Some Enchanted Season (31 page)

Staring at him, she focused on the one important part of his speech. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Incredibly so.”

“Scars and all?”

His faint smile was sad that she felt the need to clarify. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Scars and all.”

“Then sometime you might want to—” She broke off, suddenly too shy to continue, and his smile gained strength.

“Make love with you again? I’ve wanted to all day. All evening. All night. I want to right now. But …”

She waited, edgy and uneasy, to hear his objection.

“You’re not taking birth control pills. You could get pregnant.”

And for him that was a major objection. He’d wanted no part of creating a baby with her when they were happily married, and he wanted it even less now. Though the knowledge broke her heart, she kept her expression smooth, her voice level. “Yes, I understand the connection between the two. What do you want? A sworn statement that I wouldn’t expect anything from you?”

He looked offended, then irritated. Before he could speak, though, she did.

“It doesn’t matter. This is the wrong time of the month. You have nothing to worry about.” She tried to not notice the relief that eased across his face. “So … what do we do now?”

“First you finish with the cookies. I’ll help you.
Then we go upstairs and you work off some of this tension. I’ll help with that too.”

She knew exactly how, knew that when he was finished “helping,” she would be limp, too spent to make the slightest demand on her muscles. She would have only enough energy to curl up beside him for the rest of the night.

Seconds slid into minutes while she watched him and he watched her, until finally he gestured toward the oven. “The timer’s beeping.”

She glanced at the oven, then back. “I don’t care about the cookies.”

“Hey, white chocolate macadamia’s my favorite.”

“I know plenty of your other favorites.” But at last she moved to the oven. She set the finished tray aside, then began spooning dough onto the next. She’d managed only one neat mound, when Ross came to stand behind her. He reached around her with both arms, pulled the spoon from her, then slid her robe down, leaving it to puddle on the floor around her feet. When he put the spoon back in her hand, for a few seconds she couldn’t remember what it was for.

“Cookies, Maggie.” His reminder was murmured right into her ear, tickling, followed by the touch of his tongue. She dropped the scoop of dough back into the bowl, tried again, and got it on the tray this time.

“I don’t think this is what Dr. Grayson had in mind when he suggested that you help me cook,” she said in a voice as unsteady as her legs, as fluttery as her heart.

“Screw Dr. Grayson.”

Her laughter dissolved as his hands slid over her breasts, and her breath caught in her throat. Her
T-shirt was old and soft and heightened the impact of his caresses. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and lost track of everything but his mouth, his hands, and the gentle, lazy pleasure they were creating. “I—I thought …” It was a lie. She couldn’t think just then, not without a struggle. “I thought … you liked … Dr. Grayson.”

“My dislike for him is directly proportional to your liking. The cookies, Maggie.”

She felt blindly for the bowl, filled the spoon, emptied it on what she hoped was the tray. “You sound almost …” The word disappeared as he slid one hand underneath her shirt to rub her breast, to torment her nipple with caresses gentle and teasing and wicked and hard.

“Jealous? Damn straight. He’s not your type.”

“Then who is?”

“Me.
I’m
your type.” As if to emphasize his words, he pressed against her, thrusting, rubbing. She dropped the spoon with a clatter, braced her hands on the cold counter, and wished desperately that they were naked, that he was inside her, that they could stay that way forever. When he slid his hand underneath the waist of her pants, over her hip, between her thighs, she groaned. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to …”

He moved his fingers gently. “To what?”

“Oh, please …”

“Please do that?” He stroked her, and her nerves tightened another notch.

“Please, Ross, not without …” Another caress, another gasp, more steamy, tingling heat. “Not without you,” she whispered, and, like that, he stopped. No
more erotic kisses, no more wicked caresses, no more heat and hunger and need except her own, and it was untamed, clawing through her like something wild and primitive.

He moved to the end of the island, put distance between them, then touched his cool fingers to her burning face. “I like that look on you—aroused. Womanly. Purely sexual.”

She took a breath. Another. And another. When she could focus, she fixed her gaze on him. When she could speak, she softly, without rancor, murmured, “Bastard.”

“You asked me to stop. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?” He tried for a smile, but it wouldn’t form. He dragged in his own deep breath, and his eyes turned dark, his voice thick. “Forget the cookies. I want you now.”

Her smile came as easily as his refused. She could play the same game with him, could tease him and make him ache, make him beg, then make him wait. She could toy with him until his body was tingling, straining, threatening to find its own relief without her.

She turned away from the island and took a roll of plastic wrap from the cabinet. Gathering the remaining dough, she rolled it into a ball, wrapped it in the plastic, and put it in the refrigerator. She transferred the last batch of cookies to the cooling rack, set the dishes in the sink to soak, turned off the oven, leisurely washed and dried her hands as if she had nothing better in the world to do. Then, trailing her robe behind her, she left the kitchen.

It took him a moment to follow her, and when he
did, he found her robe at the foot of the stairs. Her pants were draped over the railing at the top. Her T-shirt lay on the floor outside her bedroom door.

He stepped inside the room, turned on the overhead light, and dropped the clothes. She wanted to protest the light, but didn’t. She wanted to see him. He had the right to see her. He came to the bed, stripped off his clothes, pulled away the covers. For a long, long while he studied her body and she studied his face. She looked hard but found no revulsion, no distaste, nothing but need, hunger, and pure, sweet lust.

As he joined her, joined with her, she felt a moment’s regret that in the kitchen she’d eased his fears about pregnancy with the truth. She wished this were exactly the right time, wished she could know that this act—this loving—would result in the greatest gift he could ever offer. She wished she could be assured that whatever happened, she would always have a part of him in his child.

Then sensation overtook conscious thought. Her brain turned fuzzy as the promise of satisfaction began building in her belly. He gave her all she could bear and greedily demanded of her more, ruthlessly, relentlessly, taking her harder, pushing her further, until she couldn’t bear any more, until her hands clenched and her body shuddered, torn into a million pieces as he filled her, as she found her own release.

Minutes passed. The night air cooled their skin. The faint aroma of cookies drifted through the house. Her fingers slowly uncurled their grip on his arms, and the tension seeped from her muscles. There was nothing more vital than that glorious moment of completion,
nothing more wonderful than the lazy, well-loved languor that followed. One was best, the other better. She wasn’t sure which was which.

Well-loved
. The innocent words pricked her indolence and stirred a quiver of sorrow. If only the words were true, if only Ross loved her—not the habit of a long-married man for his wife, but
real
love, of a man for a woman—she would be the happiest woman in the world.

But, at least in one sense, the words
were
true. She had just been well and truly loved. No other man could have done it better. While it wasn’t everything she wanted, it was more than she’d had any right to expect.

They lay facing each other, her head on his arm, his leg bent over her hip. She touched her fingers to his jaw, rough with beard, then brushed them, just the tips, across his mouth. He automatically kissed them before giving a rich, deeply satisfied sigh.

“Ross?”

His eyelashes flickered.

“What do you call it?”

He opened his eyes, and she saw that he knew exactly what she was asking. Making love, having sex, whatever you prefer to call it, she’d said downstairs. There’d been no opportunity for him to tell her what he preferred, though with his next words he’d called her beautiful. At the time she’d needed to hear that more than she’d needed to know how he would describe what they had just done.

Now she needed to know.

He touched her hair, her cheek, her throat—touched
her tenderly, as if she were fragile. Precious. Silently coaxing her forward, he kissed her—nothing passionate, no tongues, no erotic dances, just a basic, simple kiss—and then he answered.

“I call it the best part of my life.”

Chapter Thirteen
 

A
s the highway led into the valley below, Tom Flynn eased one hand from the steering wheel, flexed his fingers, then repeated the process with the other. The drive from Buffalo had been uneventful but long, reminding him why he’d used the company jet last time. This time he was in no hurry, so he’d thought he would waste a sunny Monday and see what the fascination with road trips was.

He still didn’t know. Driving? He’d rather take flight anytime. Seeing the countryside? He preferred his trees in parks and better neighborhoods, the only places he’d ever seen them growing up. Witnessing these slices of small-town America? God save him.

He wouldn’t have come to Bethlehem at all if he hadn’t found a file near the bottom of the stack Ross had given him his last day in the office. The records
had been put in order according to the date by which they required Tom’s attention. He’d been looking ahead to end-of-the-month assignments when he’d opened the thin manila folder. First thing that morning he’d left Buffalo.

The highway became Main Street, and the speed lowered accordingly. He noticed all the Christmas decorations just as he noticed the people crossing the street, the cars, the buildings, but they made no impression. Like Thanksgiving, Christmas was just one more day to work. It required a little planning, since so many people weren’t accessible, but for the same reason it was usually a very productive day.

He turned off Main, came to the intersection with Hawthorne, and found no big brick house on the corner. A double check of the street sign showed that he’d turned one street too soon. Maggie’s house was a block to the right, so he continued on. He parked out front, crossed the street, and went straight to the door. The bell sounded faintly through the solid wood, and after a brief wait, the door swung open.

“Did you forget your keys—” Ross broke off. “Tom. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Obviously he was expecting Maggie. Tom was glad she wasn’t home. It somehow made his being there easier. “I wanted to discuss something with you, and I thought in person would be best.”

“Come on in.”

They settled in the office. Ross waited expectantly while Tom removed the folder from his briefcase. “I came across this last night. I think you need to reconsider your instructions.”

Though Tom offered the folder, Ross made no effort to take it. His expression indicated that he knew exactly what was inside, and it suggested that Tom might have wasted ten or twelve hours that would have been better spent working.

Rather than return the file to his briefcase, he laid it on the edge of the desk. “I really don’t think I should handle this. I know you think it’s going to be a simple procedure, but it’s not. Once Maggie’s lawyer gets a look at your net worth, he’s going to start making demands.”

Ross remained silent.

“I can recommend a couple of attorneys who are much better qualified to handle it than I am. I know you want to wait a few more weeks, but these aren’t people you call at the last minute. Even for you, it’ll take some time to get a slot in their schedules.”

Ross still said nothing, but his expression had grown darker, colder. Over the last eleven years, Tom had become a pretty good judge of his boss’s moods, but he couldn’t get a handle on this one. Ross would never lose his temper merely because Tom was looking out for his best interests. Hell, that was what he paid him the big bucks for. And there was nothing less in Ross’s best interests than the instructions he’d outlined in the file. If he didn’t feel so damn guilty over the wreck, he’d see that.

“You just can’t go into a divorce settlement with the kind of offer you’ve got here. This house, the car, the jewelry, anything she wants from the house in Buffalo
and
a thirty-percent share of the company? For God’s sake, that alone is a fortune.” He knew almost exactly
how much it was, give or take a few million, but so did Ross. “You can get out of the marriage for a fraction of that amount. It’s not as if she ever had anything to do with the business. She never invested money in it. She never worked in it. All she did was live off the profits as soon as there were any. There’s no reason she should continue to do so once you’re divorced.”