For All of Her Life (16 page)

“No!” He shouted at her. His hands were suddenly upon her shoulders, their fingers like vises, “No, damn it, that isn’t it!”

“Then what?” she cried, amazed at the force of emotion rushing through her. This was a nightmare, standing here. Oh, God, it was so much the same as it had been before...

Too much the same.

One of his hands moved. Caught and lifted her chin, tenderness defying the tension as his eyes locked with hers. Calloused fingers, made rough and rugged from constant play upon guitar strings, brushed, feather-light and shaking, over her flesh. He was going to speak—but he didn’t. His mouth lowered to hers. She could have moved. She didn’t. She waited for the touch, for the contact. It came within milliseconds, yet by then she felt like a puppet, jerked within and without by strings of searing mercury. His mouth melded to hers. Time again eclipsed. She knew his lips, the feel of his kiss, the intoxication and hunger it could fuel. She could have broken away. No bonds held her. No force coerced her. Intelligence dictated she run.

Simple yearning kept her there, feeling evermore the pressure of his mouth, the power of his hands. His touch... Oh, God, she was touching him as well, she had wanted so badly to feel his face, smooth-shaven now, to stroke his hair, explore, remember...

She was unaware of exactly when the buttons seemed to slip free from her tailored nightgown, fully conscious only of the feel of his hands on her nakedness, of the absolute
need
to touch in turn.

This was Jordan. Jordan, whom she had known all her life, so it seemed. When he had been young and lanky and all bones. When he had matured, when his chest had broadened, when his muscles had formed. She was so familiar with the slight clefts at the small of his back; she knew the tiny scar, caused by a fishing hook, at the top of his right thigh. She knew the feel of his flesh, the way that he moved. Knew his warmth and his scent, the way he could touch and tease her in return, tantalize...

It was insane, she told herself. If she just paused to think about this...

But she couldn’t convince herself to do that. Her flesh—her blood—didn’t want her to think, no part of her wanted thought to intrude. Just as she wasn’t quite sure when her buttons started to slip open, she didn’t quite remember moving, walking, reaching the bed, finding herself sinking down within it. But she was there. And he was with her. And the sweetly burning heat of his body was pressing into hers with a wild, urgent, fantastic energy that seemed to sweep any possible threat of thought from her mind. His mouth was upon hers... gone from hers. Her breath was ragged. Her heartbeat seemed constant, but that was because it combined with the thunder of his. Within, without, she throbbed with that beat; hungry, wanting. The frantic trail of his kiss against her. She did take a second to be grateful for the darkness, for the kind glow of the moon outside and the pale gleam that filtered in from the bath. Darkness was sweet, so sweet. She didn’t have to think in the darkness, she didn’t have to be afraid...

Of what?

He couldn’t see her clearly.

Couldn’t see
time.

Couldn’t see the things in her eyes she was so afraid she might betray...

Oh, God, it was
good...

She’d known, all of her life, that he was a good lover. So giving. Creating a spiral. Aroused by his partner’s arousal, excited anew, re-creating excitement. She realized these things, soft cries escaping her as he unerringly
remembered...
a whisper against her earlobe, a stroke down her back. The soft brush of his tongue between her breasts, upon them...the stroke of a finger, lower, higher, lower again. Liquid fire, the trail of his kiss, following where the flurry of touch had come before. She writhed and twisted in his arms, lips pressed to his shoulders, his throat, his chest, fingers entwined in his hair, nails scraping delicately over his flesh. The sensations became blinding. Oh, God, it had never been this good, this sweet, this wonderful, this delicious before.

It had. It was...

His hand moved over her buttocks. His stroke—oh, Lord—was inside her. Touching, deeper, finding, evoking...

His name. Whispered on her lips. Cried out, whispered again. The pleasure so long denied almost an agony. She could find no words. Only his name again. A plea, a demand, a whisper once more. She was suddenly aware of his eyes in the darkness. Then his kiss. Upon her lips. Her throat. Her breast, his tongue raggedly caressing her nipples. Once more, his kiss on her naked flesh, more intimate. He knelt between her parted thighs. Touched, stroked. Dared. More. More and more intimacy. His touch, his kiss, incredible intimacy. A stroke of his finger. Parting her. Liquid warmth. His. Hers. His name on her lips again, a whisper, a hoarse cry, something very near a shriek. A sob.

Then he was with her. Arms around her, sex within her. The thunder that had been their heartbeats was part of the throbbing that filled her like the heady pulse of a drum, harder, faster, still harder, still faster. Sweat slicked her body, his. Her fingers played into the dampness of his hair while she sought and strained, writhing, closer to him, ever closer, wanting more of him, feeling that she would burst with him, needing, reaching.

And when the climax burst upon her, it was fantastic. Rising so sweetly, cresting with a burst of liquid magic, shuddering through her with a startling, frightening violence, yet still so unbearably sweet. Wracking the length of her again and again, sweeping her even as she felt him find his own release, his form from head to toe going steel hard, sinking within her in wild, tight thrust, groaning, holding, sinking gently down upon her again, then rolling with her that they might remain as one, yet without her having to take the fullness of his weight upon her.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes. She hadn’t allowed herself to think, and she didn’t regret that. Yet now thoughts rushed in upon her. What now? A taste of paradise again, memories for the cold, lonely days ahead. A reminder, just in case she had forgotten how much she had once loved her husband, how she’d loved making love with him, lying with him, waking up beside him, laughing, arguing, fighting over the blankets, stealing one another’s pillows.

In this room.

She’d walked out because she’d had to. Because she’d lost him already. Because something had lain between them that she hadn’t been able to combat. She’d thought he’d come for her; he’d filed papers against her. Maybe he’d loved her then as she had loved him, despite what lay between them. Despite the bitterness that had inevitably come.

But now...

Now he was involved with a thirty-year-old woman. One considered by many to be one of her generation’s great beauties. And that woman would be here. Soon.

Kathy swallowed hard. She’d told herself she was insane—and she was. She gently tried to extricate herself from him.

“Please, don’t,” he said. The darkness still blanketed them. His voice was rich and husky and filled with something of the poignancy that seemed to rip at her own heart.

“What were we thinking?” she asked a little desperately.

“We weren’t thinking,” he said.

“My God, what were we doing—”

“Kathy, we both know what we were doing.”

“But here, tonight...” Desperation still edged her voice. He was silent for a second, then he sighed.

“I really don’t want to ruin your life. But I don’t want to give this up. Not for a few minutes, at least. But I guess I do owe it to you to go away. The kids will probably keep Jeremy out fairly late. But will he come here when he returns? He has his own room. Next door. The girls will take him there. If you’re afraid he’ll come here—”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll—he’ll respect the fact that I told him I was exhausted.”

“Oh,” Jordan said after a moment. It was clear that he thought any lover worth his salt should be checking on her when he returned from a night out.

“He’s very courteous that way.”

“A courteous relationship. Great.”

“It is!” she said defensively, then added, “People do need their own space, remember? Miss Hughes does keep her own room, right?”

“Ummm,” he murmured, growing serious. “Kathy?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“For tonight. Whatever happens...we had this. You didn’t jump up and tell me it was an awful mistake. We had something we used to have. If only for a few moments.”

“It... wasn’t a mistake,” she whispered. “I did what I did on purpose.”

Oh, dear Lord, that was true. What a tragic admission. Some things suddenly seemed clear. Among them that she should have had more sex over the years. No matter what she had taught her daughters about the importance of absolutely responsible behavior, she should have had more sex herself.

If so, she might not have felt so powerless when he had barely touched her.

“How the hell did we mess it all up so badly?” he asked her softly.

“Rumors, lies, mistrust.”

“Why did you leave me?”

“Because, honest to God, you had left me.

“It was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“A lifetime, it seems.”

“A decade is all. But look at us. You’ve got your Mr. Muscleman.”

“And you have Miss April.”

He hesitated just briefly. “Yeah, but do you know what?”

“What?”

“I have never... been with anyone in this room.”

She leaned up on an elbow, studying him curiously. “Really?”

He grinned, delightfully sheepish. Nodded.

She smiled. “That’s kind of nice.”

“I’m not saying I haven’t been with a number of women, I have.”

“I know. If I don’t read the papers, I can always count on a few good friends to fill me in on the details of your life.”

“Jealous?”

“Maybe. Just a little bit.”

“And now tonight—”

“Was nice,” Kathy said.

He sat halfway up. “Nice?
Nice?
Well, my dear, you have just managed to make me feel absolutely ancient. It was supposed to be unbearably exciting. Hot, wild. Not
nice.
My God, I must be decaying big time!”

She laughed softly. “I don’t think you need fear anything of the sort. You are dating a sweet young thing who apparently finds you just as hot as a furnace.”

“And how do you find me?”

“I find you to be... Jordan,” she said huskily after a moment. She had to be careful! she warned herself. She was starting to sound like something from
True Confessions.
In fact, despite the darkness, she was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

Afraid.

Don’t look at me too closely. Don’t let the magic go, she thought, and tried again to untangle herself from his limbs, his one leg cast over hers, the other caught beneath.

“Jordan...”

“Yeah, I guess we should move. What if one of the girls were to check on you? We wouldn’t want to disappoint either of the children, ummm?”

“Ummm... right,” she murmured. The sting of tears now seemed to be slamming against her eyelids. She was tired. She could still breathe in the scent of him. She had disentangled—she didn’t want the warm feel of his flesh to go away.

He started away, then paused. His knuckle touched her chin; his lips brushed hers, melded softly, evocatively to them. Briefly. Too briefly. “It doesn’t seem right to walk away,” he said.

“It would be damned easy just to fall asleep,” she admitted on a breath.

His mouth touched hers again.

But even as her bones began to melt, a strident screeching jangled her nerves and she nearly jumped sky-high.

“Phone,” he muttered with a curse, starting to reach across her body to pick it up.

“I’ll get it,” she offered, and slipped the receiver from the sleek telephone on the bedside table.

“Hello?”

Silence greeted her at first. She thought perhaps it was Tara Hughes, that she might not appreciate Kathy answering the phone in the house, in Jordan’s room.

But then she heard the strangest inhalation of breath. Like someone choking, barely able to breathe.

“Ka...thy!” A chilling voice. “Sweet Kathy, back home again.”

Jordan snatched the phone from her. “Who the hell is this?” he demanded

As Kathy watched, his face hardened and aged. She heard the grinding of his teeth.

“You son-of-a-bitch—” he began; then he cursed and slammed the receiver down. He made a nimble leap over her, staring at the phone base.

“Jordan, what the hell is going on?”

He ignored her and jerked open the drawer beneath the phone, pulled out a pen and pad, and jotted down the number displayed in a small box on the phone.

“Jordan?” Kathy repeated.

He shook his head, standing, walking around to the foot of the bed to find his robe. Aware that he was about to turn the light on, Kathy made a mad dive for her tailored nightgown, slipping into it even as he reached the wall and hit the switch, flooding them with light.

“Don’t you worry about this. And excuse me, but I... I’ve got something to take care of,” he told her. “Important.”

“Jordan, damn it, don’t do this to me, don’t close me out, tell me what’s going on!” she demanded.

But he was already out the door, closing it behind him.

Her turn, she determined. She threw the door back open, and followed him. He was already down the stairs. In the living room.

He was on the phone there, despite the fact that it had to be nearly two
A.M.

“I’ve got a number this time,” he was telling someone tersely. He looked up, saw her. His eyes narrowed angrily. He read out the figures he had written down. “Yes. Fine. Thanks. Let me know.”

He hung up.

“Kathy, will you please go up to—”

“Not on your life,” she said, shaking her head. She crossed her arms over her chest and approached him determinedly. “We gave up Blue Heron. We gave up our marriage. We’ve got new lives. But I’ll be damned if I’ll have any ghosts following me this time when the reunion is over. Jordan, I swear, if you don’t start talking to me, I’ll walk out of this house tonight. What is it?”

He sank down onto the refurbished Chesterfield sofa. “You can’t do that.”

“Why?”