This wasn’t sex, Molly thought, dazed. This was…something else. Something more.
The dark storm howled, creating a dangerous vortex. Molly knew that she was in danger of being sucked into the spinning whirlpool of unleashed hunger.
Harry’s hunger.
A shock of recognition lanced through Molly. In a blinding flash of certainty, she understood that what she was experiencing was emanating from Harry. The emotions that tore through her, the searing need, the intolerable aloneness, the desperation, it was all coming from him.
And it resonated with something deep inside her.
Molly reacted instinctively. She clung to him, knowing that she could satisfy the clawing need in him, aware that she needed him to satisfy her own newly discovered hunger. “I’m here.”
“No.” Harry abruptly heaved himself upward as though he would break the current of contact that sizzled between them. He stared down at her, his hands caging her, his face a mask of torment. “Damn it, I never meant to do this. I swore I would not risk it again. I can’t.”
And suddenly Molly knew that if she was afraid of what was happening, her fear was nothing compared to his own. The knowledge was strangely reassuring.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “You’re not alone.” She sank her fingertips into the perspiration-slick skin of his powerful shoulders and pulled him back down on top of her. She cradled him between her thighs and covered his hard, alchemist’s face with hot, fervent kisses.
Harry shuddered in surrender. “Molly.” His mouth closed over hers.
She opened herself for him. She sensed that Harry had been struggling with the dark hunger for years. He had chained the driving need with the force of his self-control. But that formidable willpower had been breached tonight. Just as it had the first time they had made love, Molly realized. Now she knew what it was that had been different.
“Together,” she whispered. “We do this together.” She lifted herself, curling her legs around him.
“Molly. God, Molly.” Harry reached down between their damp bodies, centered himself. He entered her with a long, shuddering sigh.
He filled her completely, stretching her to the limit. He began to move with deep, powerful, surging strokes. The rhythm was flawless. It was as if he could read her body, understood it, knew what was required to satisfy it. He was tuned to her, just as she was tuned to him.
Molly’s climax was upon her with such suddenness that she could not even cry out. She simply gave herself up to it. It went through her in shock waves.
She was vaguely aware of Harry’s harsh shout of satisfaction as he shook in the throes of his own release.
He collapsed heavily on top of her. Satisfaction radiated from him. It was a satisfaction that went beyond the physical.
Molly understood his satiated sensation because it reverberated through her.
Wholeness.
Completion.
Consummation.
Hours of boredom broken by moments of stark terror.
The words beat relentlessly through Harry’s head until they finally succeeded in waking him. He opened his eyes reluctantly. He was obsessive on the subject of truth, but at that moment he would have traded his soul for a fistful of lies that he could tell himself.
His worst nightmare had come true. Molly had seen the darkness in him. All of it. She had stood beside him, held his hand, and looked down into the abyss.
Olivia’s words came back to haunt him.
And then the sex got…well, it got weird, Harry…
But Olivia had never even gotten close to the real truth. She had experienced nothing more than a small hint of the reality that Molly had faced. For Olivia, that pale shadow of the true darkness had been more than enough to scare the daylights out of her.
Tonight, Harry knew that he had exposed Molly to the entire production. A shroud of despair settled over him. He had lost everything.
Molly stirred. Harry turned his head on the pillow and made himself look into her moonlit face. He would face the rejection in her. He would confront the full weight of his loss. And know that he had only himself to blame.
Molly smiled with drowsy, dreamy warmth. “So, have you given any more thought to the idea of having kids?”
Harry felt as if the world had fallen away beneath his feet. All of his fine reflexes turned to mush. He could only stare at her, amazed, bewildered, hardly daring to hope. It took him a while to find his tongue.
“Kids?” he finally got out.
“I really think you ought to consider the subject.”
“Kids.”
“Yes. With me.”
“With you?”
She gave him an expectant look. “Probably best not to wait too long. Neither of us is getting any younger.”
“Kids. With you.” He could not seem to collect his thoughts.
She touched his cheek with gentle, questing fingers. Her eyes were luminous. “I know I’m not exactly your idea of the perfect wife. I remember the list very clearly.”
His mouth was dry. He had to swallow. “What list?”
“The list of all the reasons why we aren’t well suited. I say tomayto, you say tomahto.”
He shook his head, dazed. “Tomatoes were on your list, not mine.”
“Were they? Yes, I guess they were, come to think of it. Your list had other stuff on it, didn’t it? Boring stuff. Temperamentally different, you said. No interests in common outside of our mutual concern with the grant proposals. Just two ships passing in the night, you said.”
“No.” Harry levered himself up on one elbow and leaned over her. He curved a hand around her bare thigh, savoring the sleek feel of her. “I never said anything about ships passing in the night. I’d remember.”
She reached up to curl a strand of his hair around one fingertip. “Maybe it was something about the fact that I didn’t have a Ph.D. to hang on the wall next to yours.”
“No. I never said anything about your not having a Ph.D., either.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m certain.”
“Absolutely, positively certain?”
“Yes,” Harry muttered. “Absolutely, positively. Molly, before we got off on this tangent, you said something about kids.”
“It was a subtle hint.”
He drew a deep, steadying breath. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
“That’s what I like about a well-educated man. If he contemplates the obvious long enough, he finally gets a clue.” Molly smiled. “Will you marry me, Harry?”
He fought for the words. “What about…”
“What about what?”
He clamped his teeth together. “What about the hours of boredom broken by moments of stark terror?”
“What about ‘em? So far I haven’t encountered any boring parts yet.
“What about the other?” he made himself ask. “Molly, I swear to God, I don’t understand what happened when we made love earlier. I don’t want to understand it. I just know that sometimes, if I’m caught off guard, I get…too intense or something.”
“You know what I think? I think there’s something to that business about the Trevelyan Second Sight.”
He closed his eyes in despair. “You can’t be serious.”
“Harry, an intelligent person must remain open to all possibilities. I believe a noted authority on the history of science once wrote that it is a dangerous illusion to believe that one can always distinguish the possible from the impossible.”
“I wrote that.”
“As I said, a noted authority. I happen to agree with you. I come from a long line of flaky inventors who flourished because they refused to be bound by the illusion of certainty. I think we have to consider the possibility that you’ve got a trace of some kind of paranormal sixth sense.”
“No.”
She ignored him. “It’s possible that when some heavy-duty emotion, such as sexual desire, kicks in, the elevated intensity of your feelings adds energy to your extrasensory abilities.”
“Molly…”
“In those moments of heightened sensitivity, perhaps it becomes possible for some unusual things to happen. Maybe some of your innermost thoughts can spill over into the mind of whoever happens to be, uh, intimately connected to you.”
“That’s crazy. Utterly without scientific basis.”
“Just a logical explanation for something that cannot otherwise be explained. Now, will you stop muttering and give me an answer to my question?”
Harry took a serious grip on a universe that seemed to be spinning out of control around him. He pulled her down on top of him. Spearing his fingers through her wonderful, unruly hair, he wrapped his hand around the back of her head and held her still for a deep kiss.
His answer was in that kiss, but just in case she had not understood, Harry said the words aloud. “I’ll marry you.
16
“You’re going to marry Harry Trevelyan?” Venicia kicked aside the lace-trimmed train of the billowing, white wedding gown. She turned away from her image in the mirror to stare at Molly in stunned amazement. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
Molly, seated in a small chair, flapped her hand in a small, hushing gesture. “I am. Very serious.”
She was aware that the saleswoman behind the counter was eavesdropping. Another customer politely averted her head, but it was obvious that she, too, was all ears.
The boutique, which specialized in bridal gowns and dresses for members of the wedding party, was not very large. Venicia’s exclamation of dismay had not gone unnoticed.
“But my dear, you said yourself, you and Trevelyan have absolutely nothing in common,” Venicia continued, oblivious to Molly’s unsubtle signal for silence. “You said he agreed with you.”
“I think he’s decided we have more in common than he first thought.” Molly studied the lines of the wedding gown with a critical eye. “Are you sure you want to fuss with that long train?”
“What? Oh, the train. I’ve always wanted to wear a gown with a train.” Venicia brightened briefly as she shook out the satin skirts. “I feel like a different woman in this gown. Lord knows, I couldn’t even afford a new dress when your uncle and I were married. This time around, I’m going to do it right. Cutter insists.”
“Good for you.” Molly had a sudden inspiration. “You know something? I think I’ll do the same thing.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m going to pull out all the stops for my wedding, too. Fancy gown, catered reception, the works. I can afford it, and it would be good for Harry.”
“Good for Harry?” Venicia’s delight in her own plans vanished once more. “I was afraid this would happen. Cutter has been very worried, also. We both feared you were becoming too involved with Trevelyan.”
“I’m involved, all right.”
“Molly, please listen to me. I’m well acquainted with the effects of romantic chemistry these days. Cutter is an extremely romantic man, after all. But you’re old enough to understand that there’s a difference between a flash-in-the-pan passion and true love.”
“Sure.”
“You want what Cutter and I have.” Venicia’s eyes misted briefly. “True affection and commitment.”
“Of course.”
“Dear, I really don’t think you’ll find that sort of thing with Trevelyan. He’s not your type at all. You must take a more realistic view of your relationship with him.”
“I am taking a realistic view of it.” Far more realistic than anyone could possibly guess, Molly thought wistfully.
Realistic meant understanding that Harry was different.
Realistic meant accepting that he had a long way to go before he would allow himself to admit that he was in love, assuming he ever could admit it. He had an abhorrence of that which could not be explained logically. There was no denying that Harry had too much to untangle within himself before he could deal with such an illogical emotion as love.
Realistic meant accepting that Harry was a man at war with his own nature.
Last night in the crucible of the passion that had flared between them, Molly had finally comprehended the deepest truth about Harry. It was not that he was haunted by his parents’ deaths, as Olivia had assumed.
Although he would no doubt suffer from occasional nightmares for the rest of his life, Molly sensed that Harry had found ways to deal with the terrible memories. The proof of his resilience lay in the core of willpower and inner strength that had enabled him to live a productive life.
The trauma of that episode had not stopped him from carving out a notable career, nor had it kept him from being a good father figure to Josh. Harry coped with his exacting work and his equally exacting families quite well. He had told Molly that the nightmares had become increasingly rare in the past few years.
No. Although he would never completely escape the lingering sense of guilt he experienced whenever he thought about the way his parents had died, Molly knew that Harry could deal with it. That was not his real problem.
Harry’s real problem was that he was being slowly split asunder by the powerful forces of his own nature. It had all become so painfully clear last night.
For a man of learning and logic, a modern-day Renaissance man who prided himself on his intellectual prowess and his self-mastery, there could be no more threatening concept than the idea that he might possess a paranormal sixth sense. A sense that could not be explained or comprehended was anathema.
Harry could not even bring himself to believe in the possibility of paranormal abilities, let alone accept the fact that he might actually be endowed with some.
Realistic meant being patient while Harry struggled to unite the two sharply divided elements within himself. His talent for rationalizing the situation was astounding, Molly thought wryly. With true Trevelyan sleight of hand, he had pulled off the very neat trick of occasionally tapping his sixth sense without admitting to himself that he even possessed it. Insight, he called it.
Insight, my big toe, Molly thought. Whatever Harry’s sixth sense was, it was a lot more than reasoned insight. And on some level he knew that. That was what was tearing him apart.
Oh, yes, she was being excruciatingly, painfully, realistic about her relationship with Harry.
Realistic meant accepting that his talent, whatever it was, might very well prevent him from ever experiencing the emotion of love in the same way that normal people experienced it.
Molly was absolutely certain that they shared a bond, and she was sure that Harry realized it. The deep hunger in him was undeniable, as was the satisfaction they found together. But she could not even begin to guess how Harry interpreted the nature of that bond.
She would have given a great deal to have a slightly more unrealistic view of the situation, Molly thought. She was, after all, about to marry a man who had never even told her that he loved her.
Of course, she hadn’t told him that she loved him, either.
Venicia seemed unaware of Molly’s distracted air. “The thing is,” she continued forcefully, “you’re not exactly a poor woman, Molly. I hate to say this, dear, but a lady in your situation must seriously question a man’s interest in her before she commits herself to marriage. Surely you learned that lesson from your experience with Gordon Brooke.”
“You’re not living below the poverty line, either, Venicia. But you don’t seem concerned about Cutter’s interest in you.”
“That’s different, and you know it. Cutter is quite comfortably well off in his own right. You’ve seen the yacht and the house on Mercer Island. He has an established background.”
“So does Harry.”
“I know he’s a member of the Stratton family, but you heard Cutter explain that he’s not in line for any of the money.”
“Harry doesn’t want the Stratton money. He’s got enough of his own.
“You mean from his books and consulting fees? Dear, that sort of income would hardly make him wealthy. He writes academic tomes, not best-sellers that get made into films. I’m sure the consulting business pays quite handsomely by most people’s standards, but it can’t possibly compete with your own income. You are a very wealthy woman, Molly.”
“Only when you consider the assets of the Abberwick Foundation.”
“One can hardly ignore them. You control those assets, my dear. And that’s just my point. It was bad enough when Cutter and I were concerned that Trevelyan was planning to skim off exorbitant fees for his consulting services. Now we’ve got to wonder if he’s marrying you in order to get his hands on the foundation income.”
“Set your mind at ease,” Molly said. “Harry was not exactly pushing for marriage. As a matter of fact, technically speaking, he never even asked me to marry him.”
Venicia looked dumbfounded. “He didn’t?”
“I’m the one who proposed to him,” Molly explained. “And it wasn’t easy. I had to drag the appropriate response out of him.”
Harry might possess an unusual talent for seeing beneath the surface, Molly thought, but he was blind as a bat in some ways.
“I don’t believe this. You’re going to marry him?” Tessa’s expression was every bit as astonished as Venicia’s had been. “I thought this was supposed to be just an affair or something.”
“Things change.” Molly opened the copy of the Post-Intelligencer that was lying on her desk and surveyed the ad for Abberwick Tea & Spice. “This looks great. Terrific placement. Right next to an article on the health benefits of tea drinking.”
Tessa glanced at the ad. “My friend at the newspaper told me that the article was planned for today’s issue. I got the ad department to cooperate.”
“Nice going. Remind me to give you a raise one of these days.”