Born in Fire
Page 59
She was so lovely, he thought. Her eyes so soft and confused. And her skin—he’d never dared touch her like this before—was like silk. “You mustn’t cry, Patty,” he heard himself say. Then he was kissing her, his mouth homing to hers like an arrow, his hand scooping up into that soft swing of hair.
He lost himself, drowning in the scent of her, aching at the way her lips parted in surprise to allow him one long, full-bodied taste of her.
Her body gave to his, a delicate sway of fragility that aroused unbearable and conflicting needs. To take, to protect, to comfort and to possess.
It was her sigh, part shock, part wonder, that snapped him back like a faceful of ice water.
“I—I beg your pardon.” He fumbled over the words, then went rigid with regret when she only stared at him. Emotions churned sickly inside of him as he stepped back. “That was inexcusable.”
He turned on his heel and walked away before her head stopped spinning.
She took one step after him, his name on her lips. Then she stopped, pressed her hand to her racing heart and let her shaking legs buckle her into a chair.
Joseph? Her hand crept up from her breast to her flushed cheek. Joseph, she thought again, staggered. Why, it was ridiculous. They were no more than casual friends who shared an affection for Rogan and for art. He was…well, the closest thing she knew to a bohemian, she decided. Charming, certainly, as every woman who walked into the gallery would attest.
And it had only been a kiss. Just a kiss, she told herself as she reached for her cup. But her hand trembled and spilled tea onto the table.
A kiss, she realized with a jolt, that had given her those moonbeams, the stardust, and all the wonderful and terrifying tugs and pulls she had hoped for.
Joseph, she thought again, and raced out of the kitchen to find him.
She caught a glimpse of him outside and darted past Rogan with barely a word.
“Joseph!”
He stopped, swore. Here it was, he thought bitterly. She’d slap him down good and proper, and—since he hadn’t made a quick enough exit—in public as well. Resigned to facing the music, he turned, tossed his streaming hair back over his shoulder.
She skidded to a halt inches in front of him. “I—” She completely forgot what she’d hoped to say.
“You’ve every right to be angry,” he told her. “It hardly matters that I never meant—that is, I’d only wanted to…Goddamn it, what do you expect? You come in looking so sad and beautiful. So lost. I forgot myself, and I’ve apologized for it.”
She had been feeling lost, she realized. She wondered if he would understand what it was like to know just where you were, and to believe you knew where you were going, but to be lost just the same. She thought he might.
“Will you have dinner with me?”
He blinked, stepped back. Stared. “What?”
“Will you have dinner with me?” she repeated. She felt giddy, almost reckless. “Tonight. Now.”
“You want to have dinner?” He spoke slowly, spacing each word. “With me? Tonight?”
He looked so baffled, so leery, that she laughed. “Yes. Actually, no, that isn’t what I want at all.”
“All right, then.” He nodded stiffly and headed down the street.
“I don’t want dinner,” she called out, loudly enough to have heads turn. Almost reckless? she thought. Oh, no, completely reckless. “I want you to kiss me again.”
That stopped him. He turned back, ignored the wink and encouraging word from a man in a flowered shirt. Like a blind man feeling his way, he walked toward her. “I’m not sure I caught that.”
“Then I’ll speak plainly.” She swallowed a foolish bubble of pride. “I want you to take me home with you, Joseph. And I want you to kiss me again. And unless I’ve very much mistaken what we’re both feeling, I want you to make love with me.” She took the last step toward him. “Did you understand that, and is it agreeable to you?”
“Agreeable?” He took her face in his hands, stared hard into her eyes. “You’ve lost your mind. Thank God.” He laughed and swooped her against him. “Oh, it’s more than agreeable, Patty darling. Much more.”
Chapter Fourteen
MAGGIE dozed off at her kitchen table, her head on her folded arms.
Moving day had been sheer hell.
Her mother had complained constantly, relentlessly, about everything from the steady fall of rain to the curtains Brianna had hung at the wide front window of the new house. But it was worth the misery of the day to see Maeve at last settled in her own place. Maggie had kept her word, and Brianna was free.
Still, Maggie hadn’t expected the wave of guilt that swamped her when Maeve had wept—her back bent, her face buried in her hands and the hot fast tears leaking through her fingers. No, she hadn’t expected to feel guilty, or to feel so miserably sorry for the woman who’d barely finished cursing her before she collapsed into sobs.
In the end it was Lottie, with her brisk, unflappable cheerfulness who had taken control. She scooted both Brianna and Maggie out of the house, telling them not to worry, no, not to worry a bit, as the tears were as natural as the rain. And what a lovely place it was, she’d gone on to say, all the while nudging and pushing them along. Like a dollhouse and just as tidy. They’d be fine. They’d be cozy as cats.
She’d all but shoved them into Maggie’s lorry.
So it was done, and it was right. But there would be no opening of champagne bottles that night.
Maggie had downed one bracing whiskey and simply folded into a heap of exhausted emotions at the table while the rain drummed on the roof and dusk deepened the gloom.
The phone didn’t awaken her. It rang demandingly while she dozed. But Rogan’s voice stabbed through the fatigue and had her jolting up, shaking off sleep.
“I’ll expect to hear from you by morning, as I’ve neither the time nor the patience to come fetch you myself.”
“What?” Groggy, she blinked like an owl and stared around the darkened room. Why, she’d have sworn he’d been right there, badgering her.
Annoyed that her nap had been interrupted, and that the interruption reminded her she was hungry and there was no more to eat in the house than would satisfy a bird, she pushed away from the table.
She’d go down to Brie’s, she decided. Raid her kitchen. Perhaps they could cheer each other up. She was reaching for a cap when she saw the impatient red blip on the answering machine.
He lost himself, drowning in the scent of her, aching at the way her lips parted in surprise to allow him one long, full-bodied taste of her.
Her body gave to his, a delicate sway of fragility that aroused unbearable and conflicting needs. To take, to protect, to comfort and to possess.
It was her sigh, part shock, part wonder, that snapped him back like a faceful of ice water.
“I—I beg your pardon.” He fumbled over the words, then went rigid with regret when she only stared at him. Emotions churned sickly inside of him as he stepped back. “That was inexcusable.”
He turned on his heel and walked away before her head stopped spinning.
She took one step after him, his name on her lips. Then she stopped, pressed her hand to her racing heart and let her shaking legs buckle her into a chair.
Joseph? Her hand crept up from her breast to her flushed cheek. Joseph, she thought again, staggered. Why, it was ridiculous. They were no more than casual friends who shared an affection for Rogan and for art. He was…well, the closest thing she knew to a bohemian, she decided. Charming, certainly, as every woman who walked into the gallery would attest.
And it had only been a kiss. Just a kiss, she told herself as she reached for her cup. But her hand trembled and spilled tea onto the table.
A kiss, she realized with a jolt, that had given her those moonbeams, the stardust, and all the wonderful and terrifying tugs and pulls she had hoped for.
Joseph, she thought again, and raced out of the kitchen to find him.
She caught a glimpse of him outside and darted past Rogan with barely a word.
“Joseph!”
He stopped, swore. Here it was, he thought bitterly. She’d slap him down good and proper, and—since he hadn’t made a quick enough exit—in public as well. Resigned to facing the music, he turned, tossed his streaming hair back over his shoulder.
She skidded to a halt inches in front of him. “I—” She completely forgot what she’d hoped to say.
“You’ve every right to be angry,” he told her. “It hardly matters that I never meant—that is, I’d only wanted to…Goddamn it, what do you expect? You come in looking so sad and beautiful. So lost. I forgot myself, and I’ve apologized for it.”
She had been feeling lost, she realized. She wondered if he would understand what it was like to know just where you were, and to believe you knew where you were going, but to be lost just the same. She thought he might.
“Will you have dinner with me?”
He blinked, stepped back. Stared. “What?”
“Will you have dinner with me?” she repeated. She felt giddy, almost reckless. “Tonight. Now.”
“You want to have dinner?” He spoke slowly, spacing each word. “With me? Tonight?”
He looked so baffled, so leery, that she laughed. “Yes. Actually, no, that isn’t what I want at all.”
“All right, then.” He nodded stiffly and headed down the street.
“I don’t want dinner,” she called out, loudly enough to have heads turn. Almost reckless? she thought. Oh, no, completely reckless. “I want you to kiss me again.”
That stopped him. He turned back, ignored the wink and encouraging word from a man in a flowered shirt. Like a blind man feeling his way, he walked toward her. “I’m not sure I caught that.”
“Then I’ll speak plainly.” She swallowed a foolish bubble of pride. “I want you to take me home with you, Joseph. And I want you to kiss me again. And unless I’ve very much mistaken what we’re both feeling, I want you to make love with me.” She took the last step toward him. “Did you understand that, and is it agreeable to you?”
“Agreeable?” He took her face in his hands, stared hard into her eyes. “You’ve lost your mind. Thank God.” He laughed and swooped her against him. “Oh, it’s more than agreeable, Patty darling. Much more.”
Chapter Fourteen
MAGGIE dozed off at her kitchen table, her head on her folded arms.
Moving day had been sheer hell.
Her mother had complained constantly, relentlessly, about everything from the steady fall of rain to the curtains Brianna had hung at the wide front window of the new house. But it was worth the misery of the day to see Maeve at last settled in her own place. Maggie had kept her word, and Brianna was free.
Still, Maggie hadn’t expected the wave of guilt that swamped her when Maeve had wept—her back bent, her face buried in her hands and the hot fast tears leaking through her fingers. No, she hadn’t expected to feel guilty, or to feel so miserably sorry for the woman who’d barely finished cursing her before she collapsed into sobs.
In the end it was Lottie, with her brisk, unflappable cheerfulness who had taken control. She scooted both Brianna and Maggie out of the house, telling them not to worry, no, not to worry a bit, as the tears were as natural as the rain. And what a lovely place it was, she’d gone on to say, all the while nudging and pushing them along. Like a dollhouse and just as tidy. They’d be fine. They’d be cozy as cats.
She’d all but shoved them into Maggie’s lorry.
So it was done, and it was right. But there would be no opening of champagne bottles that night.
Maggie had downed one bracing whiskey and simply folded into a heap of exhausted emotions at the table while the rain drummed on the roof and dusk deepened the gloom.
The phone didn’t awaken her. It rang demandingly while she dozed. But Rogan’s voice stabbed through the fatigue and had her jolting up, shaking off sleep.
“I’ll expect to hear from you by morning, as I’ve neither the time nor the patience to come fetch you myself.”
“What?” Groggy, she blinked like an owl and stared around the darkened room. Why, she’d have sworn he’d been right there, badgering her.
Annoyed that her nap had been interrupted, and that the interruption reminded her she was hungry and there was no more to eat in the house than would satisfy a bird, she pushed away from the table.
She’d go down to Brie’s, she decided. Raid her kitchen. Perhaps they could cheer each other up. She was reaching for a cap when she saw the impatient red blip on the answering machine.
