Aspen Gold (20 page)

"I think it's a perfect combination." Kit accepted the glass he offered, then added, recalling his remark earlier that moonlight was for adolescents, "And much more adult."

"I thought so." Smiling faintly, he touched the glass to hers.

She briefly swirled the brandy, then took a sip, aware it was as much the look in his eyes as the heat of the brandy that made her feel warm all the way to her toes. Definitely a pleasant feeling.

Idly she perused the midnight sky, strewn with thousands of stars. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it? Just look at all the stars," she murmured. "It's been ages since I've seen so many. And they look so close--as if you could reach out and touch them."

"You're the kind of woman who makes a man want to pluck all the stars from the sky and present them to you in cupped hands just for the reward of your smile."

"I do believe you're flirting with me, John T.," she teased.

"Not flirting." He grazed the back of a finger along her cheek, then ran it into her hair.

"I'm making my move on you."

"Is that right?" She sounded slightly breathless, and knew it was from the familiar thrill of his touch.

"Nothing has ever felt more right." He brushed his mouth over the path his finger had taken.

"I do believe you have designs on my virtue, John T." Out of habit, Kit tried to keep it light even as she felt all her resistance melting because it did feel right. Tonight more than any other night, it seemed, she needed to love--she needed to be loved.

"I have designs on your virtue, your body, your lips, your heart." He rubbed his mouth near her ear. "I have designs on you, Kit." The low, husky whisper of her name was like a caress over her skin as he took the brandy glass, freeing her hands. She slid them over the front of his chest, but not in protest. "Do you know how much I've wanted you these past weeks?"

"No," she said softly, thinking only that she wanted to feel the pressure of his mouth on hers and the sensations it always evoked.

"Too much. Too damn much." His hands framed her face, his fingers threading into her hair, mussing its smooth upsweep. "It's gone past wanting and become needing," he declared and finally took her waiting lips.

The taste of him exploded on her tongue, sweeping through her until she was filled with it.

Instantly everything seemed to quicken--her blood, her heart, her senses. She tipped her head back, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

Seduction, she might have resisted; demand, she would have fought, but she was vulnerable to his need, and to her own.

When her hands curled around his neck, drawing him to her, his mouth came crushing down, sending them both reeling. He tugged at the silk-covered buttons of her evening cape, impatient to touch her skin. As they came loose, he pushed the satin fabric from her shoulders. It fell in a glistening pool at her feet. She shivered, first from the cold of night, then from the heat of his hands and his lips as they played over her skin, exploring her neck, throat, and shoulders.

All along he'd intended to end the evening in bed with Kit, but he hadn't expected to feel this urgency, this desperation. She touched something primitive in him. He fought to control it even as he scooped her up and carried her into the bedroom.

There, he set her down. For a moment, they were locked in each other's arms. His hands tunneled into her hair, scattering pins until it spilled onto her shoulders. He murmured something, his actions speaking louder as he plunged deep into her mouth again.

Hurriedly, impatiently, they began to undress each other. His fingers fumbled with the zipper of her gown. He swore. She laughed, definitely breathless. Then they were on the bed, flesh to flesh.

He could feel her nipples harden against his chest, and wanted to take her immediately. He banked the need, vowing to enjoy her slowly. From her brandy-flavored lips, he took a leisurely journey to the warmer taste of her throat. But his hands were already roaming demandingly. Kit moved under him with an uncontrollable urgency as his fingers found the peak of her breast, intensifying her pleasure. Skimming over her skin with his tongue, he moved down to her breast.

Kit arched beneath him, her hands digging in to press him down. His teasing kisses had her moaning in delighted frustration. His mouth lingered at the swell of her breast, sending more and more shivers of pleasure through her. His tongue flicked lightly over her nipple, then retreated to soft flesh.

She murmured his name, urging him back. Slowly he circled it, his mouth on one breast, his hand on the other, driving her into mindless sounds and convulsive movements beneath him. Ending the torture, he captured a straining nipple between his teeth, then left it moist and wanting while he journeyed to her other breast to taste, to explore, and finally to devour.

She ran her fingers over him, tracing the taut muscles in his shoulders and down his strong back, then skimming over his narrow hips. Amid a haze of sensation, she felt him shudder at her touch as his own hands moved lower, exciting her as she had excited him.

He traveled down the valley between her breasts, her stomach quivering beneath his lips. As his mouth drifted lower, she arched to meet it--willing, wanting. His tongue was hard and greedy, shooting pleasure from the center of her out to her fingertips. Her body felt heavy with it, her head light.

Giving her no chance to recover, his mouth came swiftly back to hers, loving her not so much with tenderness as with thoroughness. He was one solid ache for her, yet he was aware of every changing, rippling thrill she felt if he exerted more pressure here, took a longer taste there. It gave him a wild sense of power, a power made more acute by the desire to see her without control. Aware his own was ebbing too quickly.

He could hear her breathing--quick and short. She moved under him with complete abandon. She was his.

He needed to know that, though he didn't know why.

Her fingers touched him and the blood raced fast and furious into his head. A second later, she took him and drew him inside her.

They moved together, a driving rhythm taking them, neither leading, both following, the pleasure building until all sensation centered into one, just as they were one. And together they found the perfection that can be achieved only rarely as they gave perfection to each other.

Morning sunlight streamed through the church's stained-glass windows, giving the reds, greens, and blues of the colored glass rich, jewel-bright hues. Minute particles of dust glistened in the shafts of light that spilled across the outer aisles and invaded the space between the polished oak pews.

Old Tom Bannon sat in the last row, close to the doors along with the other ushers for the morning service. Bannon sat near the front next to Sondra, his glance drifting over the small congregation. From the pulpit, the minister read the selected verses from the New Testament, then issued a call to prayer.

Bannon automatically bowed his head and listened to the somnolent drone of the minister's voice, his attention wandering as it had all morning.

Around him there was a murmur of voices echoing an

"Amen" and he lifted his head, his gaze shooting to the dozen members that comprised the children's choir as the organist began to play. He scanned their solemn and earnest faces until he saw Laura's, her dark eyes intent on the director.

Sondra touched his arm, momentarily distracting him and reminding him of her presence at his side.

Then he focused again on his daughter and observed the faint, barely perceptible bob of her chin as she counted off the beats in the organ prelude.

Bannon found himself mentally counting with her, his feet pressed hard against the floor, a fine tension lacing through him.

He saw the decisive nod she gave as her lips parted on the first word and a chorus of young voices lifted in song, filling the sanctuary with the hymn "This Is My Father's World."

Bannon quickly picked out the pure, clear tones of Laura's voice from the others. She had a small solo in the second verse and he waited for it, knowing how anxious she'd been about it and trying to remember the words himself. The moment came and her voice rang out strong and sure.

"This is my Father's world," she sang. "He shines in all that's fair. In rustling grass I hear Him pass. He speaks to me everywhere."

The other voices joined hers for the final verse and Bannon released the breath he hadn't been aware of holding. She hadn't faltered over a single note or phrase. Smiling faintly, he unclenched his hands and ran damp palms over his trouser legs.

When the song ended, Sondra turned to him, smiling as she leaned close to whisper, "She was perfect."

Bannon nodded and thought of Diana ... of how pleased and proud she would have been of their daughter this morning. Suddenly he felt old and tired as if he'd been beaten in a fight. He knew the feeling and it left him vaguely depressed.

After the service was over, he followed Sondra up the aisle and reclaimed his hat from the rack by the door, then stood in the short line to shake hands with the minister. Outside the church there was the usual dawdling of parishioners and the noisy chatter of children released from forced silence. With a hand at Sondra's elbow, Bannon descended the steps.

"Morning, Ed." He nodded to the balding, ruddy-cheeked physician chatting with a local broker, Frank Scott, near the base of the steps.

"Morning, Bannon," he responded with typical cheeriness. "Gorgeous weather we've been having, isn't it?"

"It is." Bannon gave a glance at the high blue sky overhead, and the lone marshmallow cloud drifting across it. "Better enjoy it while we can. It won't last much longer."

"I'm headed straight for the links to play a few rounds," he replied, then turned to the broker as Bannon continued past him. "Give Martin a call and we'll make it a foursome."

Halfway to the parking lot, Bannon moved to the outer edge of the sidewalk and paused. "We'd better wait for Laura," he said to Sondra.

"It shouldn't take her long to change out of her choir robe."

Sondra smiled an acknowledgment and stood close beside him, nodding to those who passed by them, well aware that the sight of her with Bannon didn't draw a second look. She and Bannon had been coupled in the minds of these people for too long. In fact, now they'd be quicker to notice if they weren't together.

The thump of a cane signaled the approach of the white-haired and ramrod-straight Hetta Carstairs, who never ventured out of her Victorian home on the West End without her gloves and pillbox hat.

"Good morning, Mrs. Carstairs." Bannon touched his hat to the widow of the late Pitkin County Judge Arthur Carstairs.

She recognized him and stopped, leaning briefly on her cane. "Mr. Bannon.

Miss Hudson." She acknowledged both, then focused on Bannon. "May I compliment you on your daughter, Mr. Bannon. She has a very sweet voice."

"Thank you--" he began, only to be brusquely cut off.

"Obviously she gets it from your mother. She had a lovely voice, too, but yours--yours always reminded me of a beagle Arthur once had. I was quite relieved when you dropped out of the choir as a lad."

"So was I, Mrs. Carstairs," he assured her with a barely concealed smile. Her thin lips twitched with amusement before she nodded to him and moved on, her cane thumping the sidewalk with every other step. "Speaks her mind, doesn't she?"

Bannon murmured to Sondra.

"When you're eighty-five, you can get away with it." She gazed after the woman, thinking of the old woman's house with its wraparound porch and the clutter of flowers around it, mentally calculating its value. The house itself was worth little, but the lot--its size and location--would sell for close to two million. If only the old woman would sell. Sondra shook off that thought and lifted her glance to Bannon's face, studying the harsh angles of his profile. "Mrs.

Carstairs was right, though. Laura does have a lovely voice. You were nervous for her, weren't you?" she asked, remembering. "I saw the way you tightened up when she sang. What were you thinking about?"

"Diana--wishing she could have been there to hear her."

Sondra looked away, her lips coming together in a thin and bitter line. "You never forget, do you?"

she murmured too low for him to hear.

"Looks like Dad found Laura."

Sondra saw Old Tom and Laura as they came around the corner of the church, hand in hand.

Laura waved to them. Smiling, Sondra waved back. Laura immediately released her grandfather's hand and ran across the grass to greet them.

"You were wonderful, Laura," Sondra said when she reached them.

"Thank you, Aunt Sondra." The girl fairly beamed at the compliment.

Looking at Laura, Sondra saw a great deal of her sister. That was the hold Diana had on Bannon. That was Diana's power, her way of forever reminding Bannon of the past. Thinking of that, Sondra hated her sister with a secret and passionate fullness.

Old Tom joined them. "I told her none of the others sounded as good as she did."

"That's true," Sondra agreed. "We were all very proud of you."

Laura's smile grew even wider and she sank her teeth into her lower lip, trying to hold it back. Then she turned slightly. "Do you like my hair, Aunt Sondra? Buffy's mother fixed it in a French braid for me."

"It's lovely."

"Do you think if I slept on my stomach tonight it would still look nice for school tomorrow?"

"I have a better idea. Why don't you persuade your father to come by my house before he takes you to school in the morning and I'll fix it for you?"

"Can we, Dad?" Laura raised her dark eyes to him.

"It means you'd have to get up a half hour earlier," he warned.

"I don't mind."

"Okay," Bannon said, giving in to the silent appeal of those dark eyes.

"If we have that settled, how about some food?"

Old Tom rubbed his hands together in obvious anticipation. "I don't know about the rest of you, but that pancake I had for breakfast is long gone."

"How does beef burgundy sound?"

Sondra asked. "With some of Emily's homemade dinner rolls on the side?" She caught Bannon's expression. "You are coming to dinner, aren't you?"