Knowing You (19 page)

He grinned in response. “What's so funny?”

“Not funny!” she called back, and ran the last few steps separating them. She took the stairs two at a time and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “It's amazing, Paul. Absolutely amazing.”

Yanking his hands free of his pockets, Paul slid his arms around her waist and squeezed, loving the feel of
her body pressed along his. When she pulled her head back to smile up at him, he stared down at her. In the pale glow of the porch light, her blue eyes sparkled.

“You won't believe it.”

“So tell me.”

“I have a family.”

She said the word like it was holy. And to her, Paul knew it was. All she'd ever wanted, for as long as he could remember, was to belong …
somewhere
. Someone like him, who'd grown up surrounded by loud brothers and a sister—fighting for any small square of privacy you could carve out for yourself—could sometimes forget just how precious family was. It was sometimes easy to take for granted something that others would give anything for. Stevie's whole body trembled with excitement—he felt it rippling through her. And he hoped to hell that whatever had happened to make her so damn happy wasn't going to eventually blow up in her face.

“What do you mean, family?”

She kissed him. Quickly, fiercely, hungrily, and every cell in his body woke up and shouted, Hot damn!

“I've got a sister,” she said, effectively ending his little sexual side trip. “Her name's Debbie and she lives in Monterey.”

Paul just stared at her. Happiness radiated from her like heat from white-hot coals. The desire raging inside him settled into a low simmer that warmed him without the fire.

“How?” he asked. “Who? What?”

Stevie grinned and kissed him again. “All excellent questions. Let's make some coffee.”

“Right.” He let her go and she rushed past him into the house. Paul followed after, listening to the sound of the heels of her sandals clicking against the wood floor as she walked straight into the kitchen. She knew her way around his place as well as she did her own. Over the years, they'd spent a lot of time together here. Of course, most of the time, she'd been complaining about Nick, but Paul hadn't cared. He'd liked spending time with her even though a part of him had wanted her to look at him as something more than a friend. Though now that she had, there was a whole new world of problems.

“So,” she was saying, and he made himself pay attention, “Joanna's new husband, the lawyer, remember? He had her make out her will and then told her to send me a copy.”

“And…” He stopped at the doorway to the kitchen and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. Crossing one bare foot over the other, he folded his arms across his chest and studied her. She moved quickly, as Stevie always did, as though she had this perpetual motion machine locked inside her body, constantly propelling her along. His gaze dropped to the curve of her behind as she moved confidently around the room. She pulled the bag of ground coffee from the refrigerator and set up the coffeepot. Once she'd hit the
POWER
button, she turned around, braced her hands on the counter's edge, and smiled again.

“And…”
she said, that smile fading a bit as shadows crept into her eyes. “Forgetting about all of Joanna's bizarre bequests, there was a mention in there
about a trust set up for her—and I quote—‘mentally deficient daughter, Debbie.'”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah.” Disgust flashed across her features. She wrapped her arms around her middle and held on as if trying to keep a tight grip on the emotions obviously charging through her.

The coffeepot hissed and sizzled, and steam lifted from the top, like the lonely mist that drifted in off the ocean. Neither of them said anything for a long minute or two.

Paul waited for her to go on. He couldn't imagine what she was feeling, thinking, but he watched as her expression shifted with heartbreaking speed. Her world had been turned upside down. And now she had to figure out what it would do to her life. How much she
wanted
it to do to her life.

“What do you think it means?” she asked, her voice so low, the hissing coffeepot almost completely engulfed it. “Mentally deficient.” She pushed away from the counter and paced up and down the length of the kitchen, talking more to herself than to him. “I mean, of course I know what it means, but does it mean a mild disability or does it mean—”

“I don't know, Stevie. It could mean anything.”

She looked at him and her eyes were wide and vulnerable and so full of confusion and misery, Paul's heart ached. He straightened up and walked toward her. Dropping both hands on her shoulders, he said, “You'll find out.
We'll
find out.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Stevie slipped out from under Paul's hands, as if she didn't trust herself to stay,
and stepped back. “I have to know if she's okay, Paul. I have to know. I mean, Joanna just brushed Debbie out of her life. What if she's living in a terrible place?” Her hands shoved through her hair. “What if they're mean to her? What if she's wondering where her mom is? What if—”

He walked a wide circle around her, wanting to get closer, but unwilling to trust himself at the moment. Besides, she hadn't come here to be held. She came here to talk. To have him listen to the fears rushing through her.

“Joanna wouldn't put your sister—”

Stevie stopped him with a cold, hard look.

“Okay, fine,” he conceded. “Maybe Joanna wouldn't care much where her child was. But what about Debbie's father? What was he like?”

Stevie paced again, keeping her distance from him even as she talked. She was just too … vulnerable right now. It would be too easy to lean on him—that's all she really wanted to do at the moment. She wanted him to put his arms around her and tell her it would be all right. “He was … nice. I don't remember much about him, really. I was only ten and they weren't married long.” A harsh, strained laugh shot from her throat. “No surprise there.” She scooped her hair back from her face and squeezed her skull as if trying to hold her brain in place. “I just can't believe this, Paul. I can't believe Joanna never told me. I never knew that Debbie was out there. What if she needed me? What if all her life, she's been wondering why she's so alone? What if—”

“Stevie, stop.” He came closer and dropped his
hands onto her shoulders again, and this time she didn't move away. This time she stood still and let the warmth of him slide down deep inside, to where cold, dark shadows curled in the bottom of her heart.

“I have to see her.”

“Sure you do.”

“She has to come and live with me.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Stevie, don't make plans until you've met her. Until you get the answers to some of your questions.” He gave her a reassuring smile to take the sting out of his words, but said them anyway. “She has a life. A life you don't know anything about. She might even be happy.”

She nodded, inhaled sharply, and blew the air out in a long sigh. “I know, I know. But what if she's not? It's just that I have so
many
questions. And it feels like I'm wasting time—”

“It's already been—” He broke off. “How old is she?”

“I don't know, I tried to figure that out by remembering when Joanna was married to Michael, but it's kind of blurry, dates and stuff, but I was ten when Joanna was pregnant—or when she was married to Michael Harris anyway. So that would make Debbie about seventeen.”

“Uh-huh.” When she looked up at him, he shifted one hand to smooth her hair back from her face, then scraped the pad of his thumb along her tear-dampened cheekbone. “It's already been seventeen years, Stevie. One more night won't hurt anything.”

“Yeah, I guess I know that. It's just…” Words dried up, but her eyes didn't. She took a breath again, let it
go, and fought to control the quiver in her bottom lip before she said, “She's my
family
, you know?”

“I know. I know, Stevie.” He bent his head to kiss her, tasting tears and hope along with the sweet taste that was pure Stevie. She touched him. In ways he hadn't even completely realized yet. Her tears wept into his heart and ached gently as he pulled her close and tried to give her the comfort she so obviously needed.

“Paul,” she said, breaking the kiss and staring up into his deep brown eyes. “I didn't come here for this. I didn't want—”

“I know, Stevie.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Damn, I know that.”

“I should go.”

“Probably,” he conceded.

Their gazes locked, her arms came around his neck, and when she leaned into him he felt her surrender. He picked her up, cradling her close to his chest as he turned and left the kitchen. Walking soundlessly across the rug-strewn wood floor, he went to the wide staircase leading to the loft bedroom above. With her head on his shoulder, he carried her up the stairs and walked to his bed.

The massive pine four-poster was wide and soft and inviting.

“Paul, what're we doing?”

“What we do best,” he said, and set her on her feet long enough to bend down and toss the quilt to the foot of the bed. When he turned back to her, she was watching him, her eyes filled with too many emotions to read
and understand. She pulled in a breath, then let it shudder from her, and Paul reached for her instinctively.

His arms closed around her and locked her tightly to him. She nestled her head on his chest briefly before pulling just far enough back to look up at him. “This isn't why I came here.”

“I know,” he said, his gaze drifting over her features, etching the very feel of her into his memory.

“But I don't want to leave.”

“I know that, too.” And then he kissed her, bending his head to claim her mouth with a tenderness that rocked them both.

Achingly slowly, sweetly, he stripped her out of her clothes, his fingertips brushing across her skin, sending shivers coursing through her body. Paul wanted,
needed
, to comfort, to reassure, to caress her body and ease her wounded heart.

He devoured her, his mouth taking hers in a lazy, determined assault on her senses that threatened to overwhelm him as well. Her hands moved to the hem of his shirt and she yanked it up, breaking his kiss long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. Then their mouths met again and tasted, explored, each other while hands wrestled clothing, working buttons, zippers, teasing flesh.

In a few hasty seconds, they were naked and Paul tumbled her onto the fresh white sheets. Her hair spilled out around her head looking like a wild, careless halo. She reached for him and he moved into her embrace, loving the feel of her hands sliding down his back, her short, neat fingernails scraping lightly at his skin.

She was all. She was everything. In her arms, nothing
else mattered, and as that thought registered, a part of his brain told him to be worried. But his brain wasn't in charge now, so he disregarded the mental flashing red lights and gave himself over to the wonder of Stevie.

Stevie stared up into his dark eyes and saw flashes of emotion dazzling their depths, and a part of her wondered what he was feeling, thinking. But those questions and others were quickly lost in the sweet rush of sensation spiraling through her. His hands were everywhere, and wherever he touched her, heat erupted. Her body burned for him, her soul hungered for him, and somewhere in the midst of the turmoil racing through her brain, she realized that she was in far deeper than she'd imagined. Than she'd been willing to admit.

There was so much here, in his arms. More than she'd ever known before. There was tenderness and strength and a frenzied burning that exploded between them with the slightest touch.

As he shifted, to trail hot, damp kisses along her chest and to her breasts, she stared up at the beamed ceiling overhead. From above, moonlight poured through the skylight, washing the oak planks until they glowed with a nearly golden sheen. Shadows danced and moved and kept time with her as she writhed beneath him.

His mouth closed over her nipple and she arched into him, demanding more, needing more. He gave it to her, his tongue flicking at the sensitive flesh until she was gasping for air and not caring if it didn't come. All that mattered was Paul. His mouth. His hands. His
breath on her body, dusting across her flesh like a blessing.

And then he moved again, parting her thighs and slipping inside her. She welcomed the hard, solid length of him and felt at peace. He withdrew and entered her again, spiraling her higher, faster. His touch gentle, his kisses madness, he relentlessly drove her as she moved with him, her hips rocking to the rhythm he set.

She watched his face and knew he was feeling everything she did. Knew that this time, things were different. There was a tenderness here that surprised them both and fed the flames already engulfing them.

Stevie wrapped her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers through his hair, and whispered, “I need you, Paul.”

He stilled briefly, bent his head to give her a too-brief kiss, and then pushed himself deeper inside her. “Come for me, Stevie. Let me watch you go over.”

His hips swiveled and a dazzling sense of expectation lit up her insides. Tingling nerves shot arrows of sensation to every corner of her body. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him to her, moving her hips, feeding those tingles.

He moved again and she gasped, spreading her legs wider, more open, giving herself to him, freeing her body to take its pleasure. Surrendering to the magic she'd only found with Paul.

“That's it, baby,” he whispered. “Let go. Let me have you.”

With her surrender came the first small explosion. She felt it cascading through her. Her fingernails dug into his back. Her hips lifted and she rode the wave of
completion with a soft gasp and a shudder that rippled through her and entered him. And only then did she feel him give himself up to the wonder—as he buried his face in the curve of her neck, murmured her name, and joined her in the clouds.