Mountain Laurel (17 page)

"Then—" closing the gap between them, he reached up and began to slowly massage her shoulders "—a nice quiet evening is just what you need."

His smooth voice was a balm to her nerves and she wanted nothing more than to relax into him, surrender herself to his gentle care.

No. She couldn't.

Her back stiffened. Planting her hands on top of his, she stilled their kneading motion.

"There's no need for you to take me to dinner. Ginny thinks—"

Michael placed a finger against her lips. "I'm not doing this for Ginny. I'm doing this for you. You've worked hard all week trying to convince Ginny that it's possible to be mature and responsible and at the same time have a free spirit. And I think you deserve a little pampering."

She looked at him questioningly.

"The table's set, the salad's in the fridge, the potatoes are baked, and the steaks are ready to be popped under the broiler."

"You cooked for me?"

"Everything except the mushroom sauce."

Her heart began to melt and she smiled.

Whoa, her conscience scolded. What about her fear of being alone with him? Of controlling herself? Of embarrassing herself? But it was surprisingly easy to ignore the pesky questions. This most probably would be the last time she ever spent with Michael. Then it would be back to her busy, duty-laden life.

"What would you have done if I hadn't been here?" she asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed heavily. "Well, then, you see, the only part of my plan that would have panned out would have been the solitude. A lonely solitude."

Unwittingly, a tiny grin pulled at her lips. "In that case, I'd love to have dinner with you."

~ ~ ~

The fire crackling in the hearth combined with several well-placed candles filled the room with a golden glow. Laurel basked in Michael's easy company and the relaxing atmosphere. It seemed that he had turned off his romantic charm for this evening.

Was it her imagination or had she noticed that he was taking great pains not to touch her? He had let her hang up her own coat, claiming to want to see to dinner. And he'd also set her glass of wine on the table rather than handing it to her.

Well, she appreciated his platonic attitude and was content to sit and talk, person to person, friend to friend. She truly felt that he had become her friend this week. No one else but a friend would go to the lengths he had gone to help her with her problem.

He served dinner, and they ate in near silence. Maybe he sensed the end of her vacation looming in the not-too-distant future. Or maybe he simply couldn't think of anything to say.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Michael's question snapped her out of her contemplation.

"No, I'm filled to the brim. Thank you, though. Everything was delicious."

"Then, let's make ourselves more comfortable." He came around the table and pulled out her chair.

Again she noticed his hands had not come into contact with her. And when she followed him to the couch opposite the fireplace, he let her sit first and then settled himself well away from her.

"Tell me more about your family." Michael turned sideways, resting his elbow on the back of the couch. "I know we talked about them some when I took you to the meadow. But I'd like to know more."

"Well, you know Ginny."

"Yes, I know Ginny. And aside from being the tiniest bit spoiled, she's a great kid."

Laurel nodded. "I've come to the conclusion that I didn't do such a hot job of raising her."

"You did a fine job," Michael assured her. "Considering it wasn't your place to begin with. That should have been handled by your parents. I'm curious about why it wasn't."

She stared down into the crystal glass half-filled with rich, red burgundy. "There was a time when we were so happy, a real family. Dad, Mom, Brian, Ginny and me."

She looked into Michael's eyes and saw tenderness expressed there.

"When Brian died, it was as though a great black cloud descended on all of us. And it's been shadowing us ever since." Setting her wine down and grinning humorlessly, she said, "It isn't as though Ginny hasn't tried. God, how she's tried to break free."

"What happened?" he asked softly.

Her gaze left his face to stare unseeingly into the fire. Although Michael's query seemed vague, although he hadn't used her brother's name, Laurel knew he was asking about Brian's death.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He drowned." She was quiet a moment, then turned back toward Michael. "You know, it's been more than five years since he died. And even after all this time, those words still sound so unbelievable to me."

Michael's face relaxed with understanding, as though he wanted to absorb some of her pain.

"He'd gone out with a group of his friends. They'd been drinking. My brother went into the water after hearing a shout for help. That's what the others said, anyway.

"To this day I don't know if it was Brian's drunken state or the other boy's struggles that caused both of them to lose their lives. I'm sure I'll never know." She picked up her wine and, after sipping it, replaced the glass on the table. Sighing, she gazed at Michael's silent, concerned expression.

"I do know, though," she continued, "what Brian's death did to my family. My mother, who once was a happy, healthy,
amazing
woman, was transformed overnight. She turned into a ghost, Michael. And she's never recovered. You see, they'd had a fight that night, Brian and my mother. It was Brian's eighteenth birthday and Mom wanted him to celebrate with the family. She'd baked him a cake. And decorated it herself. She was so proud of it. Taking pictures..." Laurel closed her eyes, remembering. "I can still smell it. Two-layer lemon cake. His favorite."

Opening her eyes, she swallowed hard. "But, of course, he had other plans. He was a man; didn't want to be told what to do. Wanted to celebrate with his friends. They had a terrible argument. It was the first time I'd ever heard my brother yell at Mom." Her gut knotted as if the scene were happening all over again.

"Anyway, after the police showed up at the house to tell us about Brian, Mom went...she..." The rest of the memory was too unspeakable to describe. "An ambulance took her away that night. Ginny and I were told she needed to rest. I found out later that she'd had a complete breakdown. She was in a convalescent home for six weeks before she came home." Laurel gave a small, slow shake of her head. "She's never been the same."

Michael enveloped her hand in his.

"Mom sort of withdrew inside herself. She didn't want to deal with any of it." Blinking, Laurel was surprised to find her eyes moist, a tear slipping to the corner of her mouth. She raised a hand to dry her cheek, but Michael caught her fingers in his and gently wiped the tear away.

"And your dad?" he queried softly. "How did he react to all this?"

"He couldn't deal with Mom's silence. He began to leave us more and more and stayed away longer on his buying trips."

"Which left you to run the business, deal with your mother and raise Ginny all on your own."

Hearing the words aloud and seeing Michael's sharp reaction to them, Laurel felt an enormous need to explain.

"Michael, people deal with the pain of death in different ways. Mom had hers and Dad had his. Who's to say which way is right or wrong? If it gets you through, that's all that matters." Her eyes pleaded for his approval. "Yes, I took care of my mother and Ginny. There was no one else to do it."

"No." He slowly nodded his head, the tension in him easing. "There was no one else to do it."

At some time during her story, he'd scooted closer. His long fingers slowly stroked up and down along her jaw. His arms wrapped her like a protective cloak and she felt soothed in his embrace. Resting her head on his arm felt like the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

"Life hasn't been fair to you." He traced the line of her cheekbone. "You've given up a lot for your family."

"Oh, but that's not true. I've been needed and I've been loved. How much more can you ask for?"

"Much more." He lightly fondled her earlobe. "You're beautiful," he murmured, his fingers blazing a trail down her throat.

Laurel lifted her head and, gazing into his eyes, saw dark sparks of desire. The calm, consoling mood between them suddenly shifted, and she wasn't quite sure how to stop it. Or, for that matter, if she wanted to.

When he pressed his lips to her forehead, she spread her hand flat against his chest. The pounding of his heartbeat quickened, and her own desire flared within her.

His eyes were darker now and he lowered his head to nibble at her ear. He kissed the line of downy hair behind it and a delicious shiver coursed through her. He kissed her mouth tenderly, gently, and liquid fire raced through her body. He nuzzled her neck with his kisses and little nips. She wanted to guide his lips back to hers, but it felt so good, so right, that she couldn't seem to lift her arms.

"I want you, Laurel," he whispered.

I want you, too. She wasn't sure if she had spoken the words aloud or not.

He covered her mouth with his once more and she returned his kiss with fervor. He pulled back, cupping her chin in his palm, and rubbed his thumb over her moist lips.

"Let me make you forget everything for a while." Nimbly working open at the buttons, he slipped his hand into her blouse to caress her breast. His lips brushed her throat and collarbone, then burned the creamy flesh of her breast. She lifted her hand to bury her fingers in his thick hair.

For a while
...

For a while
...

His words replayed themselves over in her mind, rousing her from the foggy depths of desire. He wanted her, desired her. She knew that. Could feel it in his kiss, in his touch. But the words tolling through her head told her that there was no possibility of a commitment from him.

It wasn't his fault. It was hers. She was the one who had conjured up this whole romantic scenario between them. She was also the one who had allowed him lose sight of their original goals. She should have spoken up the very first time his romantic behavior toward her was unwarranted. But she had relished his attention.

She relished it
now
. Yearned for it. She knew it would be easy to lose herself in this rage of longing that had caught them up, and that, if she made no move to stop him, he would make love to her. And if she let that happen, his touch, his scent, would be trapped forever in her memory.

But is that what she wanted?

Making love to him would be heaven on earth. But this moment would end. And all she'd have was a memory. Would that be enough? To live with a cold and lonely memory? A memory that would surely hound her all of her days? One that would cause her pain each time it was brought forth in her mind? Was it better to have something and then lose it and know the pain of that loss or remain blissfully ignorant from the very beginning?

"Michael, please stop." She tugged him away from her and saw his gaze thick with desire, his breathing as ragged as her own. Shaking her head, she said, "I don't want to do this."

He took a deep breath, then another, and dragged his fingers through his hair. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She fumbled with the fabric of her blouse and saw her fingers trembling as she fastened the buttons.

"Laurel," he said, catching her chin and raising her face so she'd look at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just don't want to do this." Pulling herself from his grasp, she looked away, wanting to hide the truth from him. "And anyway, we're supposed to meet Ginny and Darlene."

He sat for a moment, quiet, frowning. Finally, he said, "Oh, I get it. Mother hen is back." He stood and strode over to the fireplace.

"What do you mean by that?" Laurel bristled.

"Nothing." Banking the fire, he replaced the screen and hung up the poker. "Come on, I'll take you home."

She'd done the right thing, she thought as they rode in silence toward the cabin. She was sure of it. Living with the memory of being touched, being loved physically, by Michael would be unbearably painful. It was better not to know the sweetness of it.