A Love Surrendered (6 page)

Not to mention the fire throbbing in his veins over kissing a kid.
A kid!
Not even eighteen and so wet behind the ears, his suit coat was probably drenched. He froze midway through an intersection, almost oblivious to the honk of a car headed his way.
My coat!
A rare swear word hissed from his lips. The driver laid on the horn, and he sprinted from the car’s path with a loud groan. It was bad enough his blood was still hot over an angry kiss meant
only
to teach a lesson, but now he had to see her again too, something he had no desire to do.

Correction.
He had desire . . . just not the right kind.

He groaned again and glanced back at Louisburg Square. Well, it was too late to go back now, and he was almost grateful. His body still hummed from a kiss that had taken him
by surprise. Not only the sweet, gentle one she’d given him, but the rough one he’d given her, hoping to scare her half to death. Only it had scared him instead. Talking to her, touching her, holding her had felt way better than it should. She was too young and vulnerable, for pity’s sake, too susceptible to someone who could steal her innocence away.

Someone like me.

He scooped up a pebble and hurled it, muttering words that sizzled the air. Ramming his hands in his pockets, he continued on to Revere Beach, determined to stick with his own kind—women like Erica and Joanie with nothing to lose, out for fun and no strings attached. Women who couldn’t tempt him with the wide-eyed innocence that seemed to be a weakness for him—a weakness he had
no
desire to revisit.

He rounded the corner and cast a wary eye at the Ocean Pier Dance Pavilion as it glittered and glowed on the moon-rippled bay. Avoiding women the last three years had netted him nothing but bitterness and boredom, but girls like Annie were not even an option. He didn’t trust himself with them any more than he did with women like Maggie, and from what Steven could see, there were precious few in between. No, he’d do what Joe wanted him to do—laugh, dance, and have a good time—but nothing more. His conscience wouldn’t allow it. Nor would the deep faith of his family, a faith that hounded him daily to atone for his past. Jaw grinding, he made his way down the wooden pier, hypnotic music and memories enticing him on. Thoughts of both Maggie and Annie invaded his mind, and he blasted out a sigh. Never again would he give his heart or his body to a woman he didn’t respect. And heaven help him, he had no stomach for ruining the ones he did.

Still half asleep, Annie languidly stretched in her canopied bed, reveling in the sumptuous feather bed with a sleepy
smile.
Oh, what a night!
She sank under the covers with a glorious sigh.

The man! The kisses! The warm, gushy feeling!

And the guilt?

Her eyes popped open to her luxurious bedroom with its lemon-polished Victorian furniture and floral-papered walls in lavender and mint green and instantly gnawed on her lip. Sunlight peeked through lacy bedroom sheers, its hazy streams of light only illuminating the accusation in her mind. “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” she explained to Mr. Grump, their pet basset hound Aunt Eleanor reluctantly allowed. He watched through droopy-eyed slits at the end of her bed, chin on the white eyelet bedspread. Mr. G. yawned, the effect almost a growl, then rolled over, obviously unconvinced by her ardent defense. She frowned and pulled the coverlet to her chin. “It was just an innocent kiss, Grump, and nothing more,” she whispered.

Only she knew better.

The angry spark in Steven O’Connor’s eyes told her loud and clear it was anything but innocent. Naïve and stupid, maybe, but never innocent. She groaned and slumped under the covers, sick over the kind of woman he must think her today. Fast and forward and loose, everything of which he didn’t approve. And everything he seemed to disdain.

Shame settled thick in her throat as she reached for his folded coat on the pillow next to her own. She rolled on her side, his jacket bunched to her chest. Closing her eyes, she breathed in his heady scent, and even now, the spicy taunt of his aftershave prompted a surge of warmth that tingled her body. “What am I going to do?” she whispered. “I never knew it could feel like this.”

But Maggie knew.

More guilt jabbed, as rigid and cold as if Steven’s gun still impaled her ribs. Maggie had probably felt like this and more, so in love with Steven O’Connor that his name filled every letter she wrote. Annie idly brushed her fingers to her
lips, remembering the dizzy sensation of his mouth against hers—the same mouth that had kissed Maggie’s.

“Rumor is she gave him her all.”

Moisture stung, an odd mix of remorse, allegiance, and jealousy that she had dared to kiss the man her sister loved.

Had loved.
Annie gave a quick sniff. Wasn’t it obvious the way Maggie moved to California after graduation, as far from Steven O’Connor as she could possibly get? Mama had begged her to come home, but Maggie had Hollywood dreams of becoming a star. And yet, from her sister’s letters, Annie knew how tortured she was after her breakup with Steven. He’d changed after the near death of his father, she’d written, and wasn’t the same man she had loved.

Or so she said.

Annie pushed the blankets off, unwilling to believe her sister was still in love with the man who wreaked havoc with Annie’s pulse.
The man I have to see again
, she thought with a quivering sigh. It was almost three years since Steven broke up with her sister, and Maggie’s letters never mentioned him anymore, at least not since she’d fallen in love with Gregory, a promising film director. Annie sat up, drawing in a calming breath. No, she had no reason to feel guilty where Maggie was concerned. Her sister was happy now, or so it appeared from every letter she wrote. Gregory proposed and Maggie was deliriously engaged. A smile tipped Annie’s lips at the memory of Maggie’s visit at Easter. The twinkle in her sister’s blue eyes and sassy glint of platinum hair bespoke a woman in charge of her life and happily so. Which meant, Annie thought with a hug of Steven’s coat, Steven O’Connor was fair game! Her smile faded a hair.

Wasn’t he?

Shaking off the uneasy feeling, Annie slipped his jacket on and wrapped it close, stomach swooping at Steven’s scent.

“You’re up!” The door of her bedroom blasted open, and a tiny, towheaded blonde flew in, nightgown flaring and bare feet slapping the glossy wooden floor. Mr. Grump bounced in
the air when she vaulted on the bed with giggles and shrieks guaranteed to awaken the dead.

The little stinker tumbled over her to burrow into her sides, and Annie laughed. “Shhh . . . you’re going to wake up the queen.”

“Aunt Eleanor’s a queen?” The five-year-old paused, blue eyes as round as her rosebud mouth. Her battered rag doll, Queen of Sheba, hung limp in her hands.

Annie chuckled and looped an arm around her sister’s waist, tickling as she shimmied her close. “No, but she sure acts like it, doesn’t she? Ordering poor Frailey around?”

“And us,” Glory said with a sparkle in her eyes.

“Mmm . . . especially us,” Annie confirmed, ruffling her sister’s hair.

“Why you wearing Frailey’s coat?” Glory squinted. “Did you steal it?”

“Gloria Kennedy, stealing is a sin and you know it.” Annie quickly removed the coat and placed it on her nightstand. “Besides,” she said, cheeks hot, “it’s not Frailey’s, it’s a friend’s.”

“Who?” Glory clapped to coax Mr. Grump to join in on the fray. Apparently content where he was, the basset peered through narrow eyes as if she were feline instead of female.

“Just a friend I met when I was out with Peggy, that’s all, sweetie pie.”

Glory pulled away with a grunt to plop beside Mr. Grump, promptly straddling the Queen of Sheba spread-eagle on his back. Lying on her stomach, she crossed stubby legs in the air, ignoring a low growl when she tried to tie Grump’s ears in a knot. “But why were you snuggling with it in bed?” she asked, her tone matter-of-fact. Face scrunched, she glanced over her shoulder, a riot of white-blonde Shirley Temple curls springing from her head. “Is it like my blankee that smells good and keeps you really warm?”

Heat whooshed into Annie’s cheeks. “No, silly,” she said, painfully aware it was the man, not the coat, that’d been keeping her warm. “And leave poor Mr. Grump alone, would
you, please? How would you like it if somebody played with your ears?”

“I’d like it just fine,” Glory said with a pert lift of her chin, as if she’d given it serious thought. “Wouldn’t you?”

Annie blinked, thoughts of Steven nuzzling her earlobe instantly scalding her face.

“Snivelin’ snot, Annie, you gonna throw up?” Glory quickly scrambled to the other side of the bed, the bunch of tiny brows indicating concern.

“Now where on earth did you learn an expression like that, young lady?” Annie reeled the little girl in with a tickle. “That’s an awful thought!”

Glory giggled and squirmed, rocking the bed so much Mr. Grump took his business elsewhere. “No, it isn’t, it’s swell. Johnny says it all the time.”

Annie leaned in and gave Glory the eye. “And who is Johnny, may I ask, besides someone with a questionable vocabulary?”

“He’s my new friend,” Glory announced with no little pride, plunking down on Annie’s pillow. “Did you know he can blow bubbles of milk through his nose?”

Annie arched a brow. “Mmm, very impressive . . . I think.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” she clarified, hands tucked behind her neck. “I kissed him.”

“Gloria Celeste Kennedy, proper young ladies do not go around kissing boys!” Her words barely left her tongue before their impact hit, sending another swell of heat to her cheeks.

“Why not?” Glory asked, the picture of innocence. She cocked her head, delicate white-blonde brows crimped in question. “It’s fun.”

“Because only hussies kiss boys,” Annie explained with the patience of a big sister, ignoring the fire in her cheeks.

“Who says so, the Queen?” Glory squinted at her sister and emitted a grunt way too big for a little girl. “Because Johnny says she’s nothing but an old maid.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, the firm jut of a pink lip indicative of what she thought of Aunt Eleanor’s opinion.

Annie gasped and clamped a hand to Glory’s mouth. “Hush,” she said with a peek at the door, “you want her to hear? How do you even know what an old maid is, you little stinker?”

“Johnny told me. He says it’s a lady nobody wants and never been kissed.” Her tone took a turn toward sweet. “Like you!” she squealed, darting away with a high-pitched giggle.

“Why, you little scamp!” Annie dove across the bed to scoop her up in a tickle fight, bedsprings squealing in a blur of nightgowns and giggles.

“For the love of all that is decent, what is the meaning of this?”

Girls and bedsprings froze, the sisters’ labored breathing the only sound to be heard.

Aunt Eleanor strode into the room like disgruntled royalty, back ramrod straight and ash blonde curls swept high on her head like a crown. Her belted charcoal Elsa Schiaparelli dress revealed a tall, slender figure that would have turned heads had she not given off all the appeal of an ice sculpture. Finely chiseled features seemed severe with the frown she wore, further hardened by the absence of soft curls or bangs around an oval face. But at the age of thirty-seven, her ivory skin was flawless and void of lines most likely because she seldom smiled, imparting the unmistakable air of delicate heirloom china. And like bone china, Annie mused, her face would probably shatter should laughter ever cross her lips.

There were times when Annie could see glimmers of her mother in Aunt Eleanor’s face, in almond-shaped eyes that fluctuated between hazel and green, and high cheekbones that framed a classically straight nose. Her lips were full like Annie’s mother’s, but where Aurora Kennedy’s had been lush and inviting with a ready smile, Aunt Eleanor’s were tight and pinched, making her cold and stiff by comparison. Despite the constant disapproval that emanated from her aunt, Annie had to admit she was a beautiful spinster . . . that is, if one didn’t mind frostbite.

Aunt Eleanor glanced at her diamond Rolex and folded her arms with a purse of her lips. “I suggest you stop acting like street hoodlums and get dressed.” She marched to the window to fling the curtains aside and throw up the sash. Spring drifted in with the heavenly scent of lilacs and mulch, wonderful smells that collided with the scowl on her aunt’s face.

Suddenly remembering Steven’s coat, Annie lunged for the nightstand, snatching it up. Her aunt turned just as Annie stuffed it under the covers, her patrician nose in the air as if she smelled garbage rather than spring. “Susannah Grace, I distinctly told you to pin-curl your hair, did I not? Have you forgotten we’re expected at the Bentleys’ for brunch?”

“No, ma’am,” Annie muttered, wondering how her aunt managed to make her feel younger than her five-year-old sister. She pushed her shoulder-length hair from her eyes. “I can have it washed, curled, and dried in two hours, I promise.”

Arching a penciled brow, her aunt folded her arms once again. “Which would be lovely, dear, if we weren’t expected in an hour.”