Love Songs (44 page)

“
You
were more offended than I was.” Tom cocked his head and looked closely at her. “Why
did
you get upset like that? Not that I’m sorry, mind you. It was right after that that you asked me to take you away. It seems that André unwittingly did both of us a favor.”

Serena wasn’t sure enough of the answer to his question even to take a stab. She remembered a feeling of anger, a sense of irritation that André was somehow threatening Tom. Was protectiveness an extension of love? Yet André’s caveat had related to the power of the press, its misuse, and subsequent libel actions. Theoretically, given her family’s experience, Serena should have sided with André. But she hadn’t. Therein lay a poignant message.

“He’s not a bad sort.” She smiled sadly. “He enjoys a very fast lifestyle and is perhaps a bit too fastidious, but he’s a nice guy.”

“Then why is he against your expansion?”

With a shrug she offered her own rationalization. “Perhaps he’s reluctant to let go of the money I’d need to start the new shop.”

“Come on, Serena. I mean, to be honest, he must have plenty of clients who invest far greater sums of money than you do.”

“That’s what
I
told him.”

“And what did he say?”

She recalled how quickly he had changed the subject. “Oh, he kind of made a clever answer and let the matter drop.” Her pout fell far short of the indifference she’d intended. It occurred to her that now Tom was overreacting. Was
his
motive protectiveness? Or was he simply emphasizing her questionable judgment in trusting André so explicitly?

“Hmph!” Tom’s grunt and its implied disgust would have bothered her far more had it not been for the telephone—it rang, startling them both. “Who the hell could that be? This phone number is unlisted. They know I don’t like to get phone calls on Sundays.… Hello!” His voice was gruff as he tilted his chair back, the receiver against his ear. Serena was disturbed even before his gaze shot to her. “Yes. This is Reynolds.… André?” His tone grew more even, with the barest edge of ice that could only have been detected in contrast to the heat moment before. “How did you get this number?… Ah, I might have suspected.… Serena? Yes, she’s here.… Hold on. I’ll see if she can come to the phone.” The last was drawled on a facetious note and was paired with a gaze tinged with wry humor.

“Are you available?” he asked loudly, making a mockery of his burial of the receiver against the fabric of his jersey. Without hesitating, Serena was beside him, reaching for the phone. But he held it out of reach, forcing her nearer, relinquishing it only when she passed the gates of his knees and stood imprisoned between the iron bars of his thighs. With his ankles crossed behind her she was locked in. A reflexive hand clutched at his shoulder for balance while an impatient one grabbed the phone.

“André!”

She looked down at Tom, he up at her. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Why on earth did you leave like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, André. The party was big and noisy. I just got tired, I guess.” She squirmed, aware that Tom’s gaze had left her face to study the flesh between the lapels of the flannel shirt. “You got my message, didn’t you?”

“Sure, but I was worried.”

“There was no need. I’m a big girl.”

As though in response to her conversation Tom brought his hands to her shoulders, measuring their slenderness, then seeking other curves. Serena tightened her own hand on his shoulder, but he refused to get the message.

“What are you doing there?” André asked, obviously tempering his agitation.

“Here?” she gulped. “Ah … ah … Tom was good enough to … take me home.”

“To
his
home?”

Normally Serena would have had no trouble parrying André’s inquiry. It was very difficult, however, with Tom’s nearness, the feel of his fingers now dancing at her throat and working their way steadily downward, and the incipient tingling that weakened her knees so that she was grateful for the support of his. Even now she wondered how she could react so quickly to him.

“I was at your house last night,” she mustered an argument. “Today I’m here.”

“Serena, I’ve been trying you all night. You haven’t been home at all. I finally began calling other people until I found someone who saw the two of you leave together. Very cozy.”

Serena closed her eyes and swayed toward Tom, who had very deliberately undone the first of the buttons of her shirt and was working on the next, well aware of the debilitating effect he had on her lucidity.

“André”—she sighed in helpless pleasure at Tom’s ministration—“is there something in particular you want?”

“I want to know what you’re up to.”

“That sounds an awful lot like jealousy, André. It doesn’t become you. You
know
that there’s nothing at all between us.” She tried to make her voice as gentle as possible, but it was impossible to hide the shadow of impatience that was caused in large part by Tom’s tormenting fingers, wandering now inside her shirt, touching her flesh, creeping along her rib cage to ambush her breasts with devastating accuracy. Arching closer, she moaned a whisper for Tom’s ears alone, having the merciful presence of mind to turn the phone away.

“What I really want to do”—André was wrapped up tightly enough in his own world to miss the state of Serena’s mind—“is warn you about that fellow.”

“Who?” she murmured.

“Reynolds. He’s dangerous, Serena. He’s a newspaperman.”

“I know that.” But right now it didn’t matter.

“I don’t trust him.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“What?”

“Nothing, André.”

“Look, Serena. How about if we meet for lunch. Tomorrow.”

Tom had cradled the firmness of a breast in his palm and lifted it to meet his mouth, which enveloped its rosy nub with a heat and moisture that sent her to the far reaches of agonized desire.

“Tomorrow?” Her voice was a weak tremble. “Ah … I can’t make it.”

“Tuesday?” he prodded, while Tom did some prodding of his own, darting his tongue against her other nipple. Sucking deeply, he extracted a sweet sigh from Serena, who held the phone convulsively against her hip.

“Tom,” she whispered frantically. “Stop it! I can’t think.”

“That’s the point.” He grinned sadistically. “If you can’t think, get him off the phone.”

In desperation she returned to André. “How about Wednesday? I’ll be able to get away then.”

He sighed with distinct annoyance. “If that’s the earliest you can make it I’ll have to settle for it. Wednesday. One-thirty. The usual place. All right?”

She sucked in her breath as Tom’s hands scalded the skin of her hips and thighs. “Fine. See you then.” She held her breath, praying that André would settle for the date and hang up. Fortunately for her distracted state, he did. It was only when she heard the click on his end and the subsequent dial tone that she collapsed against Tom and let the receiver fall to the floor.

“How
could
you, Tom?” she cried, burying her face in the thickness of his hair. “That was unfair.”

“What’s unfair”—he tore his mouth from her breasts long enough to argue—“is the softness of your skin beneath my fingers.” The digits in question curved around the supple swell of her bottom, coaxing her even closer. “You’re so sweet.…” His tongue tasted her, leaving hot spots everywhere it touched. She wound her fingers through his hair and forced his head back to stop the torment, but in moments his kiss fanned a red-hot fire against her lips.

Serena had no thought of protest. Tom’s every move pleased her beyond imagination. The pain of desire only served to enhance her satisfaction when it came in the form of each deeper foray. They were engaged in an ageless enterprise, though there was nothing of the game in it now. It was for real. And she loved him. Yet she bit her lip to keep from crying it out. The time for confession had yet to come. There was too much to be understood, about him and herself, before those heart’s words would be spoken.

A soulful sigh escaped her lips at the willful roaming of Tom’s hands. Her entire body was his to explore and he left no niche neglected. “Tom, Tom,” she gasped. “What you do to me.” Her head fell back to give him access to the sensitive cord of her neck. He gently pushed aside the soft curls of auburn to nibble at her shoulder blade. Cupping his head, Serena pressed him closer, caressing his neck, kissing the crown of his head while his fingers worked hot magic around her navel and across her lower abdomen, down to her thighs and between, intuitively seeking the dark warmth that opened only to him.

Caught once more in the abyss of sensuality, she lost sight of everything except Tom and his body and the driving power of love he inspired. His soft words of pleasure thrilled her in accompaniment to the bold fingers that touched her so tenderly. Crazed with desire, she was barely aware when he shifted her weight to remove the final barriers between them. She knew nothing until seconds later when a hand slid behind each of her thighs to part them and raise them, then positioned her correctly. Slowly, slowly, he guided her down, arching himself to her, moving smoothly as she gasped throatily, her cries bearing the resonance of passion.

“Tom.” She panted while he grinned his pleasure at her surprise.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?” he murmured.

“No! Oh, Tom…”

“Tell me what you want, love.” He held himself still, but Serena felt his trembling need of her.

“You. I want you.”

His breath came hot against her breasts as his hands stroked the length of her legs curved about his hips. “You’ve got me, Serena. You’ve got me.”

His lips sought hers in an escape from words. His hands moved to guide her hips. With a heat intense from the start, their momentum picked up with astonishing speed, sending them quickly to the star of fulfillment which sparkled brilliantly, blindingly, before sputtering to a bright shadow, then, finally, a memory.

Arms and legs still wrapped tightly around him, Serena let Tom lift her and carry her back to bed, where they lay spent beside each other in silent awe of what had taken place. They dozed, then awoke and spent the afternoon in easy conversation about a wide range of irrelevant topics. It was only when Serena dressed again in her green silk for the return to her apartment that the name of André Phillips came up.

7

“You’re going to meet André for lunch on Wednesday?” Tom asked, deep in thought as he absently unlocked her apartment door, pushed it open and held out her keys.

“I think I’d better.”

“He was that annoyed?”

A puzzled frown marred the smooth serenity of her features. “Strangely, yes. Though I can’t for the life of me understand why.” She turned and sank deeply into a chair, leaving Tom still standing. He closed the door, but remained leaning against its frame, all business.

“Perhaps he was miffed that you left without him. After all, he
was
your escort.”

“No, it couldn’t be that. He knows how I feel—and don’t feel—about him. And he was busy enough as host not to miss me.” Her auburn waves bobbed gently. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps he was miffed that you left with
me.
”

Serena met Tom’s gaze head-on. “
That
makes sense. He’s very wary of you.” She grinned. “He specifically warned me about you.”

Tom’s “And rightly he should have!” was growled as he crossed the room to bend over her. “I have an insatiable appetite for sweets.” Their lips met in a tasting kiss. All too soon he drew back and straightened. “Tell me, Serena, you’re a busy lady. Who the devil are you lunching with on Monday and Tuesday?”

It was the image of innocence that looked up at him. “You,” she whispered in a half-question to which Tom chuckled a satisfied reply.

“
That
deserves another kiss.” He promptly delivered. It, too, ended too soon to appease Serena’s own appetite. “Pick you up at the shop at one?”

“I could meet you somewhere if it would be more convenient,” she began, only to be soundly chastened.

“Serena, the next thing I know you’ll be insisting we go dutch. Forget it. I’m fetching you at
Sweet Serenity
and treating you to lunch.” His good-humored fierceness faded to an endearing plea. “Let me be gallant. OK?”

“OK,” she whispered, loving him all the more.

*   *   *

Just as Serena had worried it would, Tom’s absence allowed for an invasion of unpleasant and remorseful thoughts. The power of his presence had blinded her blissfully, but without him she was unprotected. His company made her a creature of the present. On her own she was a product of her past, a past in which Tom was a very definite demon.

She was as unable to deny her love for him as she was to foresee any future commitment. Even if Tom loved her he’d been badly hurt once in marriage. Serena questioned whether he would be game to try again.

Game.
How satisfying it had been to hear him say that he loved her. Her eyes brimmed in the glow of recollection. But it had all been make-believe. She had to remember that.