Rainshadow Road

  “They must have meant a lot to you.”

  “They saved my life.”

  “Did you ever tell them that?”

  “No. They knew.” Recalling himself to the present, Sam leveled a wary glance at Lucy. She knew that he’d told her more than he had meant to, and he wasn’t certain why, and he regretted it. “Back in a minute,” he said, and went to set the steaks on an outside grill at the back of the house.

  * * *

  As the steaks cooked on the grill, and a pan of red potatoes roasted in the oven, Lucy told Sam about her parents, and the recent discovery that her father had been married once before he’d married her mother.

  “Are you going to ask him about it?”

  “I’m curious,” Lucy admitted, “but I’m not sure I want to hear the answers. I know that he loves Mom. But I don’t want him to tell me that he loved someone else more than her.” She traced her fingers over the scarred surface of the worktable. “Dad’s always been distant from the rest of us. Reserved. I think his first wife kept a piece of his heart that he couldn’t give to anyone else after she died. I think he was permanently damaged, but Mom wanted him anyway.”

  “Must be hard to compete with someone’s memory,” Sam said.

  “Yes. Poor Mom.” Lucy grimaced. “I’m sorry you’ll have to meet them. It’s not fair to you. Waiting on me hand and foot, then having to suffer through a visit from my parents.”

  “No problem.”

  “You’ll probably like Dad. He tells physics jokes that no one ever gets.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, ‘Why did the chicken cross the road? Because a chicken at rest tends to stay at rest. Chickens in motion tend to cross the road.’” Lucy rolled her eyes as he laughed. “I knew you’d think it was funny. Where do you think we should go for dinner?”

  “Duck Soup,” Sam said. It was one of the best restaurants on the island, a vine-covered inn featuring local produce and items from its own kitchen garden, and freshly caught seafood. A whimsical portrait of Groucho Marx hung in the entrance foyer.

  “I love that place,” Lucy said. “But Kevin and I had dinner with them there once before.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  Lucy shrugged, not quite certain why she’d mentioned it.

  Sam looked at her steadily. “I’m not worried about being compared to Kevin.”

  Lucy felt her color rise. “I wasn’t thinking that,” she said irritably.

  After pouring more wine, Sam lifted his glass and said, “Time wounds all heels.”

  Lucy brought herself to smile, recognizing the quote by Groucho Marx. “I’ll drink to that,” she said, and raised her own glass.

  Over dinner they discussed movies, discovering a shared liking for old black-and-white films. When Lucy confessed that she had never seen The Philadelphia Story with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, Sam insisted that she had to watch it. “It’s a classic screwball comedy. You can’t say you like old movies without having seen it.”

  “It’s too bad we can’t watch it tonight,” Lucy said.

  “Why can’t we?”

  “Do you have it on DVD?”

  “No, but I can download it.”

  “But that’ll take forever.”

  Sam looked smug. “I’ve got a download accelerator that maximizes data delivery by initiating several simultaneous connections from multiple servers. Five minutes, tops.”

  “At times you hide your inner geek so well,” Lucy marveled. “And then it just appears like a bolt of lightning.”

  After dinner they went to the living room to watch the movie. Lucy was immediately taken with the story of the prickly, cold-natured heiress, her debonair ex-husband, and the cynical newspaper reporter played by Jimmy Stewart. The dialogue was filled with elegant quicksilver humor, every pause and reaction perfectly timed.

  As the black-and-white images flickered on the screen, Lucy leaned into Sam’s side, half expecting him to object. The relaxed evening together, the tentative confidences, had created a feeling of intimacy that Sam might not want to encourage. But he put his arm around her, and let her head rest against his shoulder. She sighed, relishing the solid warmth of him next to her, the anchoring weight of his arm. As awareness of him gathered in a slow simmer, it was difficult not to touch him, reach for him.

  “You’re not watching the movie,” Sam said.

  “Neither are you.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  In the silence, the movie dialogue floated like champagne froth.

  “It can’t be anything like love, could it?”

  “No, no, it can’t be.”

  “Would it be inconvenient?”

  “Terribly.”

  “I was thinking,” Lucy said, “that I’ve never tried a relationship where no one makes any promises. I like that rule. Because if you don’t make promises, you can’t break them.”

  “There’s another rule I didn’t tell you about.” Sam’s voice was guarded. His breath stirred the hair on top of her head.

  “What is it?”

  “Know when to stop. When either of us says it’s time to break it off, the other agrees. No arguments, no discussion.”

  Lucy was silent, her stomach leaping as he altered his position on the sofa.

  Sam turned to face her, his head silhouetted against a background of flickering ghost-images. The low sound of his voice undercut the muted flurry of words and images from the screen behind him. “Of all the people I’ve never wanted to hurt, Lucy … you’re at the top of the list.”

  “I think you’re the first man who’s ever worried about that.” Lucy dared to reach out and touch the side of his face, her fingers shaping gently against his cheek. She felt the subtle flex in his jaw, the forceful beat of his pulse against her fingertips. “Let’s take a chance,” she whispered. “You won’t hurt me, Sam. I won’t let you.”

  Taking his time, Sam reached for the controller, fumbled with it, and hit the mute button. The movie continued, light and shadow without sound. His mouth found hers in a long, fluent kiss, exchanging heat for heat, taste for taste. One of his hands went to the nape of her neck, massaging blindly. The excitement deepened into something dark and nameless, a feeling that rose in a slow tide from her toes to the top of her head. It was more than desire … it was a craving so absolute that she would have done anything to satisfy it.

  Sam took the hem of her shirt and tugged it upward, stripping the knit fabric away from her. His fingers stroked along the elastic straps of her bra, easing them down her shoulders before moving to the clasp at the back. A shiver ran through her as she felt him work at the tiny hooks. Tossing the garment aside, Sam drew his hands along the sides of her rib cage, sliding upward to cup her naked breasts. He bent over her. With diabolical slowness, he took the tip of her breast in his mouth and held it with his teeth, and stroked with his tongue. She had to bite her lips to keep from begging him to take her right then. He began to tug gently, repeatedly, licking between each pull.

  Moaning, Lucy clutched at the back of his T-shirt, trying to tear it off, needing the feel of his skin against her. He paused to strip away the garment, and eased her back until she was stretched out on the sofa. Her injured leg was propped up, her other dangling wantonly to the side.

  Lowering over her, Sam sealed his mouth against hers, his kisses rough and voluptuous and sweet. She couldn’t find herself in the sudden blaze of sensation, couldn’t control anything. She answered him, letting herself be caught like a falling star, burning from the inside out.

  Dimly she heard him murmur that they should stop for a second, they needed to use some kind of protection. She gasped out a few words to make him understand that it wasn’t necessary, she was on the pill to regulate her cycle, and he said he was still going to take her upstairs because their first time shouldn’t be on the sofa. But they kept kissing compulsively, ravenously, and Sam reached down to open her shorts. He yanked them over her hips, taking her underwear wi
th them, the air cool against the blaze of her skin.

  Lucy had gone weak with need, wanting him to touch her, kiss her, do anything, but the panties and shorts had caught on the Aircast brace, and he had paused to untangle them. “Leave them,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t stop.” She gave him a red-faced scowl as he persisted in trying to unloop the underwear elastic from the brace clasp. “Sam—”

  Her impatience drew a muffled laugh from him. He reached for her, sliding his arm beneath her neck. His mouth came to hers in a searching kiss, licking deep, pausing to tug at her upper lip and then her lower one. “Is this what you want?” he asked, his hand sliding between her shaking thighs. He teased her aching flesh open, caressing with light, voluble circles until she’d gone utterly wet. Her head fell back over his arm, and he kissed her throat and breathed hotly against her skin as he let his fingers enter her.

  She writhed and hitched upward awkwardly, her leg encumbered by the brace. He murmured softly against her ear … be still, let him do it, don’t strain … but she couldn’t help lifting into the pleasure.

  Gasping, she pulled him closer in a desperate wordless plea for more, her hands groping over the hard-muscled surface of his back. His skin was smooth and tough and silky, the slope of his shoulder so enticing that she dug the crescent of her teeth lightly into the sturdy muscle, a love-bite that made him shudder.

  He reached between them to fumble with the fastening of his jeans. She couldn’t move, could only wait helplessly as he pressed into her with a low, heavy slide. She felt herself tighten, relax, tighten again. He went deeper. Inarticulate sounds rose in her throat. There weren’t words for what she needed, for what was happening to her. His hand withdrew and slid up to her breast, damp fingertips clamping gently on the hard peak.

  Through the thunder of her heartbeat, she heard him whisper for her to take him, let him inside. As she strained and clung to him, she felt his hand sliding beneath her bottom to angle her higher. He thrust again, the slippery-hot friction making her cry out as if in pain.

  Sam froze, looking down at her, his eyes unearthly blue in the shadows. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered.

  “No. No…” Flooded with desire, steaming, Lucy gripped his hips, urging him more tightly against her. “Please don’t stop.”

  Sam began a deliberate rhythm, making her squirm and arch as if she were on a torture rack.

  She rocked upward in silent demand, but there was no altering his slow and relentless pace. The tension coiled, her inner muscles clenching against the delicious invading hardness. His thrusts canted deeper, and she moaned every time he drove inward. It was all too much, the big, driving body over hers, the teasing brush of his chest hair against her nipples, the strong hand urging her hips upward into every measured lunge. She felt the pleasure break into ecstatic spasms. Sam caught her sobs with his mouth, and pushed deep, letting her shuddering body work him, drain him.

  For a while, neither of them moved or spoke, only breathed in labored gusts.

  Circling her arms around his neck, she kissed his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. “Sam,” she said drowsily, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Thank you.”

  “Yes.” He sounded dazed.

  “That was amazing.”

  “Yes.”

  Close to his ear, she added, “And just to make you feel safe … I don’t love you.”

  Judging from the rustle of laughter in his chest, that had been the right thing to say. Sam leaned over her, his lips grazing her smiling mouth. “I don’t love you too.”

  * * *

  When Sam was able to move, he gathered up their discarded clothes and took Lucy upstairs. They lay together on the wide bed, conversation temporarily banked like coals beneath a layer of cool ash.

  Sam felt a thrill of unease, as if his body knew he’d made a mistake even though his brain kept coming up with all the reasons why he hadn’t. Lucy was a grown woman, able to make her own decisions. He hadn’t misled her, hadn’t presented himself in any light other than what he was. She seemed happy with the situation, and God knew he was satisfied, replete, in a way he’d never known before.

  Maybe that was the problem. It had been too good. It had been different. The question of why it was like this with Lucy was something he should think about. Later.

  The outline of her body in the semidarkness was slightly blurred like the penumbra of shadow in a painting. Moonlight from the window brought a faint luminosity to her skin, as if she was a magical creature from a fairy tale. Sam gazed at her in fascination, running his hand along her hip and flank.

  “What happens at the end?” Lucy whispered.

  “The end of what?”

  “The movie. Which guy does Katharine Hepburn marry?”

  “I’m not going to spoil it for you.”

  “I like spoilers.”

  Sam played with her hair, letting rivers of dark silk spill through his fingers. “Tell me what you think happens.”

  “I think she ends up with Jimmy Stewart.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she and Cary Grant were married once and they got divorced. So it’s doomed.”

  Sam smiled at her prosaic tone. “What a little cynic.”

  “Marrying someone for the second time never works. Look at Liz Taylor and Richard Burton. Or Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson. And you can’t call me a cynic—you don’t even believe in marrying someone the first time.”

  “I believe in it for some people.” He continued to sift his fingers through her hair. “But it’s more romantic not to get married.”

  Lucy lifted up on an elbow, looking down at him. “Why do you think that?”

  “Without marriage, you’re only together for the good times. The best part of the relationship. And then when it goes bad, you cut loose and move on. No ugly memories, no soul-killing divorce.”

  Lucy was silent, considering. “There’s a flaw in your reasoning.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Sam smiled and pulled her beneath him. Bending over her breast, he licked at the stiffening peak and used his thumb to rub in the moisture. Her skin was like pale silk, impossibly smooth against his fingertips. The textures of her body fascinated him, everything soft and yielding and sleek. And the scent of her—flowery, cottony, with the erotic hints of salt and musk—aroused a hot clamor in his blood. He moved over her, dragging his mouth in a slow path along her body, savoring the taste of her. As he moved lower, her limbs trembled beneath his hands. He felt her hands caress his hair, the back of his neck, the touch of her cool fingers making him instantly hard. He followed the feminine scent to where it was deeper, more enticing, and Lucy made an agitated sound, her legs spreading easily.

  She whimpered as he nuzzled into the softness between her thighs, licking into the silk and heat, the flavor of her erotic and drugging. He toyed with her, stroking, sucking lightly, until she pushed herself at him with a sob. Catching every throb and pulse, he urged her through sensation into softness, until she was relaxed and still beneath him.

  Rising, he covered her with his body and sank into the luscious wet depths, thrusting slowly to savor the feel of her. Her nails slid over his back, a delicate electrifying clawing that provoked him into heavier, deeper drives. The release surged without warning, full-bodied and severe, spreading over every inch of skin from his scalp to the soles of his feet.

  Winded and stunned, Sam collapsed to his side when it was over. Lucy snuggled next to him. He closed his eyes, struggling to moderate his breathing. His limbs felt unbelievably heavy. He had known pleasure before, but never with this intensity, this profusion. Exhaustion settled over him, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Just like this … in his own bed … with Lucy beside him.

  But that last thought snapped his eyes open.

  He never slept with someone after having sex, which was one of the reasons he preferred it to happen at the woman’s place rather than his. Fa
r easier to be the one to leave. On a couple of occasions in the past, Sam had actually gone so far as to load a protesting woman into his car and take her home. The idea of spending an entire night with a woman had always filled him with an aversion bordering on panic.

  Forcing himself to leave the bed, he went to take a shower. After putting on a robe, he brought a hot washcloth to the bed and took care of Lucy, and drew the covers up to her shoulders. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured, pressing a brief kiss to her lips.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The roll-away bed.”

  “Stay with me.” Lucy flipped back a corner of the bedclothes invitingly.

  Sam shook his head. “I might hurt your leg … roll on it or something…”

  “Are you kidding?” A sleepy smile curved her lips. “This brace is indestructible. You could drive your truck over it.”

  Sam took a long moment to reply, alarmed by his own desire to actually climb back into bed with her. “I like to sleep alone.”

  “Oh.” Lucy’s voice was deliberately casual. “You never spend the night with a woman.”

  “No.”

  “That’s absolutely fine,” she said.

  “Good.” Sam cleared his throat, feeling inept. Oafish. “You know it’s nothing personal, right?”

  Her gentle laugh curled through the air. “Good night, Sam. I had a great time. Thank you.”

  Sam thought it was probably the first time a woman had ever thanked him for having sex with her. “The pleasure was all mine.” And he went to the other room with the same uneasiness he’d felt before.

  Something had changed inside him, and God help him, he didn’t want to know what it was.

  Nineteen

  Lucy’s mother, of course, was instantly smitten with Sam. Her father’s reaction was more guarded, at least initially. However, during dinner at Duck Soup, they found common ground when Sam asked about the robotic space probe that her father had helped to design. Comprehending the generous helping of geekiness that lurked under Sam’s exterior, Lucy’s usually reticent father started chattering like a magpie.