“How nice.”
He stopped and looked at her, the faintest frown furrowing his brow. “I’m serious—about this—us . . . everything.”
The implication was she wasn’t. “I’d like to be too.”
He inhaled and nodded. “Later, then.”
She smiled. “My dance card will be ready for you to write in your name whenever you want.”
He grinned. “So we’re just testing out the dance floor tonight?”
“Something like that.” How do you say you can have anything you want and still be whole? She couldn’t and she didn’t and she wouldn’t. “You talk too much,” she whispered. “Kiss me.”
He kissed her then, and then again, as he gently lowered her onto the workbench, as he wrapped her legs around his waist, and slowly entered her. His kisses were sweet and soft; his erection, in blissful contrast, was hard and not in the least bit soft. And she came the first time like he knew she would, when he buried himself so deep she gasped and panted and shut her eyes tight. “You’re crammed full,” he whispered, his hands cupping her bottom, cushioning her, holding her impaled. “Tell me you like it.”
Her orgasmic scream ricocheted around the cavernous space in answer, brought a smile to his face, added libidinous dimension to his erection and he waited for her cries to die away before withdrawing slightly. “Now what?” He already knew the answer, but he wanted the decision to be hers.
“Stay,” she whispered, exerting pressure with her legs, drawing him back. “God, I missed you . . . this . . . you,” she breathed as he slowly slid back in, as he filled her. “Don’t ever—ever . . . ever go . . .”
He felt himself swell larger, gratified, his own indefensible cravings vindicated, his fanatical need balanced, compensated. His no-holds-barred desire returned in equal measure.
He stayed hard no matter how many times he came; she did that to him. Made him insatiable.
And she’d whisper, “Please, more, more, more,” coming over and over again in wave after wave of unbridled passion.
She said once, “We should stop. You should go. We shouldn’t—”
“Hush,” he whispered, kissing away her protest. He’d been wanting her, this, the feel of her engulfing him, the warmth of her body touching his, since he’d left her.
She’d tried, she thought, as salve to her almost nonexistent conscience tonight. But how could she resist when he made her feel on fire and half in love and all aglow. When she was as near to addicted as she’d ever been? How was she expected to turn away from this veritable candy store of lush sensation?
But finally—and strangely, she thought—beginning to feel light-headed, the sustained intensity of sexual passion was affecting her.
Or he was affecting her.
Or maybe it was the cloying gas fumes.
As another orgasm began to peak, as she panted and cried out in ecstasy, as he raced to meet her, the heat of her body melting around him—enchantment and lust and, more curiously, love, a tumult in his brain—she suddenly went limp in his arms.
Terrified, his pulse rate spiking in fear, he quickly checked to see that she was breathing. Yes, yes, good. Stripping off his shirt, he swept it through the water in the empty boat stall and returned to gently wipe her face.
Moaning, she twisted away from the coolness, and relief washed over him.
But he should have had more sense, he thought, even as his panic lessened. He should have known better.
As she slowly came awake, he slid his arm under her shoulders and lifted her slightly. “How do you feel?” he whispered.
“You’re way too good . . .”
“I’m so sorry. I should have stopped.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” she whispered, half-smiling.
“I don’t think so. I’ll be more careful next time.”
“When you fill my dance card you mean.”
It was always there—the ten-ton albatross hanging around his neck. “Yeah . . . then.”
She touched his cheek. “Look—whenever next time is will be fine—I’m fine—don’t look so worried. And you know what?” she said, pushing herself up into a seated position with his help. “I’m going to remember Andy’s engagement party with great fondness.”
He frowned faintly, not in the mood for flirtatious repartee, wanting her to be as deeply affected as he, as messed up and needy. “It’s going to take a month or so to sort out my situation,” he said gravely. “But, I’ll find a way.”
“I understand. In the meantime, come and see me when you can.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.” He grimaced. “Everything’s fucked up.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be with her,” she said, more snappish than she intended.
“It’s not her.” He sighed. “It’s my family.”
“Whatever.” That shrewishness again. Straightening her dress, she remembered her discarded thong with a twinge of embarrassment, knew it was too late to do anything about it and began lowering herself to the ground.
Quickly lifting her, he set her on her feet, smoothed her skirt, brushed her hair away from her face like he was sending her off to her first day of school. “I’ll fix things. Promise.”
“Sure you will.” She adjusted the top of her dress so nothing showed that shouldn’t show.
He hated that brittle, sardonic tone. “It’s just business—okay? It’s complicated. Give me some time.”
“Take all the time you want,” she murmured, trying to fluff up the scrunched silk flowers at her waist, walking toward the door without waiting for him.
He felt like punching something. But she had the right to sound that way; she had every right to walk away too. Beating down his temper, he slipped on his wet shirt and followed her. “It shouldn’t be more than a month.”
Pulling the door open, she glanced back. “Why don’t you give me a call when you own your life again.” And she stepped out into the night.
Buttoning his shirt, he caught up to her as she started down the path leading to the dock. “Are you going to go out?” He had no right, but he had to know.
“Are you?”
“Not really.” He shoved his shirt into his trousers.
“What does that mean?”
He took a deep breath. “I’m not having sex with her.”
“Don’t lie. Jesus, Rocco.” Chloe started walking faster, not sure she could deal with someone so shamelessly dishonest.
“It’s the truth.”
She swung around. “Fine, that’s great. Thanks for the orgasms. They were terrific as usual. Better than terrific. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do for you,” she said, each word dripping with sarcasm.
“There you are! Rocco! Rocco!” Amy waved frantically from the dock. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“I believe you’re being paged,” Chloe purred. “That tone sounds like you’re going to have to soothe some ruffled feathers. You’re lucky I’m easygoing about sharing your dick.”
Amy was standing on the edge of the dock where it met the path to the house, a scowl marring the porcelain perfection of her face as they approached. “What the hell are you doing with her?” she screamed, looking daggers at Chloe.
“Since this isn’t my idea of fun,” Chloe said in an undertone, “I’ll say good night.”
“He’s engaged to me, you bitch,” Amy spat, grabbing Chloe’s arm as she passed. “You keep your hands off of him!”
Shaking her away, Chloe kept walking.
“Tell me what you were doing out there with that slut!” Amy shrieked.
A little shiver went up Chloe’s spine at the grating sound.
“Don’t scream at me,” Rocco growled.
“I’m going to tell Daddy!”
“You do that.” It had been a long, difficult evening; his balls were in a vise, had been for a long time and he didn’t know if he was capable of enduring the pain much longer. He wasn’t the right candidate for martyrdom. “I’m leaving n
ow if you want a ride.” And at the moment, he didn’t give a damn if she came or not, if she told her father or not, although he supposed in the cold light of day, he’d be thinking a little more clearly. Or perhaps even before then, he thought, disgruntledly. “Come on, Amy, I’ll give you a ride home,” he said in a kinder tone and braced himself for the inevitable tirade all the way back into town.
But he knew this ball-breaking situation had to be dealt with.
He’d talk to Mary Beth and Anthony tomorrow.
FOURTEEN
CHLOE WOKE IN A BLUE FUNK. TESS HAD found her current true love—not that Dave would necessarily last any longer than Tess’s previous twenty true loves, but she was at the moment real busy having her heart beat in double time. And Rosie had gotten a ride home from Ian Price, her wish-on-a-star come true. This morning, Chloe hadn’t received a crying phone call, so she was guessing Rosie had had a pleasant ride home.
She, however, who never even worried about men because she’d always subscribed to the philosophy that there were lots of fish in the sea, found her love life hostage to some bitchy little blonde with a high-pitched scream that could peel paint from the walls.
Whatever little Miss Amy had over Rocco must be nuclear serious.
And she was supposed to wait patiently while he: one, continued to lie to her about everything; two, struggled to break free of his ball and chain; three, only lied to her about minor issues; four, pretended he’d never met her and forgot her phone number and address.
In the mood she was in at the moment, all of the above seemed most likely. And as if her life wasn’t sufficiently in the doldrums, her mother called, still dogging her about Aunt Grace.
“You have to come to dinner tonight and help me talk some sense into Grace,” her mother insisted. “This new affair of hers is embarrassing the entire family.”
“Will Aunt Grace come to dinner if she knows you’re going to harangue her?”
“I’m not going to tell her that, for heaven’s sake. I’m going to tell her her brother misses her.”
“Jeez, Mom, you’ll have to do better than that. Dad barely talks to her. He thinks she’s flaky. He calls her a hippie.”
“Well, that’s exactly what she was.”
“Is, Mom. She still wears paisley skirts and Earth shoes.”
“She has a very good job, a very responsible job.”
“Just because she manages the arts council doesn’t mean she thinks like an accountant.”
Her mother sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right. And that’s exactly why I need your help tonight. If you have plans, bring your nice man friend for dinner. Another place at the table won’t be a problem.”
If she wanted to scare away a nice man friend, that’s precisely what she’d do. Her mother really did collect salt and pepper shakers, and while she was pretty normal in other ways, she had a propensity for expecting others to share her views. Everyone did not subscribe to the wetlands projects, nor agree with her concern for migrating waterfowl. And when she handed out her postcards with the local congresspeople’s addresses, admonishing her friends to take responsibility and actively participate in their government, Chloe always found the recipients’ expressions amusing.
While her mother was always heartily supporting one cause or another, her father preferred tying flies in his study when he was home, or mowing the grass—his summertime pride and joy. He was a research scientist, so his penchant for solitude and order was understandable.
They were a perfect example of opposites attracting.
How Aunt Grace had ever emerged from the Chisholm family of scientists and engineers was one of those mutant enigmas. She’d studied at the Rhode Island School of Design and the Beaux-Arts in Paris, wandered through Southeast Asia before it was fashionable, lived with no visible means of support in Japan for five years, although Grace spoke of a certain Japanese businessman with great fondness. When she returned to the States, she enrolled at Stanford, and spent another five years in graduate school; Chloe suspected the same Japanese businessman had funded that. When Grace had received her PhD in philosophy, she’d heard of the arts council job in Minneapolis and apparently knew someone who knew someone who’d hired her.
She’d been the bane of Chloe’s mother existence ever since.
“You have to come. I won’t take no for an answer,” her mother said, in that tone that she knew she couldn’t ignore.
“Okay. But I’m not staying long. I’ve got plans.”
“Dinner’s at six. You know your father. Grace will probably be late. I’m having ribs and potato salad and lemon meringue pie—oh—and homemade Lowell Inn rolls.”
Her mother was bribing her. All her favorite foods. It must be serious. “Okay. I’ll be there at six.”
Chloe spent the day in her office, moving from one project to another. She was finding it difficult to focus on any one thing for long, her mind obsessed with you-know-who. He didn’t call, of course. She hadn’t actually expected he would after his cryptic disclosure about his commitments. Although, she found herself more and more intrigued by the odd relationship between Rocco and the blonde. Amy, the heiress, didn’t seem his type, although in all fairness, he probably didn’t have a type. Men who looked like Rocco probably never heard a woman say no.
Not a comforting thought when she was equivocating about her lots-of-fish-in-the-sea that had always been her old standby.
It was also not comforting when Tess called several times, gushing about Dave, nor when Rosie stopped by after work and practically drew pictures of the hot and heavy ending to her evening.
But Chloe said all the appropriate things, never once complaining about her fucked love life. When Rosie finally left and Tess stopped calling because she had to get dressed for a date with Dave, Chloe was able to silently grumble and grouse to her heart’s content. As she dressed for dinner with her parents, she pictured Rocco getting ready to squire his fiancée somewhere trendy.
Ugh. Life was so unfair.
She was spending her Friday night with her parents. It was pathetic.
FIFTEEN
ROCCO WASN’T WITH AMY. HE WAS MEETING with his brother and sister in their communal office at the factory.
“What’s so important that it can’t wait until I see you tomorrow morning?” Anthony asked, coming in and sitting on the edge of his desk. “Make it fast. I have to be home for dinner.”
Mary Beth was more perceptive. “Whatever it is, we have time, Rocco. Sylvie won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late for dinner,” she said, giving Anthony her hex-sign scowl.
“Okay, okay. I’m not in a rush,” Anthony grumbled. “What’s up?”
“I’m thinking about saying something to Jim about Amy. She told someone last night we were engaged. And worse,” Rocco added, “when I picked up Amy last night for dinner and had a drink with Jim and Marcy, Jim spoke of me as his son-in-law . . . you know—as in taking over the business someday.” He sighed. “He meant Thiebaud Homes.”
“Oh, dear,” Mary Beth murmured.
“And you’re against becoming a millionaire?” his brother inquired, his voice bereft of mockery.
“Anthony, for God’s sake. You know how Rocco feels about Amy.”
“Jim’s offering you a pretty good life,” Anthony noted, ignoring his sister.
Rocco’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t want it. I’m not for sale.”
“Am I supposed to say I don’t care if you piss off Jim?” Anthony countered. “That I don’t care if we lose our financing and my house in the bargain? Is that what you want?”
“You can at least be sympathetic to his plight,” Mary Beth admonished.
“Everything doesn’t always work out perfectly,” Anthony said, bluntly. “We’ve been struggling to develop this business for almost five years. I’m not sure who you want me to sympathize with. Sylvie and the kids, who might lose their house? Or Rocco, who doesn’t think he wants to marry Amy because she’s not his type. I didn’t know you had a typ
e, Rocco. I thought you screwed anyone and everyone. That’s been your pattern. Since when do you have scruples about the type of woman in your bed?”
Rocco wasn’t angry with his brother. Everything Anthony was saying wasn’t far off the mark. And Anthony had a lot more to lose than either he or Mary Beth. They were both single. They didn’t have a wife and kids to worry about.
“Sylvie’s expecting again,” Anthony said brusquely. “I hadn’t mentioned it before because it’s early yet and I didn’t think it mattered. But if Rocco’s going to rock the boat, it’s beginning to matter.”
“Never mind. It was a bad idea,” Rocco said. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for our meeting with Jim. It’s not the end of the world. I’ll survive.”
Anthony came to his feet, frowning. “We’re starting up the first line next week, Rocco. It’s just so fucking late . . .”
“I know. Forget I said anything. Tell Sylvie congratulations. I’ll bet she’s hoping for a girl this time.”
Anthony smiled. “She painted the spare bedroom pink.”
“That’s a clue,” Rocco said, grinning. “Now, get going and you won’t be late for supper.”
“I wish—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it.”
But when Anthony left, Mary Beth said, “Why don’t we try and get financing somewhere else?”
“We need too much. And it’s not as though we haven’t tried.”
“I’ll send our financial statements around again. It won’t hurt. We’re much closer to opening than we were on the last go-around with the banks.”
“Thanks,” Rocco said. “But the chances aren’t very good and you know it.”
“I’m going to restart the process anyway. Don’t scowl at me. I’m the accountant. Do I tell you how to market?”
“Okay, okay.” Rocco smiled. “Thanks for trying.”
“Did Amy actually say you were engaged?”
Rocco grimaced. “Oh, yeah.”
“Where? To whom?”
“At a party last night, to this woman I’ve been seeing.”