Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (53 page)

“You're really that much of a free spirit?”

Somehow, she kept the smile in place. “I really am.”

“A free spirit who's been celibate for how long?”

“There's freedom in celibacy, too, you know. I'm not a slave to my body. Or its whinings. And you sure think a lot for a dude.”

He almost smiled. “It passes the time while I work up to round two.”

“Oh?”

Chuckling, he handily flipped her on her back so their fun bits could get reacquainted, and his weight was so welcome and warm and good she nearly passed out. “You didn't seriously think I was going to let you out of here with that initial travesty imprinted on your brain, do you?”

“So...you're saying you can do better?”

“Hey. Reputation to uphold here,” he said, and dipped his head to demonstrate. Or, more accurately, begin to demonstrate. Because this time, no one was in any hurry. This time was about control and patience and sweet, sweet buildup...of exploration and experimentation and getting
really
intimately acquainted, of whiskers rasping against sensitive skin, a talented mouth sending sparks of startled pleasure swirling deep, deep inside her...of a blissful pulsing that seemed to go on forever.

Then he was inside her from behind, in some clever position that apparently took pressure off his knee, his breath hot on the back of her neck as he filled her, stroked her, and, oh, my
word,
was he good at this...and then she was floating, flying, crying out a second time—or third, if one were being technical—over Ethan's own guttural release.

Then silence, save for their breathing, the incongruous sound of Barney licking himself on the other side of the room. Moonlight splashed across them, cold and unforgiving, such a contrast to Ethan's solidity against her back, his hand warm and tender on her breast as he teased her nipple.

“Ho, ho, ho?” he said, and she laughed, even as the recrimination came so hard and fast Claire nearly lost her breath. Because for all her knowing,
accepting,
that this was only for now—and that her gift had been without conditions—at that moment her intellect and her heart were on opposite teams.

Then he gently rolled her over to gather her in his arms, and she thought,
Not making this any better, bub.

Another long stretch of silence followed, punctuated by the steady beating of his heart against her ear, his fingers rhythmically stroking her bare shoulder. Then, at last, a long, shuddering breath. Claire shifted to prop her hand on his chest and whisper, “How're you doing? And yes, I want an honest answer.”

“I'm not sure. This all feels a little...surreal.”

“Bad surreal or good surreal?”

His chest rumbled. “Definitely not bad. But...” A small smile on his lips, he angled his head to look into her eyes. “How honest are we talking?”

“For heaven's sake, Ethan—I'm not some delicate little flower.”
Anymore.
“Just spit it out, already.”

His brows drawn, he slowly swept her hair off her shoulder. “Merri was my first and only. Obviously. So I guess I'd always assumed that...doing this with anyone else would feel...weird. Like I was cheating on her.” He gave his head a slight shake. “But it didn't. At all. Which is why it felt so surreal. Hell,” he said on another breath, stuffing his hand behind his head again as he looked up at the ceiling. “I didn't even think about her. Not once.”

“And now you're feeling guilty about that.”

He blew a soft laugh through his nose. “A little. Yeah.” His gaze shifted to hers again. “Sounds pretty messed up, huh—?”

On the nightstand next to him, Ethan's phone rang. Muttering a curse word, he fumbled for it, frowning at it in the dark before putting it to his ear.

“What's up?” he said, concern in his voice, as Claire took advantage of the distraction to haul herself to a sitting position, gathering the rumpled covers to her chin. “No, of course not....Carmela. Stop. Of course you can bring the kids home, I'm sorry John's not feeling well.... At least you guys got to see the show and the tree, right? Yeah, yeah....I'll see you all soon.”

He cut off the call, then sighed. “It's my father-in-law. Guess he caught the girls' cold. Carmela says he was fine when they left, but it came on right as they got out of the show.” He looked so apologetic Claire ached for him. “They'll be home in an hour. Um...you want to stay for dinner?”

“And wouldn't that be awkward?” Claire said as lightly as she could manage. “Although if you don't mind I think I'll take a quick shower before I go.”

“Uh...sure. Here,” he said, getting out of bed and walking naked to his closet to pull out a robe, which he handed to her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, suddenly self-conscious as she wriggled into it before leaving the warm bed, saturated with the scent of their lovemaking, of Ethan, of her perfume.

“I'm sorry,” he said as she pulled the robe closed, and she laughed. Sort of.

“For what? Having kids? Being who you are? And anyway,” she said before he could respond, “it's not as if we'd planned this or anything.” She tried another laugh. “I'm only glad I didn't get here any later.”

“So...you're okay?”

“And you can stop with the foolish talk right now.... What are you doing?”

“Remembering,” he said, sliding the robe open to pull her close again, hard against his nakedness as he joined their mouths in one last, heated, crazy-making kiss before letting her go, his expression every bit as tortured as she would have expected. Because now that reality—his reality, in any case—had once more reared its head... Oh, man. She could only imagine what was going through his head.

Claire lowered her eyes, grateful for the dark. That he couldn't see her tears, mostly in frustration with herself, for her own stupidity. For thinking she could do this without repercussions. Her words to Juliette echoed in her head...only Claire had done a lot more than let a boy kiss her in the janitor's closet.

So much for owning her decision, for feeling like an adult as well as acting like one. Especially when she realized Ethan was stripping the bed—still naked, heaven help her—dumping the pillows onto the floor, yanking off the sheets. Not that she didn't understand the prudence behind his action, but neither did she miss the symbolism that what they'd just done? Never happened.

“Use whatever you want in the bathroom,” he said. “And there's clean towels in the linen closet.”

“Got it, thanks.”

A few minutes later, she was showered and dressed, as purged of any evidence of their lovemaking as his bed, her hair a mass of tiny wet snakes around her face when Ethan—now dressed—caught her in the hall.

“You shouldn't go out like that, you'll catch cold,” he said, his expression so conflicted Claire almost flinched.

“Old wives' tale,” she said with a tight smile, one hand already on the doorknob. The dog at his heels, Ethan slowly closed the space between them to cup her cheek in his warm palm, kiss her mouth, her forehead.

“Drive safe,” he said, and she nodded, then finally made her escape, coming as close to the walk of shame as she ever had. Or ever wanted to. Although at least she could get her own damn Chinese food, if she so desired.

Because autonomy was a beautiful thing.

* * *

Wally soundly scolded her when she opened her door, in all likelihood because there was a quarter-size bare spot in the bottom of his food dish.

“Yeah, yeah, you're in no danger of starving,” Claire said, hefting the burgeoning plastic bag onto the two-seater bistro table wedged in her kitchen corner. Catching a whiff of the rich ginger-and-garlic aroma emanating from the bag, the cat immediately jumped up on one of the chairs, wiggling his pink nose.

“Git,” Claire said, lightly swatting the beast off the chair, then sighed. She'd forgotten how hungry she got after sex, a thought that made her feel as if she'd been impaled by a chopstick.

As did the thought of eating alone. And no, the cat did not count.

Virgil answered on the first ring. “What's up, sweet thing?”

“You eat yet?”

“Oh, honey, ages ago. As befits a gentleman of my advanced years.”

“Oh. Too bad. Because I kinda went nuts at China Garden.”

“Oh?” A pause. Then, “Any spring rolls?”

“Six.”

“I'll be right up.”

She'd no sooner set her iPhone to play Christmas music—because she was nothing if not masochistic—than her bell rang, and there was Virgil, dapper as always in an argyle sweater vest and bow tie...and his house shoes. “My goodness, it smells heavenly in here,” he said, then stopped with his hand on his heart when he saw her puny tree. “And isn't that the most precious thing?”

“There's one word for it,” Claire muttered, arranging the open foam containers on her counter. “The spring rolls are in that bag, help yourself—”

“Oh, honey...what's wrong?”

Claire's eyes shot to his. “Why do you—?”

“Because I've seen that look on too many faces far too many times not to recognize a broken heart when I see it. And I'd love a cup of tea with this,” he said, plucking one of the rolls out of the bag, “if you have it.”

She grabbed the box of tea bags from the cabinet. “Then you need to have your eyes checked.”

“That may well be. But my ears are fine. And you're a terrible liar.”

A cup of water clunked into the microwave, Claire turned, her arms crossed. “Nobody broke my heart, Virgil.” When he lowered his chin again, chewing, she sighed. “Fine, so maybe I got myself into something I shouldn't have, but I knew going in that...”

“That what?”

The microwave beeped. She retrieved the steaming cup, plopped a tea bag into it. “Okay, here's the thing... After my father died, it killed me, watching my mother grieve. Sure, I was sad, too, but she was...lost. So I decided I'd never let myself be that emotionally vulnerable.”

Now seated at the table, the purring cat in his lap, Virgil rolled his eyes. “Well, hell. No wonder your marriage failed.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“So why did you get married in the first place?”

“Because that's what twenty-six-year-old women do? And I did love my ex—”

“But with half your heart.”

“Ouch. But...yeah.”

“You do realize how stupid that is. Not to mention impossible.”

“Now? Sure.”

“Which I assume brings us to tonight.”

Claire yanked a pair of paper plates from another cabinet, silverware from the drawer underneath, and began scooping out Szechuan beef, pork fried rice, lemon chicken. “I honestly thought I'd made myself impervious to that whole heart-on-sleeve thing. That I was immune to the...messiness.”

“Again. Stupid.”

Butt now in chair, Claire shoveled in a chunk of chicken. “Again, tell me about it. And it suuucks.”

“Sweetie, being in love doesn't suck—”

“It does when the other person is still in mourning for his dead wife.”

“Oh.” Dumping the cat so he could fill his own plate, Virgil frowned. “That could present a problem.” Claire stabbed a chopstick in his direction. Virgil dropped a piece of chicken on the floor, where the cat pounced on it before it could fly away, then glanced over. “Does he know how you feel?”

She snorted. “Like he doesn't have enough to worry about without dealing with...that.”

“As in, being loved?” Virgil gently said, and the food in Claire's mouth jammed in her throat.

She took a swig from her water bottle, then said, “Remember what I said about my mother? That's where he is.
And
he's got kids.”

“Kids?” His plate piled high, Virgil sat back down across from her. “How many are we talking?”

“Four,” she said, and Virgil let out a low whistle. “One of whom is my student.” Her eyes filled. “All of whom I...I love to bits. Or could, if I let myself. Words I never,
ever
thought I'd hear come out of my mouth. But damned if those little stinkers didn't breach every one of my defenses....” She shook her head again, hard. “And Ethan... He's a terrific dad. Stubborn, sometimes. And crazy overprotective. But kind, and funny—in his own way—and...and just—” she sucked in a shaky breath
“—g-good.”

“Oh, honey—”

“But the point is, they've made a new life for themselves. A nice, safe life. A life I do not fit into.”

“And why would you assume that?”

For the first time, doubt of another kind wriggled into her consciousness, even as she said, “Because the children... They don't need any more upheaval. Even...even if Ethan were up for giving this a shot...what if it didn't work out? The littlest one, especially—she's only six....” Claire shook her head, her chest aching.

Virgil chewed for a moment, then said, “So tell me something—when you audition for a part, do you hold back, afraid of looking like an idiot?”

She almost laughed. “No, of course not.”

“What about in class? Do you dumb down the material, afraid the kids won't get it otherwise?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then let me get this straight—you've fallen for with a man with four children, children you've admitted you love, as well. But you're willing to potentially deprive those children of a mother, not to mention their grieving father of a second chance at happiness—uh-huh, let that sink in for a minute—because you're afraid of what
might
happen? That does not sound like the Claire Jacobs I know. Because that woman couldn't be that selfish if her life depended on it.”

Claire's mouth fell open. “But I'm only thinking of them—”

“Really? Because it sounds more to me like you're trying to save your own posterior.”