Star Dust (19 page)

“I’m here,” he called out. “Are you ready?”

“Just a minute,” Anne-Marie called back from somewhere in the house.

“Kit!” Freddie came barreling down the hall, hair slicked back and wearing a button-down shirt with a tie. “Are we taking the T-Bird?”

“No, we’ll take your car.”

Lisa came out then, looking quite the young lady in heels and a skirt. Not so much like Anne-Marie in her features, but very much like her in her gestures and mannerisms.

“You look very nice,” Kit offered to Lisa.

She ducked her head, the grin splitting her face making her look like a little girl again. “Thank you.”

And then, Anne-Marie. She was draped in lime green silk, her hair a burst of flame above it, the dress hugging the curves of her breasts and waist before flaring out into a full skirt that swished with each step and caressed her calves.

He searched for a compliment to give her, one that would be appropriate in front of the kids, one that wouldn’t tip them off to how badly he wanted to tear that dress off her.

“Nice. You look, uh, nice.”

“Kit, is something wrong?” Lisa asked. “Your voice sounds funny.”

He cleared his throat. “Nope, just a frog.”

“Thank you.” Anne-Marie’s cheeks went pink as she walked up to him. She held something out to him and dropped it into his hand when he reached for it.

The car keys. Right. What else would it be?

“Anything I should know about your car?” he asked.

“You’re an astronaut and a test pilot. I think you can handle a sedan,” she replied.

A few weeks ago, he would have focused on the edge in her voice—he would have felt like she was insulting him. But now he knew she was teasing. He was making progress with her.

They all traipsed outside. “Freddie, don’t forget to open the door for your sister,” Kit reminded him.

“Yes, sir,” Freddie answered.

Kit opened the door for Anne-Marie, the silk of her skirts whispering to him as she slid in. His fingers tightened on the cold metal door frame as he contemplated the line of her legs, just before she whisked them into the car.

Just friends. Only an affair.

All of that felt like lies as he shut the door and prepared to drive them all to the Dunsfords’ for appetizers.

He kept up a chattering conversation with the kids while trying very hard not to think about Anne-Marie sitting next to him, the scent of her perfume touching his nose, her hands folded in her lap, the neat way she tucked her legs beneath her skirt.

But his attempts at inattention only made things worse, until he felt as if his skin were burning with his efforts to not notice her. Just when he thought he might go up in flames, they arrived.

To be greeted by a pack of photographers.

He stopped the car, but left it running.
Shit
. He should have expected this—the press always wanted pictures—but the thought of shoving Anne-Marie and the kids in front of all this…

“Why are they here?” Anne-Marie hissed.

“The launch,” he said slowly. “They want pictures to print in the run up to the launch.
Life
has some exclusive access and, well, everyone loves astronauts.”

“My kids will be in every newspaper in America, then?”

She sounded quite displeased.

“Probably just
Life
.” As if that made it any better.

“Mom?” Lisa asked uncertainly.

“I can take you home,” he offered. He wanted to, wanted to shelter them from this circus. He himself couldn’t escape it, but they didn’t have to weather it too.

Anne-Marie’s expression softened. “It’s all right, honey.” She faced him. “Is it like this before every launch?”

He nodded. “Margie probably planned for this. She doesn’t usually let them in the house, though.” A small thing, but maybe it would ease Anne-Marie’s mind.

She studied the photographers, snapping away as the Dunsfords posed, when Margie spotted them and waved for them to come over.

“She’s seen us,” Anne-Marie said absently.

“We can still go.” Kit didn’t want them in the middle of all this, and Anne-Marie didn’t want anyone thinking they were together—the whole thing could end up in disaster.

“No.” She set her hand on the door handle and wrenched it open, not even waiting for Kit to open it for her. “I’ve got a fifteen-pound turkey sitting in my oven that will not go to waste. Come on, kids.”

Although it was rude and ungentlemanly, Kit could only stare as she marched toward the photographers, head high, shoulders back, and smile wide, as proud as a sailing ship cutting through the waves.

Lisa and Freddie stared with him.

“Come on, guys,” he prodded them. “You heard your mother.” And they all followed in her wake.

Margie Dunsford had been right. It shouldn’t be surprising, of course—she was always right—but this entire crazy scheme was working. Sitting around Betty Henkins’s table, eating baked Alaska, the final course of this wandering meal, Anne-Marie could see the astronauts relax.

Joe Reynolds, who was the presumptive favorite to fly the first Perseid mission, was sinking against Frances with a genuine smile on his face. Greg Henkins was mixing drinks in the corner and arguing about the merits of rye with Carruthers—who was so relaxed he’d forgotten to be smarmy. And Kit was sitting with the kids in the kitchen. He’d periodically catch her eye and give her a look so heated she was certain her slip was singed.

Somehow, she’d survived tonight. Margie had trotted her and another neighbor out to the press as friends, and the photographers had seemed to buy it. Everyone had been lovely and welcoming. The turkey had been a big hit. She should be pleased. And relieved. And relaxed. Everyone else was.

Instead, she was restless.

“No, no,” Storch was saying across from her, “you’re entirely wrong. Doris Day took the pill and then they got the marriage license—”

“And she didn’t remember this?” Reynolds replied.

“The pill affected her memory.”

“It was Rock Hudson!” Margie shouted from the kitchen.

“I think he faked the license later,” Reynolds explained. He turned to her. “What do you think?”

“I didn’t see it.” She hadn’t felt much like romantic comedies lately and she hadn’t really had the time.

“But would you remember marrying Rock?” Betty asked.

“I—” She caught Kit’s eye across the room. He was worried for her, that this talk of marriage and annulment and scandal might make her uncomfortable.

Except she was fine. This was small talk—and she was superb at that. And these people, or at least their wives, were friendly. They didn’t think she was untouchable.

She turned back to Betty and shrugged. “It sounds like it’s was Rock’s fault—who invents a pill like that anyway?”

“Well now you’re making sense!” Margie shouted.

The room dissolved into laughter and shouting, but she was insensitive to it. All she could see was the almost-smile on Kit’s mouth. And his eyes—his big blue eyes boring into her, as if he wanted to see her in this moment always.

An affair. This was an affair. This was temporary.

By the next launch, she wouldn’t be here. Margie would have given up trying to fix them up. The lust would have burned out and he would have moved on. He’d be here with someone else, and that was… it was fine.

She shook her head vigorously against the image and muttered, “Excuse me”—not that anyone was paying attention.

Up a half-flight of stairs she found the bathroom. She shut the door but didn’t bother with the lights. She sagged against the wall.

She’d done foolish things in her life. Things she regretted. Things she’d like to take back. But this one she couldn’t even wish undone—and that was the stupidest part about it.

Because it wasn’t just an affair, and it wasn’t just lust—but all her reasons for wanting it to be were perfectly valid.

Then the door opened, noiselessly. Kit slipped in and closed it, somehow again silently.

“You can’t be here,” she whispered.

“You’re upset.”

“Lisa and Freddie are downstairs. The press is downstairs. Most of the most famous people in America are downstairs!” she half-whispered. She felt like pounding on his chest, but she managed to keep her hands to herself.

Kit glanced at the door, suddenly bright and interested. “Elizabeth Taylor is downstairs?”

There was only so much a woman could take. She moved to punch him and he pulled her into his arms. And against all the reasons she shouldn’t, she went.

She pressed her face into his neck, not wanting to think. She just wanted to smell his aftershave. To feel his warmth. To taste the salt of his skin. She inhaled and burrowed further into him.

He stroked her back in long, even strokes. “Whatever it is, honey, we’ll get through it.”

“No, we won’t.”

He held her for a long moment. She knew why he’d become a test pilot, why ASD thought he’d be a good astronaut: he was as steady as Mount Rushmore. And like a tide feeling the pull of the moon, she wanted to fall into him.

But she couldn’t. For the kids, for herself—hell, for him and his career, she couldn’t.

She pulled back and he released her.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing some hair off her face.

“Mm.” It wasn’t really an answer, but he seemed to accept it.

He moved to kiss her and she put up a hand. “I’ll muss you.”

He gave her a long, slow smile and dropped to his knees.

“What—”

But she couldn’t get the question out before he reached for her hem—and that shut her up.

“You’ve been driving me insane all night,” he whispered as he inched her skirt and slip out of the way.

She released an unsteady breath.

“This dress,” he went on. “The way you smile. Jeez, your perfume.” He’d uncovered her stockings and panties. He leaned into her and inhaled. “Except
you
smell even better.” He beamed up at her—but he wasn’t done with his uncovering act.

He rolled her clothing up further and nipped at her belly button. “I’ve missed you.” The words were stark and vulnerable. And before she could respond, he kissed her stomach, wet and long. Tongue and teeth and lips, all perfectly applied to make something that should have been strange arousing. Frustrating. Perfect.

She fought back a moan and bowed over him. She hadn’t known the world contained what he was doing now. And how poor her life had been without it…

With a shiver, she arched back. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Pleasure transformed her. Lips parted. Eyes half-closed. She was beautiful. With him, she was.

She snapped her eyes closed and made some little noise, mostly out of surprise.

He released her, slid her dress back into place, and stood. He pressed his mouth to her hair once and repeated, “I’ve missed you.”

Then he left. And several seconds later, she dared to open her eyes. She was flushed, but no longer beautiful. She was simply Anne-Marie—freckled and ordinary. Exactly like she’d be when this was inevitably over.

Kit picked up another plate from the dining room table, set it atop the stack in his arms, and made for the kitchen. Anne-Marie hadn’t even given a token protest when he’d told her to go help the kids get to bed, that he would start the cleanup.

“Are you in your pajamas yet?” Anne-Marie called to the kids down the hall.

There was a flurry of noise, then a chorus of
yeses
, and… silence.

Anne-Marie’s place almost looked worse than his had after his surprise birthday party—who would have guessed astronauts were such a filthy bunch?—but slowly order was being restored with each bit he cleared away. The dishes alone would take an hour. But with two of them, it wouldn’t be so bad.

He paused, his dish-filled hand hovering above the sudsy sink. Maybe she didn’t want him to help. Maybe she’d shoo him out of the house as soon as the kids were down, happy to finally have an astronaut-free house.

She’d never said what had driven her to the bathroom. He’d done what he could to ease her tension—his own too—and she’d slipped out again with a smile on her face, but sex wouldn’t solve all their problems.

He slipped a plate into the water, reached for another. He’d do what he could for now, and if she wanted him to leave, he would.