotten what day it was.
Feeling foolish, she sat back on the edge of the bed, but it was too cold, and she had to decide whether to get up and put on her robe or climb back under the covers.
She got up and put on her robe.
The woman who looked back at her in the bathroom mirror seemed somehow different. There was a rosiness to her skin and a glow in her eyes that she’d never noticed before. It wasn’t just because she’d made love last night; she knew better than that. It was because she’d made love with Chris Battle. After that first time she’d gotten out o
f her dress, and they’d turned out the lights and made love once more, slowly, taking the time to explore each other’s bodies. She remembered his whispers about how she felt to him and what her caresses did to him. His talk had made her want him even more. But she’d said so very little. He’d seemed to understand and hadn’t asked for more than she could give.
Her pulse quieted and she no longer shook. Whatever had caused it, her terror had subsided. Nevertheless, she felt ill at ease. She didn’t like waking up in her own bed feeling so damn scared—
No, that isn’t it!
She hadn’t been scared. Not at all. What she’d felt was the panic of being out of control.
“Morning.”
She turned and managed to smile at Chris, standing unabashedly—and magnificently—naked in her bathroom doorway. “Hello.”
“Up early, aren’t you?”
“I rarely sleep past eight, even on weekends.”
“Even when you’ve been up half the night?”
“Apparently so. Coffee?”
He nodded, his gaze searching hers. But she averted her eyes and, dashing past him, told him he looked like a werewolf with his two-day growth of beard. He growled behind her, and she laughed, her uneasiness seeming so silly now with him awake. She scrambled out of the bedroom, making it to the kitchen without being attacked. In a few minutes he joined her, showered and with a towel wrapped around him but still, of course, unshaved.
“You look downright roguish,” she told him, then added silently, and sexy as hell.
“Good. I feel pretty damn roguish, let me tell you. I can’t remember the last time I was awake at 8:30 on a Saturday morning. You do this every week?”
“No, never. I’m always up much earlier. My cleaning woman comes at nine—”
“What?”
“Relax. She has four sons.”
It wasn’t good enough for Chris, and he tramped back into the bedroom and got dressed, grumbling loud enough for Page to hear him from the kitchen.
“Well, how was I supposed to know you were going to be here?” she yelled to him as she fixed coffee. “If we’d planned last night, I could have called her—”
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