Isabel Sharpe Page 10

  “Wow, Jim, thank you, that’s very sweet.” She smiled, touched by his offer. “Now no more talking about me. I want to know about you.”

  “I’m still in photography. I’ve made a respectable profession of it, actually. I do portraits, but also some commercial shots. Pays the bills. Hard to find time to do the more artistic stuff I love, but…”

  “My daughter Alana is a photographer. She let it slide for a while, but she’s doing more again. She and her boyfriend are renovating a building downtown for artists.”

  “I heard about that. Sawyer Kern. Big-money family here.”

  “Yes.” She finished the first half of her sandwich and drank some water, nervous about the question she was desperate to ask. “What do you hear from Tom?”

  “In Tibet. Farming yaks.”

  “Whoa.” She tried to remain politely interested. “Is he happy?”

  “You know Tom. This will last awhile, then he’ll be on to something else. Before this he was in Nepal running a supply business for climbers. Before that he was in India attached to some teacher. He won’t find himself if he keeps looking outside himself to do it.”

  She nodded, a lump in her throat, but not as big as she might have feared. “Is he clean?”

  Jim pressed his lips together before he shook his head.

  Tricia nodded, and felt a release she hadn’t expected. He couldn’t be any type of decent father to her girls. She was absolved from trying to track him down and get them acquainted. “Miss him?”

  “No.” She was happy to realize it was true. “I had a fantasy of him being some kind of father to Alana and Melanie, but it’s good to let that go.”

  Jim nodded. “I’d like to meet your girls one day, Tee.”

  “I’d like that, too.” She felt her smile tremble, a warning sign she needed to heed.

  But they talked so easily, catching up on the past few decades, on old friends, on their loves and losses, successes, failures—everything usual, but on a more honest and natural level than Tricia was used to. It made her aware of how tightly she’d held herself for so many months since her recovery, worrying about the right thing to say, so as not to give away anything about her past.

  The longer they talked, the more she enjoyed herself, and the more she enjoyed herself, the more she was aware that her feelings for Jim, dormant for so many years, were threatening to explode. Sexual feelings, yes, but also admiration and a dangerous vulnerable sweetness.

  “Did you want anything else?” The waitress startled them.

  “No, thanks.” Jim looked at his watch, shook his head and pulled out his wallet.

  “What?” Tricia looked at her watch. Three o’clock! “Oh, my gosh.”

  “You have somewhere to be?” He handed his credit card to the waitress, watching Tricia in concern.

  “No, I just…didn’t realize.” She laughed self-consciously. “Thank you for lunch. It was really nice to see you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He signed the receipt, kept his copy. “Let’s go.”

  She got up, giddy and let down at the same time, wanting to stay, greedy for more of the feeling of belonging with someone, on whatever level.

  Outside, he touched the small of her back, guiding her away from her car. “C’mere. I want to show you something.”

  Across the parking lot sat an old model Harley. She turned to him. “No way. You still have her?”

  “I do.” Pride rang unmistakably in his voice. “And two helmets. Want a ride for old times’ sake? I have something else to show you.”

  She laughed, reached out and touched the scratched but still shiny chrome. “Talk about memories. Will it take long?”

  “Half an hour, tops.”

  “How can I say no?”

  “You can’t.” He retrieved a helmet, grinning, and climbed on the machine, a 1985 touring bike, an Electra Glide, which he had bought when he’d inherited some money from a grandparent. Tricia strapped her helmet on and climbed on behind him, assuming the familiar rider position instinctively, hands to the sides of his waist, loving the solid feel of his body. He and Tom had both owned bikes. Tom had sold his to buy his plane ticket away from his life and his responsibilities and her. “Ready?”

  “You bet.” She grinned when he started the motor, grinned as they moved into traffic, grinned all the way to Brady Street, loving the ride. He pulled up to park in front of a small building. On the first floor was a sign: Jim Bronson Studios.

  She climbed off the bike, took off her helmet, staring. “Look at you. This is really fabulous, Jim.”

  “Thanks.” He took her helmet, locked it away. “This isn’t what I wanted to show you.”

  He led her around the building, where an alley bisected the block. In back was parked…

  “No way.” Frieda. His old VW van. Rusty here and there, dulled, but big as life.

  “Another trip down memory lane, huh?”

  “I can’t believe you still have her.” Tricia laughed, moved forward and touched the faded blue paint.

  “She’s a rust heap, taking up space. I just couldn’t get rid of her.”

  Tricia walked toward the back, hearing keys jangling behind her, wondering if he remembered that night Tom had tried to get a threesome going. What a life she’d led.

  Jim unlocked the rear doors, threw them open. “Voilà.”

  She stood staring, ridiculously moved by the sight of the crappy old van’s carpeted cargo space. They’d gone on countless trips in the thing, parked wherever, stayed up most of the night singing, drinking, sharing stories. And when they couldn’t stay awake anymore, they’d slept in the back. She and Tom had probably conceived at least one of their daughters there.

  Those were the days. And they also…weren’t.

  “Get on board.” He sat, legs dangling off the back, patting the gray carpet next to him.

  She climbed in, shaking her head. “It still smells the same.”

  “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

  “It’s just right.” She turned to him, intending to smile and tell him how happy she was to be reminded of the good times as well as the bad.

  But he was closer than she expected. His gray eyes, which she always expected to be cool because of their foggy, misty color, were warmer than they should have been. Her next words jammed in her throat.

  “Tee.” His arm came around her. Then whatever he’d been about to say must have gotten stuck, too, because he sat staring at her and she sat staring at him, and finally, maybe in desperation to break the stalemate, they both leaned in at the same time and started kissing.

  Explosive. She couldn’t describe it any other way. The passion didn’t come on gradually, didn’t mount slowly as they became familiar with each other’s lips, it just poured over them like someone had Niagara Falls on a switch and turned it on.

  Nothing was said, but she knew where this would go very quickly, and she sensed he knew it, too. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the understanding that sex with Jim wasn’t a good idea, that there was some reason to pull away from the power of what they were experiencing together, and try to reconnect with her sanity. But with his mouth and hands on her, and hers on him, she pushed them away.

  Footsteps approaching from the alley had Jim’s lips and hands off her and her top tugged straight before she realized what was happening.

  And when she did realize what was happening she felt a wave of nausea roll over her. What if their lovemaking had already progressed and it had been a policeman or someone who called the cops? What if she and Jim had been arrested? How could she convince her girls she’d turned over a new leaf screwing a guy on the first date in full public view?

  “Jim, what did we almost do?”

  “Come on, it hasn’t been that long, has it?” He winked at her. “I don’t know about you, but I’d say we’re about twenty-five years overdue for some fun in the back of Frieda.”

  He remembered. But the knowledge didn’t seem to matter now. “What if we’d bee
n caught? What would my girls—”

  “We weren’t caught.” He kissed her, tenderly, twice. “And next time we will be in a private room.”

  She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. She was still horrified at how quickly she’d thrown away all her resolve, all her good intentions.

  Maybe she’d never be able to leave her past behind.

  8

  MELANIE LAY IN BED, waiting. Waiting some more. And then, for a change, waiting. She was not feeling the way she thought she’d be feeling as the clock ticked toward midnight. Of course, she was incredibly excited that Stoner would be here soon. But something Edgar had said resonated.

  How did she deserve to be treated? Somehow in her mind, pursuing men had gotten too tied up in how she felt about them, and not enough with how they made her feel. Absence of a father figure in her early life—had that made her crave male attention, positive or negative, however she could get it? Did she want a man like Stoner, who ran hot and cold, or did she deserve something better? And why didn’t she ever insist from the beginning that she be treated well? And why did women like Alana feel so differently? Was Melanie just weak?

  These were not the kinds of thoughts she wanted to be having with five minutes before Stoner’s scheduled arrival—though knowing him, he wouldn’t be close to on time. She wanted to be lying here thinking about the great sex they were going to have, getting herself so aroused that having orgasms would be automatic. She didn’t want to be edgy and distracted, and she really didn’t want to be thinking about Edgar’s new look, Edgar’s new attitude, Edgar’s new possible girlfriend and Edgar’s new indifference to her hoped-for relationship with his brother.

  Stoner. Two minutes to go; she had to think about Stoner. Concentrate on his compact, muscular body, his sexy energy, his piercing blue eyes so like Edga—

  Ahem. His piercing blue eyes that drilled holes into her willpower. She had to think about the way he’d wrapped himself around her naked body as if he wanted to absorb her into his.

  Mmm. She stirred in her clean white sheets, wearing black lace and nothing else, toes and fingernails painted bloodred. He wouldn’t see those in the dark, but they wouldn’t be in the dark all night. After they’d worn out each other’s bodies, she wanted to be able to look in his eyes and judge his feelings from words and expressions, not just his very fluent sex-language.

  A soft sound downstairs. She tensed, ears straining. Was that him?

  Footsteps coming slowly up the stairs. Very slowly. Step. Step. Was he stopping to pick up the rose petals?

  Step. Step. Step. Coming closer down the hall. She let out the breath she’d been holding, moved over to make sure he had room.

  Her clock ticked over to midnight; at that exact moment, a soft brush against her door made it swing open. A dark male silhouette was briefly visible before the door swung shut again.

  On fire. Instantly. Her body burned, her breathing grew shallow. He hadn’t even touched her yet.

  “Hi.” She lay still, eyes straining for his shape.

  “Hi.” His whisper was the sexiest, most intimate sound she’d ever heard—until she heard the swish of clothing, the snap-zip of a fly, more sounds of clothing sliding over skin. Even sexier.

  Then the mattress dipped as he sat, swung his legs onto the bed and moved toward her. “Melanie.”

  She closed her eyes to process the barrage of thrills. Yes, yes, yes. This was him. This was Stoner, this was the man she’d gone head over heels with in one crazy night. All the ways he’d treated her since then didn’t matter if he made her feel all those emotions again, if he’d stay and wake up with her and keep the feelings going.

  His skin met hers; the familiar beautiful body surrounded her again, rough chest, muscular shoulders, long strong legs tangling with hers. She wished suddenly that she hadn’t bothered with the silly lace lingerie. Why put anything between them, especially when he couldn’t see? She should have saved it for later.

  His hands stroked firmly up and down her back, that delicious demanding, cherishing touch that made any massage she’d ever gotten, no matter how perfectly delivered, seem cold and clinical. His mouth found the spot where her neck and shoulder met; his tongue applied warm wetness, which the room’s air chilled for a second before his lips dried her. So many sensations, on her skin, in her brain, in her heart.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” She whispered the words, then turned to wait for his perfect mouth, exploring up her throat, across her cheek.

  “Same here.” He kissed her, kissed her again, varying pressure and position until she writhed against him, wanting more, but not wanting him to stop. Ever. And then suddenly, in the midst of this absolute bliss, with her lips locked on to his, she got a completely different picture in her mind.

  Edgar. Winking at her at work with his new haircut, his new outfit, confident and—

  God, no.

  She broke away from Stoner’s kiss and sat up. No. No. No. She was not going to let anything ruin this night, which she’d been dreaming about since she left him asleep last Thursday. She needed him to drive out thoughts of anything else, of anyone else, to make her think only about him.

  “Do me. Right now.” If he thought she sounded desperate he could chalk it up to supreme lust. “Not nicely. Not sweetly. Not as if you like me at all.”

  For three long seconds he didn’t move and she was afraid she’d freaked him out, that he wouldn’t understand, or wouldn’t be turned on by the demand. Then the mattress heaved as he got to his knees. A firm hand landed at the back of her neck, pushed her forward to her knees. A pillow was shoved under her stomach. She heard the tearing of a condom packet, the quick snap of it going on, then those strong hands gripped her hips. “Hold still.”

  Sensing his warm body behind her, she waited, breathless with anticipation, vulnerable with her rear in the air, knees spread, exposed to whatever he chose to do. Her arousal climbed with her impatience.

  One hand moved, then she felt his fingers stroking her firmly, her clitoris, then inside her, out again, lubricating her, turning her on, making her wriggle and push back like an animal in heat. The fingers persisted, skillful, relentless, driving her close to the brink. She was panting, quivering, nearly ready to come, and he’d barely touched her. “Like that?”

  “More. All of you.”

  He chuckled.

  Huh? “What is so funny?”

  “You.” He thrust inside her with a sudden, nearly painful speed that made her cry out in pleasure-pain. “Why…me?”

  “You’re such a coward, Melanie.” Another thrust, as strong as the first, making her body lunge forward, her breasts swing.

  He didn’t sound right. Her brain dimly registered that he didn’t sound right as his cock pushed again, and again, a faster rhythm now.

  “No! I’m not. I’m not.” She felt feverish, trembling, waiting for the next assault, welcoming each one, denying the voice that was trying desperately to tell her the one truth she most didn’t want to know about this man.

  “You are scared to death.”

  “Of…what?”

  “This. Us.” He pushed again, spread her cheeks and pushed rhythmically on her anus with the pad of a finger, sending her bursts of additional pleasure.

  “No. No, I’m not scared.”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Stoner.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Stoner.” Why was he doing this? She didn’t understand.

  “Tell me.” The force of his thrusts bouncing against her made her so hot she was nearly coming, on the edge, so close, out of her mind.

  “Don’t make me.”

  “Tell me.” He reached under and touched her clitoris, already slippery with sex. “Say it.”

  “Stoner.”

  “No.” He pumped her savagely; she went over the edge, burning up, then pulsing on and on, shoving her face into the pillow to stifle her shouts.

  Sex had never ever been this hot, this good, not with anyone.
Her orgasm had been huge, but her body felt unsatisfied still. Would she ever get enough of her lover-in-the-dark?

  “More,” she demanded.

  “Right away?”

  “Mmm.”

  “You got it.” He helped her turn over, put his hands behind her knees and drew them up by her shoulders, knelt between her legs.

  “Melanie.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t talk. Just do me. Hard.”

  “Why, because it’s safer?” He laughed, but drily. “Come on, Melanie.”

  “Shhh.” She reached for his shoulders, pulled him down to kiss her. This couldn’t be happening. This was Stoner. She wasn’t going to think otherwise.

  He pulled away, steadied her spread knees and sank into her again with a sigh of pleasure that nearly brought her to tears.

  “Melanie.” He began a gentle rhythm this time, in spite of her wanting it rough. “I’m going to turn on the light.”

  “No.” She started to panic. The physical feelings were so delicious, why didn’t he leave everything else out of it? Wasn’t that enough? She didn’t want to cope, didn’t want to know what she was so afraid she already knew, and had probably known from the beginning. “No. Not yet. Please.”

  “I want to see you,” he whispered. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. “And I want you to see me.”

  Tears came, flowing from her eyes, down her cheeks. He stiffened, then relaxed. His rhythm slowed further; he stroked her hair, kissed away her tears, brought her legs down onto the mattress on either side of him, then wrapped his arms around her and lay with his cheek next to hers, sliding in and out at a slow, lovely pace that was like keeping a pot of something delicious on the stove at the perfect hot simmer.

  A respite. Her panic abated. She could go on like that for hours.

  “Sweetheart.” He kissed her, and she slid her arms around his neck and held him like that, no longer thinking, just feeling. She let go completely, of everything but this man’s beautiful way of making love.

  And then when her body was totally relaxed, her libido took over again, letting her know she was ready for round two.