Housebound (12 page)

“You look a little more human and less like a drowned kitten,” he observed, pouring her an indecent amount of cognac and pressing it into her hand. “How are you feeling now?” He sat down by her feet, taking his own cognac, the long slim fingers warming the bowl of the glass as he watched her.

“I feel more human,” she murmured, taking a cautious sip. “Where's Holly?”

“In New York, I expect.”

Pleasure and confusion warred for control, but she remained outwardly unmoved. “You mean, you didn't bring her to pick up her car?”

“No, I did not.”

“But then…why are you here?” She allowed her confusion to shadow her green eyes.

“Would it come as such a surprise if I came to see you?” he countered, his eyes playing gently over her troubled face.

She couldn't meet that gaze. The fire proved an excellent alternative, the golden flames licking hungrily on the apple logs. “Yes,” she said in a distant voice. “It would surprise me very much.”

“Why? You're a beautiful, talented woman. Or has your family beaten you down so much that you don't recognize that fact?” There was a note of harshness in his voice.

“My family hasn't beaten me down,” she said flatly. “They
haven't done anything I haven't let them do. I don't believe in victims—I think people make their own mistakes.”

“I might agree with that.” There was a curiously lifeless tone to his voice. “Then why are you surprised I came to see you?”

She turned to face him again, and then wished she hadn't. Those blue eyes in his Gypsy's face were so very hard to resist. Particularly when coupled with that mop of curly black hair, the high cheekbones and the thin, sensuous mouth. “Because I thought we decided you were going to keep your distance. Or have you decided you're capable of more than a weekend fling?”

He didn't even hesitate. “No.”

She could be just as impassive as he could. “And you know that I'm not interested in settling for halfway measures. So it's a waste of time for you to be here.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say so,” he murmured lazily, leaning back against the cushions, his hand straying to her ankle. “And you've forgotten to mention that you've already got a fiancé. I would think he'd be the major barrier to a passionate interlude with me. So why can't he be your forever-after love? That would give you more than enough free time for a weekend fling with me. We might even stretch it to a month.”

“Gracious of you.” She relaxed somewhat under his banter. She knew perfectly well that there was a note of seriousness beneath his lightness; that he would gladly take her back up those stairs to her bedroom and finish what he started a few short weeks ago. “But you know as well as I do that my devoted fiancé is in love with my sister. That wouldn't augur well for happy-ever-after, don't you think?” She moved her ankle out of his grasp. “I'm not interested in a wedding license for a few years of legal sex. I'm interested in a lifetime.”

“You don't ask much, do you?” His hand followed her, catching her ankle again and slowly, deftly removing the thick wool sock to massage the sole of her bare foot. “Why don't you make it eternity while you're at it? Why stop at something as mundane as death?”

“That's too much of a burden to ask of people, if you really love them,” she said slowly. “People die; nothing can change that fact. And they usually die at different times. I wouldn't want anyone I loved to spend the rest of his life mourning me.”

“Wouldn't you?” His face was turned away from her as he continued to slowly, sensuously massage her foot. “I don't know if it will be up to you, when the time comes.” There was a curiously bleak tone to his voice, and then he turned to her, the full force of his glazing blue eyes scorching her. They were no longer lazily on the make, or softly concerned. They were predatory. “Put your cognac down, Annie, love.”

“Why?” Her voice only wavered slightly, and she tried to keep her gaze steady.

“Because I'm going to kiss you, and I don't fancy another bath. The cognac's too good to waste down my back.” He took the glass out of her suddenly nerveless fingers, set it on the coffee table, and with a strong, determined grip pulled her off the sofa and into his arms.

There was no sweet, gentle seduction in that mouth on hers, no questing tenderness. Only demand, raw and angry and blatantly sexual, as his tongue invaded the stunned interior of her mouth with masculine force, tasting richly of the cognac, demanding a response to his heated desire. A response Anne was at first too shocked and angered to give. She struggled against him for a moment, but he was even stronger than she had imagined. One lean, strong hand held her curled up across his lap, the other cupped her breast, the thumb flicking angrily across the aroused peak, as his tongue continued its almost savage assault of her tender mouth. It was a kiss of punishment, anger and revenge, and it had very little to do with the sexual tension that existed between them.

Anne had her hands raised against his shoulders in a fruitless effort to push him away, when she realized with sudden clarity whom all that anger and hatred was directed at. Not at her, but himself. And if she succeeded in pushing him away, slapped him as hard as he deserved across that dark, Gypsy face, then he would only hate himself all the more.

Her response was simple enough, and something she had longed to do. Her hands slid up and around his neck, her
fingers twining lightly through his thick black curls. Her mouth softened against his, her tongue reaching out to meet him as she moved closer into his hard, lean body. And just as suddenly his anger was gone, and with a low groan of both despair and desire he buried his face in her neck, his breath warm and labored against her skin. She held him there, cradled against her, and this time she spoke the soothing words, smoothing his hair gently back. And then his mouth caught hers again, warm and wet and lingering, his tongue gently exploring all the mysteries that had heretofore been denied him. And it was her turn to groan, with both desire and despair, as she felt him ease her back down against the thick Oriental carpet, his hungry mouth never leaving hers, his hands sliding up under the loosened blouse to cup the untrammeled breasts that had hardened into aroused peaks beneath his ministrations.

It was a kiss of apology, of healing the hurt his earlier kiss had inflicted, and she responded to it joyfully, willingly, her body arching up against his. The feel of his desire through their clothing sent a blaze through her loins, and she groaned again, her arms slipping around his broad back to hold him ever closer. Every doubt vanished, leaving her a willing partner in his practiced seduction. She was his; nothing could stop the inexorable spiral that hurtled them toward completion.

Nothing except Noah himself. With a sudden, shaky laugh he broke off their kiss, rolling away from her to sit back against the couch, his breathing as rapid as hers. “I knew it would be a good idea not to let you wear a bra.” His voice was lightly humorous, and Anne took her cue from him. They needed to lighten the situation, and quickly, before it went completely out of their control.

She didn't bother to move away—for the moment she was safe from any further decisions. “You just couldn't figure out how to put it on me,” she declared smugly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you think not? I'd be glad to prove you wrong, lady. As long as you let me take it back off again.”

“Never mind!” she said quickly. “I believe you. Anyone with your experience would hardly be slowed down by an engineering trifle like a bra.”

“I'm glad you appreciate me,” he murmured, rolling back to cover her still recumbent body. His hands cupped her face, holding her so that she had to look up into those intense blue eyes blazing down into hers. How could she have ever thought he was easygoing? There were more depths in those blue eyes than she had even begun to guess at.

She smiled up at him, tenderly, with only a tiny trace of pertness. “Oh, I appreciate you,” she said seriously. “Only too well.”

He stared down at her for a moment longer, his answering smile distant and preoccupied. And then his head dipped down, his lips brushed hers, lightly, tantalizingly. “You, my dear Ms. Kirkland, are a very dangerous woman. Remind me to keep my distance.” And with that he rolled off her, jumping lightly to his feet.

Anne felt suddenly chilled with the withdrawal of his strong, warm body, but she told herself sternly it was all an illusion. The fire was putting out more than enough heat, even for such a blustery day. With more aplomb than she felt she swung herself into a sitting position. “I'll remind you,” she said quietly.

He was staring out into the rain-swept afternoon. “What makes you think I have such massive experience?” he questioned suddenly, turning to look at her curiously.

“Something Holly said, I suppose.” She shrugged.

“And what else did she tell you?” His voice was low, curiously emotionless.

“That you were a widower. And that you hadn't been seriously involved with anyone since your wife died.”

There was a long pause. “True enough. I do not, however, get my jollies from sleeping with every available and unavailable female. I haven't been a monk, but I haven't been the playboy of the Western world either. I'm a normal man, with normal urges, but I do my best not to hurt anyone. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“No.” She was completely mystified.

“I'm saying that I don't seduce vulnerable ladies in tumbledown mansions. When I make love I do it for fun and pleasure, and I do it with women who are good friends, with the same needs and urges I have. I never sleep with someone who needs or wants more.”

She should have dropped it, taken the warning and the reassurance in his voice and left it at that, but she couldn't. “And why don't you need and want more?” she questioned in a low voice.

“Because I had it,” he said bitterly. He moved to the fireplace, his back to her, staring down into the flames. In the sudden silence she could hear the cracking of the fire, the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the heavy beat of the rain on the windows, and the ever-present sighing of the wind. She opened her mouth to break the silence again, then closed it. He had come to her with demons riding him, riding him hard. If he needed peace and quiet she would give it to him. It was the only thing she had to offer that would be different from his New York City harem.

She saw the tension finally drain from his shoulders, felt rather than heard the sigh leave him. When he finally raised his head to turn and look at her, the smile he gave her was achingly sweet. “Did anyone ever tell you you're a very restful woman?”

“Does that mean I'm boring?” she demanded with light affront.

“Oh, no.” He shook his head, and once more those strands of sexual awareness were being strung between them. “You're the least boring woman I've ever met. You should try being trapped in a small car with your sister for two hours. She's quite a brilliant cellist, but when it comes to anything else her conversation is distinctly limited.” With casual grace he lowered his lean body into the chair beside the fire, across the room from her. Anne could only be glad he eschewed the couch for the time being—if he continued to look that beautiful in the flickering firelight he might have to fend her off with the fire poker, she realized with a trace of long absent humor. “What are we having for dinner?” he suddenly asked.

That did startle her. “You're staying for dinner?”

“And the night. Surely you wouldn't be so cruel as to send a poor man out into a night like this? Besides, your father will be chaperon enough.”

“Proffy might not be back tonight.” She tried to keep the troubled note out of her voice.

“Don't look so worried, Annie, love.” He stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I've told you before, you're as safe as you want to be with me.”

“I'll try to remember that,” she said dryly.

“Good. When we finish the cognac I want you to come down to the kitchen with me. I brought you a present. Though when I saw you dangling from the roof I left it in the car.”

“I wasn't dangling,” she protested, her stomach sinking in remembrance of that tenuous hold. “I was just resting for a moment.”

“Sure you were.”

“What sort of present?” A sudden chill ran through her, making her voice equally cold.

“I brought you a food processor. Every good cook deserves one, and a great one like you…” He took in her angry expression. “What's wrong? I thought you said you wanted one. Would you rather chop twenty onions by hand? I hadn't realized you were such a purist.”

“I can't accept it.” Her voice was stubbornly mutinous.

“And why not?”

“Because it's too expensive. If you think you can buy me with a…” Her voice trailed off before his shout of laughter.

“Annie love, you are priceless! What a brilliant idea. I never thought I could entice you into my bed with something as mundane as a Cuisinart. Aren't you putting a rather low price on your favors?”

“I'm glad it amused you. I don't happen to think it's funny,” she replied stiffly, glaring at his convulsed figure.

“I'm sorry, angel. If I had thought it would work I'd carry one with me at all times. It certainly saves a lot of time and bother, not to mention money. It costs a great deal to escort a woman around New York nowadays. And I find it a good habit to wait for the third date before I take her to bed. That way she respects me.” He grinned at her, and she glared back, torn between outrage and amusement.

“I thought you didn't take that many women to bed,” she shot back.

“So I'll only have to buy half a dozen,” he replied blithely.

Amusement finally won. “You're incorrigible,” she chided him. “How can you be so calculating when it comes to love?”

“I'm not. I'm only calculating when it comes to sex,” he said with a disarming smile.

“Well, I've decided my price is higher than a Cuisinart,” she said smartly. “I want a microwave, a mixer with a dough hook, a pasta maker and a sable coat.”

“Is that all?”

“And an emerald necklace. It would match my eyes, don't you think?”

“Admirably. Will you keep the Cuisinart on account?”

“I suppose so. But no payment until you deliver the rest of the goods,” she warned him.

“Sounds fair enough. As long as you feed me to keep up my strength. I brought some wine and some more cognac, too.” He held up the almost empty bottle. “You've been making inroads on this one.”

“What kind of wine?”

“A light, dry Vouvray. You'll like it.”

“How will it go with sautéed chicken?”

“Very well indeed. Unless you'd rather go out for dinner?”

“I thought the weather was too miserable to venture out?” she shot back. “No, we may as well stay here—I already took the chicken out. Why risk death and dismemberment in a tornado?”

“It might be exciting,” he offered, that dangerous light back in his eyes. “We might be marooned and have to spend the night in the car.”

“No, thank you. I prefer the safety and comfort of my own bed.”

“So would I,” he said blandly.

“No,” she said, her firmness directed more at herself than at him.

“No?” he echoed. “I guess we're back to where we started,” he murmured, leaning his lean, wiry body back into the chair.

“Not quite. I have a Cuisinart, and you're going to have the best chicken sauté you've ever eaten and a warm bed for the night.”

“Not the right bed, though,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment. “Almost a fair trade, though.” He opened them again, watching her with that sudden, kindling warmth. “I'm not going to stop, I'm afraid.”

“Stop what?”

“Wanting you. And I don't give up easily when I want something as much as I want you.” His voice was soft, firm and implacable, and a sudden sense of
déjà vu
swept over her.

“I guess you'll just have to learn self-denial.”

“Will I?”

“Absolutely,” she said, her tone brooking no other possibilities.

“We'll see,” he said serenely, closing his eyes again. “We'll see.”

 

R
ATHER THAN ABATING
, the storm picked up in intensity as the afternoon wore on and edged over into the evening. It was past eight when Anne stared out the kitchen window into the rain-swept darkness beyond, and a shiver of apprehension washed over her. Dinner was almost ready—Noah had been banished to the library with the chilled Vouvray and a plate of Brie and freshly baked French bread while she monitored the final cooking moments. She was torn between the desire to whisk the chicken off the stove and carry the dinner
upstairs, half-cooked, and the very strong desire to run into her studio and lock the door behind her. He hadn't touched her at all in the last few hours, not since that brief tussle on the library sofa.

For all that, it had been a surprisingly peaceful afternoon. While Anne curled up on the sofa and plowed determinedly through schistosomiasis, Noah stretched out on the floor in front of the fire, content to stare into the flames, turning to watch her out of those blue eyes of his when he thought she wasn't looking. She was acutely aware each time that gaze turned to her, but she kept her eyes downcast on the manuscript, trying to will it to make sense to her. The best she could do at that point was make sure the grammar was kept straight, and the more complex points she could deal with later when she was less distracted.