Beautiful Stranger (17 page)

She rose up a little to kiss him, lightly touching her lips to his, and then again, slowly, tasting bitter memories and deep regret and a child's sorrow there on the man's wide, mobile mouth. As they kissed, he unbuttoned her shirt, hands urgent and tender at once, and opened his mouth to her tongue, drawing her in, as he slid his palms beneath her shirt and stroked her skin, her back and sides, over and over, restlessly.

She moved over him, straddling his hips and straightening so that she could unbutton his shirt. His face was grave, his eyes unreadable and dark, but he let her reveal him, his hands resting on her thighs as she finished, pulled his shirttails from his jeans and exposed his dark chest with its record of brutality. She skimmed her fingers over the arch of his ribs, traced the stylized cross with its sad message, touched his scars and the little tattoos across his shoulder. There was a looping pattern around his belly button, and she smiled. “This,” she said, “is really sexy.” And she bent to kiss it, tracing it with the tip of her tongue, dipping lightly into that small dark hollow until his hands were on her shoulders, hauling her upward to his mouth. He held her head as she sprawled over him, their bellies pressed together naked, and kissed her with that fierce hunger she'd tasted once before, kindled it in her. Their bodies slid and moved and pressed, heat to heat, as their tongues and mouths and teeth expressed what was to come.

Marissa pulled up, sitting on him, and shed her shirt,
then her bra, and was gratified by the sharp fire in his eyes, his urgent move to touch her. He flipped them over and captured her wrists, pulling them over her head with one hand as he came down to kiss her breasts, kiss and lick and sup, the dark circle of nipple and the sides and the valley between, settling at last on the pointed tip, his teeth scraping lightly, his tongue swirling, the sweet, explosive pressure. Urgently he turned his head, still holding her wrists in one big hand, and looked down to the fastening of her jeans so he could get them off, and for once, Marissa was not self-conscious as he managed the trick. She lifted her hips to help him and he skimmed everything down her legs, to her ankles where she could kick them off. So she was naked. And he was not, and it didn't matter how she looked in her own eyes or in the eyes of the world, or if this body was not the best he'd ever seen, because right now she only saw him, saw the fall of his braid as he turned back, saw the graveness of his face as he touched her thighs, slid his fingers between and touched her.

Just right. She made a guttural cry and broke out of his grip, reaching for that long rope of hair so she could pull him to her, and he came, his mouth sealing hers, his fingers working their magic. “You have to get undressed,” she gasped, shivering now with the heat in her.

He raised his head, looked her in the eye. “It's going to be worse this time,” he said in a husky voice. “You ready?”

She knew what he meant. That as intimate, as terrifying as it had been in her room that night, this was a lot deeper. She nodded.

Without hurry, he straightened, first taking off the unbuttoned shirt and tossing it off the bed, then working on his jeans and shorts and socks, which all went over
the side in a heap. A hitch caught in her throat at the sight of all of him, kneeling in ropy strength beside her, and he raised his hands, his eyes on hers, and pulled the rubber band off his braid, deftly working his hands through it to let the slippery, heavy mass of it free.

Marissa could barely breathe. There were no flickering candles now, only the plain light of a basic-issue lamp. He stood on his knees beside her, looking down, and she was as vulnerable as she'd ever been. She opened her arms and whispered, “Come inside, Robert.”

He moved, gathering her, their limbs entwining, and still he poised, staring hard at her. “It's me here, Marissa. Me.”

“And it's me, Robert,” she said. “Do you see me?”

“Yes.” He slid into her, his eyes as intense and blazing as anything she'd ever seen. “I see you.”

She arched and pulled him down, wrapping her limbs around him. “I see you,” she whispered over his mouth. “I see you.”

And they started to move, falling into that other world, and Marissa felt tears on her face as he took the refuge she offered, as she breathed his nearness, reached for the shattering intimacy that grew and grew, sober and beautiful and humbling. Each move, each kiss, each exchange of breath took them deeper into it, until Marissa felt that light between them burning from blue to white, brilliant and enveloping, and far more than she could ever have anticipated.

When they finished and lay tangled, she put her arms around his neck and held him close, letting the hot tears run down her face unashamed, because she had been transformed and she knew it, and there was no turning back now. And he did not turn away, as she had half feared he would, only lifted his head and saw her tears
and kissed them, took them into his mouth as if they were some sacred fluid, then kissed her mouth gently, returning them to her, a salty sweetness.

It didn't matter, Marissa thought, weak and depleted and pierced clear through, that she hadn't known him very long, that they were from wildly different worlds, that he was never going to be able to let her in and take what she offered. She'd found him, her man, the one she'd been looking for. Not because the sex was good or because she loved that slippery hair falling over her, or because he needed her. Because she knew this soul, because there was a right alignment in the world with them.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. There was no reason. It just was.

R
obert was the one who insisted they had to have food several hours later. They'd been insatiable, touching, kissing, joining, until both of them were wrung out and trembling. Even as he pulled away from her, he felt little sparks of longing, a wish to fall to it again, just in case there was never another chance. But it had been a very, very long time since lunch, and he was bone empty and dying of thirst, and she had to be, too.

On knees that were just slightly unstable, he stood up and pulled the phone book back to the bed. “What do you want?” he asked, flipping through the listings.

“Chinese,” she said, her head resting on her upper arm. “Japanese. Italian, Mexican and American. All of it. Right now.”

He chuckled. “Pizza's pretty hearty and fast. The works?”

“Yes. And some of those little breadsticks. And
something to drink. I'm dying.” She scowled. “I don't like soda, though.”

“You like wine.”

“I don't think the pizza joint will be delivering a bottle of wine.”

“Yeah, but somebody else might.” He dialed the pizza number and ordered, then flipped back through the Yellow Pages for an upscale liquor store and picked up the phone and dialed the cab company. “What kind of wine?” he asked.

“Something deep and red and Italian,” she said, stretching luxuriously. Her shoulder, smooth and white, gave him lustful visions. “Valpolicella.”

He gave directions to the dispatcher, named the liquor store closest to the motel according to the Yellow Pages and hung up. Putting the phone aside, he said, “You are not to get dressed, understand? I'll keep the deliveries at the door.”

“Greedy, greedy,” she said. “I was going to take a shower.”

“Wouldn't you rather wait and share it with me?”

She gave him that sensual, knowing grin that was so at odds with her daily teacher look. “I could be convinced.”

“Yeah?” He lifted an eyebrow. “How?”

“I'll think of something.” With a sigh she asked, “What time is it?”

He could just see the digital clock they'd knocked on the floor. “Almost eleven.”

She laughed. “Really? My, how time flies.” She touched his knee. “Don't you want to call Crystal?”

“Nah. I told her I wouldn't. She'll hear the lies in my voice.”

“Ah. What does she think you're doing?”

He put on his shorts and jeans in preparation for the deliveries, and tugged a wad of bills out of his front pocket and started counting them. “Tyler wants me to do the stained glass in the house restoration, and I told Crystal I was coming to check out this church window down here, at a pueblo.” He settled a pile of rumpled bills on the desk. “She knows it's a story, but I'm hoping she thinks it's so I can get off and be alone with you, check things out without hurting her feelings.”

“Is she okay with that?”

He nodded.

Marissa sobered, lifting up on one elbow. “And is that why you asked me to come along?”

“No.” He picked up her hand, grinning ruefully, his blood light in his veins. “Believe it or not, I thought we'd have separate rooms. I just didn't really want to be alone in this.”

“That was the right answer,” she said, her eyelids falling to cover the brilliance in them. Her gaze must have touched on his inner arm, because she lifted a finger and dragged it down the uneven, raised scar on the inside of his forearm. “What happened here?”

“Wrecked a car,” he said regretfully. “Wasn't even drunk. Just stupid.” He frowned, remembering that night. “For a while, when I came out of the army, I didn't much care if I lived or died. The world just seemed like a really bad place and nothing I could do would ever change it.”

She stroked the scar with one finger. “I'm glad you lived, Robert.” She raised her eyes and he saw the earnestness in her eyes. It was an expression he'd seen dozens of times in a woman's eyes. That soft yearning and admiration, that misty romantic glaze. Usually he ran like hell. This time he felt grateful. And with a wry sense
of the world shifting, he wondered if she saw it in his eyes, too. Because he sure as hell felt it when he looked at her.

“Me, too,” he said roughly, and kissed her.

 

They ate ravenously, Robert drinking soda from plastic glasses filled with ice, Marissa sipping her bloodred wine from the same. “Real elegant, huh?” he said, wondering if she minded.

“It's like a picnic.”

She ate heartily, leaving only the crust behind. “Don't you like crusts, baby girl?” he teased. “Were you one of those kids who had to have your sandwiches trimmed?”

“Heck, no. I inhaled everything. I'm so hungry right now, though, that I want the nutritious parts.” She examined the slice in her hand and looked at him. “It's moments like this, when I'm so hungry that I don't care if I'm ever thin, that I worry I'll be fat again someday.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Well, maybe you will. Maybe you won't. I'd guess your walking addiction will keep it down some.” He picked up another slice. “In the end, it's really inside that matters.”

She huffed. “That is a big fat lie and you know it.”

He chuckled. “Is it? Are you really any different from the woman you were?”

“If I were the woman I used to be,” she said distinctly, “I would not be lolling half-naked with you eating pizza, now would I?”

He raised his eyes, hearing real pain behind that, and because of that pain, he didn't answer immediately, trying to sort through his answer as honestly as he could. “I don't know,” he said finally. “You were pretty prickly before. I always had a big thing about your hair
and that—” he waved his hand in a circle, trying to describe the light that had always been there “—an exuberance or whatever. But you used to give me that haughty eye, like I was some bug.”

“I did not!”

“Yes, you did.” He plucked off a mushroom and tossed it on the box. “Miss Hoity Toity rich girl, with her biker boyfriends. You were too scary to talk to.”

She started to laugh. “I was scared to death of you!”

“Sure, sure.” He raised a brow. “The point is, Ms. Rich Girl, it was you who came on to me this time, not the other way around. I would never have had the guts.”

“I did not!”

“Did, too. What was that bit about the dresses?”

“I didn't follow me out to the deck at Louise's house.”

“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “Forgot about that. Wanted to kiss you, too, but you were too scary.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, it's nice of you to say so, but I don't buy it for one second.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Believe it or not, princess. Up to you.”

“Stop calling me that!”

He laughed, and, finally full, rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Outside, the wind howled at the windows, a sad and lonely sound that took him back. “So tell me, princess, what's it like to be so rich, anyway?”

She made a noise of disbelief. “What do you think?”

“I don't know.” He looked at her. “Serious question.”

“Fair enough.” She closed the pizza box and moved it to the dresser, then came back, carrying her wine. Sitting cross-legged, dressed only in his shirt, she said,
“It's pretty much what you think it is. I mean, what's not to like? Money can do almost anything. Save a condemned house, put a kid through college, build a shelter for runaways.” She grinned, impishly. “Not to mention it's not that bad to fly off to Venice if you're in the mood.”

He put his hand around her foot. “Are those things you've done? Saved a house and built a shelter?”

“Yeah, my house. It was trashed, ready for the wrecking ball.”

She didn't affirm the runaway shelter, but it gave him a sense of how much money she really did have. “You have more money than you'll ever be able to spend, don't you?”

She nodded sadly. “'Fraid so. I can't even seem to give it away significantly. Foundations here and there and everywhere. But the thing is, seed money seems to just grow, so pretty soon they don't need me as much anymore.”

He laughed. “Hell of a problem to have.” He wondered why it didn't seem to matter so much tonight, that she was from that rare, strange world. But he knew: it was just the two of them. No outside influences. Idly rubbing her toes, he asked, “And what's bad about it? The way you grew up?”

A shrug. “Not that so much. It was a drag, but it was survivable, always. No,” she said, frowning a little. “The hard part is that old saying, you know, ‘To him much is given, much is required.' I'm always worried that when it comes time to give an accounting for what I did, I'll be judged shallow and silly and not earnest enough.”

“Tiffany screens?”

She toasted him. “
Exactement.
What earthly use is that?”

“I don't know, but it sure is pretty.” In the soft yellow light, her breasts showed a deep cleft, and he thought lazily about putting his hand, or maybe his mouth, there. “Maybe not everything has to be sensible, not every single bit. If there was no one to buy great art, what would artists do?”

“That's true.” Her gaze wandered a little, too, touching his chest, his mouth, and he quirked his lips in a smile. “Are you going to do the window?”

“No. It's too big a project for me. I've never done anything close.”

“I think you should try anyway. There's plenty of time. If it doesn't work out, they can get someone else to do it.”

“Yeah, and waste all those materials.”

“But they won't pay you if it doesn't work out, so how much will they really be out?”

He lifted his hand and unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, then the next. “I don't know.”

“I somehow suspect you don't really care,” she said with an earthy little laugh as he pushed apart the loose fabric and exposed her breasts.

“Nope,” he said, bending close. “Not a bit.”

 

Morning dawned cold but clear, and the road reports said that I-25 was clear to the Wyoming state line, so they headed out early. Before they could get out of town, Robert said he needed to go to the pueblo church and look at the window he admired, so his lie to Crystal wouldn't be a lie.

They stopped at a gold-colored pueblo, old and somehow exhausted looking, even with a dusting of sparkling
snow. “It'll only take me a minute,” he said, and, sensing that he wanted to look at it alone, Marissa waited in the truck with the engine running for heat. She waited, but when he didn't come back for a little while, she turned the engine off and went looking for him.

She found him inside, standing with his hands loose at his sides, his head tilted up to look at a stained-glass window. Sunlight set it ablaze, and bits of red and yellow and blue light fell on his figure. Marissa took an involuntary breath and came to stand beside him in awe.

It was a Madonna image, a Native American Madonna with a Native American baby Christ. The colors were pure and perfect, the shape and form of the principles perfectly, artistically rendered, Mary's face so alight with motherly love that it brought an involuntary rush of tears to Marissa's eyes. “Oh!” she said softly. “It's beautiful!”

“It's not Tiffany,” Robert said.

“No,” Marissa agreed, her throat tight. The colors were much bolder, more primary—almost medieval. “It's different.” Embarrassed at her easy emotions, she wiped a tear away. “Who's the artist?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Me.” He looked at her, his mouth cocked in a rueful expression. His eyes were puzzled. “I'm kind of surprised. I didn't think it was very good.”

Marissa looked up at it, and that same deep wash of emotion came through her, a function of the work itself. “To whom much is given, much is required,” she said.

Only when the sun moved off the window did he move, tugging her hand lightly. They nodded to a youthful priest, so handsome, the local girls must be in a swoon at every Mass, and got back in the truck. Robert didn't say a word.

It was one of the best days of Marissa's life, riding with Robert in his truck, sometimes laughing, sometimes sober. Sometimes they talked about themselves, sometimes about world events, sometimes about Red Creek and the people there.

And they talked glass. Endlessly. Marissa had never known anyone who knew as much about glass as she did. Colors, glazes, styles, artists. He knew everything. He'd spent six years in Europe with the army, and spent any free time wandering through the museums and cathedrals in the great capitals. It amazed her.

But as they neared Castle Rock, a small town outside of Denver, the buoyant nature of the conversation changed. “Do you have any idea of what you're going to do?” Marissa asked.

“None. Call every Trujillo in the phone book?”

“That could take a century or two.” Hesitantly she said, “I have some contacts who might be able to help.”

“I'm listening,” he said. But Marissa felt a clutch in her belly. It was one thing to hear that she had established foundations. If she used these contacts, he'd learn a lot more. But Crystal was the most important consideration here, and she told him where to go.

 

Marissa directed Robert to a downtown Denver office building, spanking new, in a central location. When he would have parked on the street, she said, “No, go around to the back. There's a ramp with parking below. I have my own spot.”

That was his first warning. The second was the deference of the security guard when Marissa popped her head into view. “Hi, George,” she said sweetly. “It's me.”

The old black man bent into the window. “How you doing, sweetheart?”

“Just fine. How's your wife's chemo going?”

“Some days are better than others, but she's holding her own.”