MARRIAGE MATERIAL Page 18

  He almost didn't hear her, she spoke so quietly. "I know."

  She'd done it on purpose. Sat in that chair knowing he would see her body and be tempted. The thought shattered his control. He stood up and walked to the chair, not caring that she might be able to tell this time that he was aroused. He dropped to his knees before the chair, and reached for her.

  At the first brush of his hand over her shoulder, Tamara made a pained sound, and he lost it. He pulled her close, tugging her legs around him. She came willingly, wrapping herself around him, pressing her body close to his. His hands fell almost savagely in her hair and he hauled her to him, plunging his tongue in her mouth with a groan. That sweet mouth, so eager and hungry and deep.

  But not enough. He felt blind and deaf and dumb, aware only of the violent need of a woman he could not get out of his head. He reached for the edge of her sweater and pulled, frustrated that he could not get it off quickly enough. It stuck on her shoulders, and he bent his head to kiss that creamy flesh, following her collarbone to the hollow of her throat, struggling to free her from the sweater.

  All at once, it tore with a sound that seemed very loud. Tamara cried out, pulling him closer, and with a cry, he tore harder. It tumbled off her shoulders, catching at her elbows. Lance unfastened the bra below, freeing her breasts to his mouth, to his hands. Her skin was silky, supple, warm, and he felt he would explode. He thought he'd imagined how she felt, that no one could be so beautiful to the eye and to the touch and to the taste. But she was. He sucked her deeply into his mouth, kneading her hips with his hands, feeling her fingers digging into his flesh.

  And this time, he wouldn't lose her. Not this time. He reached below her skirts and yanked off her panties, and freed himself, and there, kneeling before her, her torn sweater falling around her beautiful breasts and graceful shoulders, Lance entered her with one sure, clean stroke.

  Like the rest, this was violent. She moved to accommodate him, clinging to his shoulders, her legs clasped around him. Her skirt draped his thighs, and he clutched her thighs as his need rose to a wild screaming in him. Her name rose to his lips like a chant, like a lifeline, and he whispered it softly, over and over, his heart pounding with need and love and hunger and a thousand things he couldn't name. He felt whole for the first time since he'd been in her bed, whole like uncut bread, like sunlight.

  He came apart against her, even as he tried to resist. She clutched him tight and Lance shuddered, aching to cry out, knowing he couldn't or he'd wake Cody. In a mindless, thoughtless, light-struck plane, he gave her himself on a level he knew he'd never given.

  She held out almost to the last instant, and then Lance felt her follow him, the spasms of her body wrenching around him, giving him the last possible heights of pleasure. She held him tight, arms and legs and body, and buried her face in his hair, making a quiet aching sound that stabbed clear through him, her hands dug deep in his hair.

  When it was spent, they did not separate. Lance sunk onto his knees, holding her close to him, kissing her shoulder, stroking her back, smelling her deep. She let herself be held.

  "You feel so good," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "I've wanted you every minute of every day since the last time."

  "Me, too," she confessed against his neck. She straightened to look at him, their bodies still joined. "You must think I'm a terrible hussy."

  "No." The tattered sweater, revealing her nakedness, was almost unbearably erotic. He opened a palm on her shoulder and stroked her skin, the upper slope of her breast, her arm. "No," he repeated. "You're passionate and sexy and beautiful. Good things." He circled the tip of her breast with one finger. "You make me crazy, Tamara. I'm not kidding."

  "I used to have a boyfriend," she said, tracing the edge of the hair on his chest, "who hated it when I did something like that to try and seduce him." She looked at him, suddenly earnest. "I should be ashamed, but I couldn't stand for you to leave tonight without—" She halted, stricken.

  He kissed her urgently. "Don't ever be ashamed with me. Not ever." He clasped her face between his hands and kissed her again, very gently. He closed his eyes to concentrate on just the sweetness of her mouth, and a thickness filled his throat. He wanted to protect her, to please her, take care of her. "I think that man must have been an idiot."

  "I think he was."

  Now came the awkward part. They were both half-undressed and somehow there had to be some dignity to recomposing themselves. His legs were falling asleep. Gently he reached for the blanket on the chair, and pulled it forward to drape around her shoulders. "I must be getting old," he said with a smile. "We have to move before I can't walk tomorrow."

  She clutched the blanket around her shoulders, and with a small sound, eased away. Her skirts fluttered down modestly, and the blanket covered her as she sat on the floor. Lance shifted and pulled his clothes back together, but when she would have moved away completely, he grabbed her. Settling in the chair, he tugged her hand, intending to cradle her in his lap for a while.

  Suddenly she went rigid. "Lance," she said, horror on her face. "We didn't use a condom."

  A cold wash of claustrophobia struck him. He'd never, ever forgotten such a thing before. What the hell was wrong with him?

  But he had a sick feeling that he knew.

  The wild man of Red Creek, with a string of women from here to Timbuktu, had fallen in love, fallen in love with a woman he could not allow himself to want.

  Jake had been right, that snowy cold morning. Lance had it bad. And instead of falling for someone like himself, someone with a wild streak who might forgive the odd night lost to drink or wanderlust or any number of sins, Lance had lost his head over a woman who needed to be safe and secure and steady. All the things he wasn't.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^

  Tamara lay within the circle of Lance's embrace and tried to ignore the war of emotions in her breast. Her head fit exactly into the cradle of his shoulder, and his arms fit comfortably around her. So right. He was so right.

  Even this moment, which could have been awkward and strange, was not. They curled together in the chair without speaking, a warmth and comfortable silence pulsing between them, a silence that needed no artificial bracing.

  Under her ear, Tamara could hear his heart beating, a dear and intimate sound. Hearing it, Tamara put her hand over the place, on his silky-haired chest, and wanted to tell him that she loved him. She wanted to tell him she loved the gentleness of his hand in her hair now, in contrast to the hungry violence of their joining. She wanted to tell him that the scent of his skin in her nose was like all the best of a mountain summer, like a meadow at noon. She wanted to tell him he was the most generous, kind man she'd ever known.

  But her confession would burden him, and instead, she simply turned her face to his chest and nuzzled him.

  His embrace tightened, and under her ear, his heart moved faster. She wondered what he would say if he could find the courage. She wondered if he felt the same strange comfort with her that she did with him.

  "I'm sorry about that, Tamara," he said into the quiet.

  "About what?"

  "About the condom. It never even crossed my mind." His hand slid up and down her back, kneading and circling. "You won't get sick or anything—I swear. I got tested a couple of months ago for a physical, and you're the only woman I've slept with in six or eight months."

  Six or eight months? "Careful," she said with a private smile, "someone might figure out you aren't the wild man you used to be."

  He chuckled. "Yeah, well, we all get older."

  "It isn't disease I'm worried about, exactly," she said, still not moving.

  "Don't worry about the other. I'd take care of you. You know that."

  Not I'd marry you and we'll raise our child, but I'd take care of you. "I know."

  Much as she regretted it, that single sentence changed the mood between them. It grew strained, filled with unspoken wishes, unsaid promises, unvo
iced thoughts. She didn't want the future or the past to come between them right now, but they did. She pushed against him and sat up. "I guess I'd better get something decent on."

  He made no protest. Only nodded and looked at his watch, as if nothing at all had passed between them. "Jake's decided to buy a restaurant—The Wild Moose—and I'm supposed to meet him there in a little while to discuss some remodeling. Maybe I can come back and finish the computer for you tomorrow."

  "Sure." Tamara clutched the blanket more closely around her body. "That's fine."

  He must have sensed her sudden stiffness. He sat up, moving her on his lap. "Look at me, Tamara." Once again, he had to nudge her chin to overcome her reluctance to look at him.

  It was just so hard to look at him head-on like that. Hard to bear the full brunt of his shining goldenness and feel the emotions his face struck to life in her.

  But she did it, lifted her eyes to his. A snippet of a poem rushed into her mind, and she spoke it softly, "'Tyger! Tyger! burning bright. / In the forests of the night.'"

  "Am I a tiger, Tamara?"

  "No," she said, and found herself smiling as she lifted a hand to smooth his thick hair from his forehead. Such a broad, intelligent brow. "You just make me think of that beauty."

  He looked stricken at her words. "No one has ever said anything like that to me before." He plucked her hand from her lap and kissed it. "You're so different from any woman I've ever met. I want you know that."

  Dread welled in her. "Why?"

  "Because … this is…" He scowled, his attention focused on her hand, on the fingers he stroked. "We can't do this again. We can't. I'm not the right man for you, and you need to be free to find him. I don't want to screw anything up for you."

  "Lance, you don't owe me anything. I'm a grown woman. I can fend for myself, make my own decisions."

  At last he looked at her, his blue eyes full of regret. "I owe you a lot."

  And all at once, Tamara felt a fierce certainty that she needed to tell him what she thought, what she felt. It might be her only chance, and if life had taught her anything, the simple fact that people weren't always there the next day was primary. "If I were given the choice of all the men in the world to choose from," she said quietly, "no one in the world would have a chance next to you, Lance."

  He started to speak. She raised a hand to his mouth. "Shh. I know you aren't the marrying kind, but you're a good man."

  "Tamara, don't. I can't—"

  "You don't understand," she said with a smile. "I think very well of myself. I don't give myself away. I don't think very highly of the morals and attitudes of most of the men on the planet. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes, that you could see what I see when I look at you."

  He swallowed. "I wish I could, too."

  Taking a breath, she smiled. "Don't ever think you're a bad man because you're honest enough to be who you are."

  Then, before he could react, she stood up. "It's probably time for you to go home."

  For a minute, he didn't move. Then he stood up, kissed her lightly and moved toward his jacket. There was a curious stiffness in his movements that contrasted sharply with his usual long-limbed grace. He paused at the door. "If I were another kind of man, I'd have married you the second time I met you."

  Tamara bowed her head at the longing that gave her. When she looked up again, he was closing the front door behind him. And this time, he was truly gone.

  * * *

  For days, Lance moved through his life in a dark cocoon. He snapped at employees, broke the dates his brother had made for him and snarled at everyone who got in his path. His mother told him not to come back to visit until he had a better attitude. His secretary tiptoed in and out of his office without a word. If he had had a dog, it would have been cowering in the corner.

  Friday night was the dance at the country club to which he'd promised to escort Marissa. As he donned his good Italian suit he wished fervently he could avoid the whole thing. But a promise was a promise, and whatever else anybody said about him, he kept his word.

  To his surprise, just seeing Marissa's calm, luminescent face eased something in him. "I feel compelled to warn you," he said as she got in the car, "that wild boars have been fleeing my path lately."

  She grinned. "Bad mood, huh?"

  "That's putting it mildly." He kissed her cheek. "You look especially nice tonight. I like that color on you."

  "Thanks." She smoothed the ruby-colored fabric over her thighs. "My mother always told me I should never wear pastels. Turns out she was right about one thing, anyway."

  The sound of a motorcycle broke the night, and a chopped, gleaming Harley growled into Marissa's parking place. "That's Bob," she said. "I wonder why he's here tonight. I told him we were going." A frown knitted her creamy brow. "Do you mind waiting a moment? I should talk to him."

  "Go ahead." Lance glanced at Bob, the burly biker who'd worn leather and chains at the Wild Moose. Tonight he was dressed in a clean black suit, with a red tie. His long curly hair had been wet and wrestled into a neat ponytail. In his hands was a bouquet of flowers.

  Marissa moved toward him in her beautiful cocktail dress, her dark hair shining around her luminescent face, and Lance saw that she was desperately in love. That both of them were. She halted in front of him, and Bob thrust the flowers at her, obviously not entirely comfortable with the gesture. Marissa, in her open way, bent her head to the flowers and breathed deeply.

  In ten seconds, Lance knew he wasn't taking Marissa to the dance. Sure enough, she talked for a while, then came back to the car. Bob headed inside.

  She got in and sat down. "Bob wants to take me to the dance at the country club. He really didn't want to, which is why I asked you, but I think—" a dazzled, pleased expression crossed her face "—he really likes me."

  "Don't sound so surprised! You're a hell of a woman. Go ahead and go."

  "Are you sure you won't think I'm a cad?"

  He chuckled. "I'm sure."

  "I have a few minutes. Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

  The sudden question, put so clearly, nearly made Lance choke up. "I'm just in love," he admitted. "Nothing a little time won't cure."

  "With Tamara?"

  "Yeah." He clenched his jaw tight to keep his emotions from rising out and spilling into his throat. "Yeah, she's the one."

  Marissa cocked her head. "So, what's the problem? I don't get it. You're in love with her, she's in love with you—this is a problem?"

  "I'm not that kind of man."

  "What kind?"

  "Reliable. Decent. All those warm fuzzy things a woman like her needs."

  Marissa laughed. "You've been listening to your own reputation for way too long, Mr. Forrest. You might have been a bad boy a long time ago, but all I've seen in you is a rock-solid steadiness. You're aching to take care of her, to have a family and settle down." She grinned. "Just do it."

  "What if I end up like my father? What if I let her down?"

  "Your mother will kick your butt."

  For the first time in a week, he actually smiled. And nodded. "I won't keep you, honey. Go on and get your guy."

  She nodded, then leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. "Just one thing, Lance. I want you to think about what it would be like for you if you don't take this chance, and someone else comes along for Tamara. I want you to imagine her married to someone else." She kissed his cheek this time. "Think about it, okay?"

  "I will. Have a good time. Call me and tell me how it goes with that certain snotty blonde, will you?"

  She laughed. "Oh, I will." She paused, her hand on the door. "Remember, sweetie, the ones who never fall always fall hardest when they do."

  The words echoed in him as he drove home then changed out of his good suit into a pair of reliable comfortable jeans. In his still-faceless apartment, he heated a TV dinner and watched an idiotic movie, feeling restless and lonely and—lost.

  It was the same feeling that h
ad been dogging him for his last three years in Houston. He liked the city, liked his company, liked his friends, but the hollowness never left him. And the weird thing was, he'd had no earthly idea what was bothering him until the telegram about his father had come. He was homesick.

  But he was home now, so what was the problem? It felt like homesickness again.

  I want you to imagine her married to someone else.

  Marissa's words hit him hard. And he forced himself to do exactly that—imagine Tamara married to another man. Cooking for him. Laughing with him. Making love to him.

  The lost, restless feeling in his chest rose to a keening howl. He nearly choked on it.

  And suddenly, he knew that it was homesickness he felt. He was pining for the home he wanted to build, pining for the woman he wanted to share it with. He was pining for his family—the family that existed, and the one he hoped to build.

  In relief, he bowed his head, and for the first time, in twenty years, he wept. Wept the long-halted tears of grief for his father, for the man he could have been and the man he had been, for the lost years his mother had spent on her children, even for Valerie.

  It wasn't manly. It wasn't macho. His brothers would snicker for days if they knew. It didn't even last long because he ended up feeling completely stupid.

  But it helped. When he raised his head, his heart was clear and full of purpose. The lostness was gone.

  He knew what he had to do.

  * * *

  Tamara drove to Denver Saturday, to arrange her classes for the following semester. Her excitement over the trip got her through the awkward moments at Louise Forrest's house, those moments when Tamara looked around eagerly for signs of Lance and found none. After the last incident at her house, they'd agreed it would be better if they didn't see each other in person for a while, and worked out this arrangement with Louise.