CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
The night was clear as glass, the air brittle. A thin layer of frost on the T-Bird’s side window sparkled like an icy spiderweb in the beam of streetlamps. Inside, the heater hummed efficiently, adding another bass note to B. B. King’s “Blue Monday” from the radio.
The warmth, the blues and the slow smooth ride might have lulled Dora to sleep. If her nerves hadn’t been snapping. To combat the tension, she kept up a nonstop commentary on the party, the people and the music that required little or no response from Jed.
When they pulled up behind her building, she’d nearly run dry.
“It’s all right, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Is what all right?”
Her fingers vised over her evening bag. “The guards Brent put on.”
“Is that what’s got you so wound up?”
She studied the building, the stream from the back-door light, the glow in the window from the lamp she’d left burning. “I did a pretty good job of blocking it out for most of the night.”
“It’s all right.” Leaning over, he unsnapped her seat belt himself. “They were both there.”
“Good. That’s good.” But her nerves didn’t settle. In silence they climbed out of opposite sides of the car, started to the stairs, up.
She didn’t like being jumpy, she thought as Jed unlocked the outside door. At the moment it had nothing to do with intruders and guards. It had everything to do with what was going to happen once they were inside, and alone.
Which made absolutely no sense at all, she decided. She stepped into the hallway and dug out her keys on the way to her door. She wanted him, wanted very much to finish what had started between them.
And yet . . .
Jed took the keys from her rigid fingers and unlocked the door himself.
It was a matter of control, she realized as she slipped out of her coat, laid it over a chair. Always before she’d made certain that she held the wheel in a relationship, that she steered it in the direction of her choice.
But she wasn’t in the driver’s seat with Jed, and they both knew it.
She heard the door close at her back, lock. Fresh nerves scrambled into her throat.
“Do you want a drink?” She didn’t turn, but headed straight for the brandy.
“No.”
“No?” Her fingers hovered over the decanter, fell away. “I don’t either.” She crossed to the stereo, switched on the CD changer without any idea what music she’d left inside. Bessie Smith picked up where B. B. had left off.
“I’ll have to take the tree down in a few days.” She reached out and touched a bough. “On Twelfth Night. Pack everything away, burn a few sprigs of pine in the fire. It always makes me a little sad.” She jolted when Jed’s hands cupped her shoulders.
“You’re nervous.”
“Me?” She laughed and wished she’d poured something, anything that would wash away the dry heat in her throat.
“I like it.”
Feeling foolish, she turned and managed a small smile. “You would. It makes you feel superior.”
“There is that.” He lowered his head and kissed the corner of her mouth. “It also lets me know you’ll remember this, for a long time. Come with me.”
He kept her hand in his on the short walk to the bedroom.
He wanted to move slowly, discovering her inch by fascinating inch, savoring those nerves even as he was exploiting them. Until she was helpless, and his.
He switched on the bedside lamp, and looked at her.
Her breath shuddered out when he touched his lips to hers. Tenderness was the last thing she’d expected from him, and the most devastating gift he could give. Her lips parted beneath his, accepting, even as her heart jammed like a fist in her throat.
Her head fell back, a gesture of surrender that had need twisting sharp in his gut. But he continued to play her lips delicately, letting the moment spin out.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, trailing his lips down her jawline, sliding his tongue over warm, smooth skin, wallowing in the flavor of flesh.
“That’s you.”
“You could be right.” He brought his mouth back to hers, deepening the kiss until pleasure swam giddily in her head. Now there were sighs, and breathless murmurs, the hard thud of racing hearts.
“Let me turn down the bed,” she whispered. But when she turned, shifted aside, he drew her back against him, nuzzling his lips at the nape of her neck.
“That can wait.”
His hands were spread over her midsection where the pressure was coiled taut as a rattler. “I don’t think I can.”
“It’s not going to be quick.” He slid his hands up her sides, down again. “It’s not going to be easy.”
“Jed—” His name ended on a moan. His hands were over her breasts now, caressing, thumbs skimming, circling lightly over the peaks while his tongue did outrageous things to the back of her ear. Eyes closed, she relinquished any thought of control and arched back against him.
He used his teeth now, satisfying his own primitive need for the taste of flesh while he undid the tiny buttons that ranged from her throat to the juncture of her thighs. Her breathing slowed, deepened, like a woman in a trance. The side of his thumb barely brushed her skin as he moved with tormenting laziness from button to button.
“I’ve had all night to wonder.” He spoke softly, close to her ear, and fought to keep his hands from taking too greedily. “All night to imagine what was under here.”
Slowly, he spread the material open, skimmed his fingers down her center. There was nothing but woman.
“Sweet Christ.” He buried his face in her hair as desire ripped through him. Her skin was hot and soft, the muscles quivering helplessly under his hands. Each tremor rippled from her into him as they stood pressed close in the lamplight.
He hadn’t known a need could be so outrageous, or the desire to give and take so brutally keen, like a blade honed and waiting for its mark. He only knew he wanted every inch of her and the satisfaction of having her crave every bit as desperately as he.
Dreamlike, she lifted an arm, hooked it around his neck. It was almost like floating, she thought. And the air was polished like silver. Then he would touch again, and that softly glowing air took on an edge, like a sword turned in the sun.
Her eyes half closed, she leaned back against him, absorbing both the pride and the wonder as his hands roamed over her skin. She turned her head so that her mouth could find his again. Her lips clung, wet and hungry, urging him to take more. She could no longer pinpoint the focus of pleasure. There were too many sensations sprinting and careening through her. His mouth, yes, there was pleasure in that, the firm pressure of lips, the scrape of teeth, the tangle of tongues.
There was more in the rock-hard press of his body against hers, the faint tremors that whispered of a violence held rigidly under control. The heat that shimmered around him that spoke of dark and desperate needs.
And there were his hands. God, his hands that stroked and molded and possessed, just a few degrees shy of rough until she was afraid she would lose all sense of self and beg for more.
Her breath came in whimpers, in low, throaty groans, and her body pressed back against his, rocking in a quickening rhythm that demanded. To please her, and himself, he ran his hand down the center of her body until he cupped her. She was already damp and heated. With fingertips only he sent her hurtling over the edge. Her body went rigid, arched back against him. She cried out as the fast, hard orgasm rammed her. When her legs buckled, he slipped deeper into her, groaning as she gasped out in stunned delight.
“More?”
Her head reeled. To keep her balance she locked her other arm around him. “Yes.”
He drove her up again, arousal spurting inside him each time she moaned out his name. He understood a man could be drunk and on the edge of control without sampling a swallow of liquor. And that a woman could slip into the blood like a drug. As t
he greed welled inside him, he spun her around to drag the snug material over her shoulders.
There was a fierceness on his face, a violence in his eyes that should have frightened her. Though her heart gave a wild leap, it had nothing to do with fear.
“I want you.” Her voice was low and thick, like honey poured over flame. The hands that tugged the shirt over his head were far from steady. But her eyes, nearly level with his, were strong and sure. She unsnapped his jeans, tossing back her head as she moved closer. “I want you inside me. Now.”
In response he gripped her hips and tumbled with her onto the bed.
They rolled twice, tearing impatiently at each other’s clothes until damp flesh pressed to damp flesh. But when she would have locked herself around him and taken him into her, he shifted, sliding down her body. While she writhed and moaned beneath him, he feasted on her, suckling her breasts so that the answering contractions low in her belly were all but unbearable.
Panting, she gripped his hair, her body curved in desperate invitation. “Now. For God’s sake, now.”
He caught her nipple between his teeth, tugging until her nails dug into his shoulders. “This time I want more.”
But the more he took, the more he needed. She gave, completely, unrestrictedly, abandoning herself to the flood of sensations. Still, it wasn’t enough.
As he had promised himself, he explored every inch of her, tasting, touching, possessing. Whatever he asked, she gave. Whatever she offered, he took.
He could watch her. The light sheened over her damp skin, making it gleam like one of her porcelain figurines. But she was flesh and blood, her hands as curious as his, her mouth as avid.
Beneath them the spread was as slick and smooth as water. The music drifted in, all crying sax and throbbing bass.
When he slipped inside her, her low throaty moan shuddered from her lips into his. Slowly, savoring, he slid deeper, deeper, swallowing her frantic gasps, inciting more with the play of his tongue over hers.
He braced himself over her, desperate to see her face, to watch those flickers of mindless pleasure. She came again, tightening convulsively around him so that he sucked in his breath at the storm of sensation.
Her eyes flew open, glazed and huge, to fix on his face. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but there was only another shuddering moan. He was all she could see, all she could feel, and all she wanted. Each slow stroke shivered through her so that her body was a mass of sparking nerves and tearing needs. He ignited them again and again until she could do nothing but wrap herself around him and let him take her where and how he chose.
She cried out again. Jed buried his face in her hair and let himself follow.
The music had changed. Elton John was singing his ode to Marilyn. Dora lay sprawled crosswise on the bed, her numbed body barely aware of Jed’s weight. She did feel his lips pressed lightly to the side of her breast, and his heartbeat, still raging. She found the strength to lift her hand, to run it over his hair and down to his shoulder.
Her touch, somehow both maternal and loverlike, caused him to stir. He felt as though he’d just tumbled down a very tall mountain without skis and had landed in a deep, warm spring. Going with the urge, he kissed the curve of her breast and watched her smile.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“No. I can’t see anything.”
It was his turn to smile. “Your eyes are closed.”
“Oh.” She opened them and sighed. “Thank God. I thought I’d been struck blind.” Turning her head on the rumpled spread, she looked down at him. “I don’t think I’ll ask how you’re doing. You look entirely too pleased with yourself.”
He levered himself up to kiss her. Her hair had tumbled down, as he’d imagined it would, and was a riot of curls around her face. Her lips were swollen, her eyes sleepy.
He felt something stir—not the rekindled desire he’d expected, but something else. Something he didn’t recognize as contentment. “Ask anyway.”
“Okay.” She brushed the hair away from his forehead. “How’s it going, Skimmerhorn?”
“It’s going good.”
“Your gift for words stuns me.”
He laughed, kissed her again, then rolled over, gathering her close to his side. “It’s too bad I can’t think of any Tennyson.”
The idea of him quoting poetry made her smile grow misty. “How about Shelley? ‘I arise from dreams of thee in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright.’ ”
She humbled him. “That’s nice.” He tipped her face up for a kiss that was both sweet and dreamy. “Really nice.”
Content with that, she nuzzled closer. “As a Conroy I was raised on bards and playwrights.”
“They did a good job with you.” She only smiled as he continued to study her, his hand still cupped under her chin, his eyes dark and intent as they scanned her face. “I want you again.”
“I was hoping you would.”
“Dora, you look terrible.”
“Lea, what would I do without you around to boost my ego?”
Unfazed, Lea fisted her hands on her hips as she studied her sister’s pale face and shadowed eyes. “Maybe you’re coming down with something. That flu’s still going around, you know. I think you should close the shop for the day.”
Dora walked around the counter as a customer came in. “That kind of thinking is why you’re the employee and I’m the boss.” She put on a sunny smile. “Good morning. May I help you?”
“Are you Dora Conroy?”
“That’s right.” Dora held out a hand. She knew she looked pale and wan from lack of sleep, but the woman who was currently clutching her hand looked near collapse. “Would you like some coffee? Some tea?”
“I . . .” The woman shut her eyes and pulled off her blue ski cap. “I’d love some coffee, but I’m not supposed to drink it.” She laid a hand on the gentle mound of her belly. “Tea would be nice.”
“Cream? Lemon?”
“No, just black.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Taking charge, Dora guided the woman to a chair. “We’re all starting a little slow this morning. After-holiday fatigue.” When a young couple strolled in, Dora gestured for Lea to see to them. She poured two cups of tea.
“Thanks. I’m Sharon Rohman,” she told Dora as she accepted her cup.
“I’m afraid I’m a little vague on details today. Oh!” It hit her all at once. Immediately she sat down and reached for Sharon’s hand. “You’re Mrs. Lyle’s niece. I’m so sorry about what happened. The last time I called the hospital, I was told she was still in a coma.”
Sharon pressed her lips together. “She came out of it last night.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.”
“She’s still critical.” Sharon lifted her cup, then rattled it back in the saucer without drinking. “The doctors can’t say if or when she’ll recover. She’s—she’s very fragile.”
Dora’s eyes stung in response. “It’s a dreadful time for you. I don’t suppose there’s anything worse than waiting.”
“No, there isn’t.” But the easy, undemanding sympathy helped her relax. “We’ve always been close. Really like girlfriends. The first person I told about the baby after my husband was my aunt.”
“You look so tired,” Dora said gently. “Why don’t you come upstairs to my apartment? You can stretch out for a few minutes in private.”
The kindness had Sharon’s eyes welling. “I can’t stay. I need to get back to the hospital.”
“Sharon, this strain can’t be good for you or your baby.”
“I’m being as careful as I can.” She brushed at a tear with the back of her hand. “Believe me, I’m doing everything the doctor tells me.” She took a deep breath, then, more relaxed, Sharon said, “Miss Conroy—”
“Dora.”
“Dora.” Sharon took a soothing breath. “I came by this morning to thank you for the flowers you sent to the hospita
l. They were lovely. Aunt Alice loves flowers. Her garden is a showplace. The