Redemption (31 page)

There was something different in her kiss, Matt realized. He could taste her determination, feel it in the way she pressed her open mouth against his.

His body leapt in response, and for a moment, he lost himself in the sudden sweet pleasure, meeting her kiss with his tongue, probing, seeking the passion that simmered just beneath her cold surface.

He found it. She kissed him back, her tongue meeting his in a little dance of welcome, exploring his mouth eagerly. A spike of joy burst through his mind, sending rockets of desire through his body. But he had been in this scene before. Before passion could overtake his good sense, he pulled away, gazing down at the woman in his arms.

“Claire, honey…” She nibbled his neck. He swallowed, determined to hear it from her lips. “Do you want me to make love to you?”

But she was too busy unbuttoning his shirt to answer, licking and kissing her way down his chest. He laughed. “Sweetheart…” He stroked her hair, then reached down to drop a kiss on her temple. “Why don’t I take you to my bed? I’ve got a fire going—”

She hushed him with her lips. It was as if she were making up for a decade of abstinence—which she was, he realized, gentling his kiss. As she pulled his shirt from his jeans, he vowed he would do his part to make her reentry into the world of passion a safe one. He rose in one smooth motion, picking her up and cradling her in his arms.

“This is my grandmother’s room. If I’m going to make love to you, it’ll be in my bed.” He waited for her to protest.

But she simply met his gaze and nodded. Her eyes were clear. She wasn’t still asleep, or drugged, as he’d half-feared. She knew what she was doing. In the morning, there’d be no regrets.

Claire tightened her arms around his neck, a smile on her face as he carried her down the stairs and into his warm bedroom.

Firelight glowed from the wood stove in the corner, but Claire hardly noticed as Matt laid her down on his huge bed. No longer cold, no longer aware of the terror that had sent her in blind search for comfort. She had found it, she realized. A safe harbor in a sea of emotion.

Matt would chase away all her cold fears and warm her heart once again.

She held his gaze as he lowered her, surprised to see a flicker of uncertainty there. He was as nervous as she, and the notion gave her a heady feeling.

She reached up and kissed him lightly, committing herself to the act as surely as if it were scored in blood.

Matt returned her kiss, deeper this time, exploring.

He groaned, tearing his mouth from hers to look down at her. A fresh surge of desire swept through her, but still she wanted to shut her eyes, hide whatever she felt.

“I love you—you know that, don’t you?” he murmured.

She put her mouth against his to stop the words. Sex, she could deal with. Love was another matter, an item for another meeting’s agenda.

For now, she simply wanted to feel. It had been so long, so long since she had felt this coursing of emotion through her veins. A wave of tingling awareness filled her, as if her nerves were awakening, one by one, building into a tidal wave of feeling.

Claire closed her eyes, giving herself up to the joy, the wonder of the moment.

Slowly, Matt slipped the nightgown from her shoulders, inching it down by degrees. She wanted his hand to caress her bare skin, his tongue to savor—more than she’d wanted anything in her life.

The earlier urgency they had felt in each other’s arms melted into languor. Their bodies moved of one accord—a touch, a whisper, a glance, like the ebb and flow of tide. Never had Claire felt so treasured, so desired. Never had she wanted anything so much, the teasing hint of fulfillment just over the edge of the joy that threatened to engulf her.

And when the doubt circled, pulling her back from the edge, it was Matt’s needy exclamations that propelled her forward again…

Matt slid his shirt off his arms, and Claire traced a finger over his shoulder, glistening in the glow from the fire. Skin to skin, they warmed each other’s bodies, moving in sync, as if they were lovers for decades rather than moments.

Matt paused to open a drawer next to the bed and pull out a foil packet. “No unexpected consequences this time,” he said, then ripped it open with his teeth.

Claire gave him a grateful smile; birth control had hardly entered her mind. Never, during the last few weeks, had she imagined she would find herself in this position, so close to letting go. Never had she dreamed she could throw off years of caution, years of suppressed desire, and eagerly look forward to total immersion in pleasure.

When he bent her leg up, searching for better access, she welcomed it, with only a tiny gasp of surprise that changed into a sigh of gratitude. His fingers made their slow way to their destination, finding her moist and trembling, ready for him—more than ready, she thought as he touched her, there. Oh, God, how she wanted him!

He lowered himself into her, slowly, holding back, giving her time to adjust. But the feel of him inside her, filling places she hadn’t known were empty, gave her a chaotic joy. A tense excitement raced through her muscles, and she wondered how on earth she had ever lived without this in her life, this man…in her. With a shudder, she gave herself up to the rapture spreading throughout her body.

His teeth clenched, Matt dove into her again and again, filling her until he exploded in her arms, crying out her name as he went under.

Beneath him, she trembled through the last of her climax. Lying still, cocooned in the warmth, she felt a strange lethargy creep over her, turning her limbs to lead, her heart to butter.

“God, Claire,” was all he said.

She didn’t possess the strength to smile, though she wanted to shout—she had found it, that forgotten feeling, that forgotten warmth. No, not forgotten; never before had she felt this intensely, this acutely. A strange emotion made her want to cry, but she didn’t dare put a name to it, didn’t dare speak of it.

Above all, she didn’t dare care.

The sharp edge of desire had dulled, but neither of them wanted to sleep. Matt, as if sensing her reticence, was unusually silent. Claire was grateful and let herself remain tucked against his side, enjoying the feeling of being treasured for a while longer.

In the corner, the wood stove warded off the cold reflected on the windowpanes, the firelight from its opened door painting a chiaroscuro glow on the walls. The only sounds in the room were the contented popping of the burning logs and the soft breathing of Sadie, curled up near the fire. A strange restlessness crept through Claire, as though she had been energized by the unfamiliar physical activity. Sex was better than tennis for relieving stress, she decided. She stretched languorously against the warmth beside her, flexing muscles that seemed suddenly alive.

Matt’s body tempted her hands, like a museum piece one was suddenly allowed to touch. She let her fingers roam, over his face, his chest, lower…

He sucked in a breath, then reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing tender kisses to her fingertips.

Claire’s lips curved in a smile. She could feel his heartbeat echoing against her own. She captured his fingers, took one in her mouth, and sucked lightly, wrapping her tongue around the tip and licking it like a confection. Matt groaned.

Then he turned, raising himself above her. He stroked her hair from her face, encountering the little scar, fingering it for a moment. He kissed it, letting his tongue skate along the edge of her hairline, sending a fresh batch of shivers through her.

She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, the caramel-colored strands longer now—in preparation for his next role, he had told her.

Though it was his role as her lover that frightened her—in truth, she was the one in prison, he her liberator. But what would he demand as payment?

Then his gaze met hers, and she read the answer there. He wanted everything. He would take it all, every iota of passion she had to give. She closed her eyes.

Matt’s voice cleaved the darkness. “Claire, I’m not going to ask you for something you’re not ready for,” he told her. “But—”

She stopped him with her lips, the best way she had found to halt her own doubts.

Chapter Twenty-Two

W
HEN
M
ATT
W
OKE
, she wasn’t there. He lay for a while, savoring the wonderful dream—no, the reality, he thought with a lazy smile, picking up the strand of dark hair on the pillow next to him.

Whatever their problems were, they could work them out. There was too much at stake, and after last night, surely she knew they were meant to be together.

He found her in the kitchen, the makings of breakfast scattered on the counter. His mother’s old robe was belted tightly around her waist, and she was stirring something he hoped was pancake batter.

“Now this is a sight I could get used to,” he announced. “Beautiful woman, barefoot, in the kitchen, making breakfast. Too bad there’s no chance you could be—”

She thumped the bowl down. “I hope you like waffles,” she said. “I found a waffle iron in the appliance garage, and there was a mix in the pantry.”

Matt stepped behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and began nuzzling her neck.

The spoon clattered against the bowl.

“What do you say we go back to bed, maybe forget the condoms this time.”

“Matt,” she began, but the cell phone on the counter interrupted what was sure to be a prim lecture, one he was prepared to bypass the most effective way he had found. Her neck, he had discovered last night, was particularly sensitive…

“Hello, Connor,” he heard her say. “Yes, I did call. How was your trip to Japan?”

Matt sighed, a satisfied smile lingering on his face. Somehow the fact that she could be so damned proper during the day, then at night focus all that drive into passion, was exciting as hell.

She handed him the spoon, then disappeared down the hall to his office to finish her conversation in private. Later, Matt told himself, pouring the batter onto the hot waffle iron, he intended to finish his own conversation with Claire. It was past time they got their feelings for each other out in the open.

He had no doubt how he felt about her. And after last night, he no longer doubted her feelings for him. Claire didn’t show that vulnerable side of herself to anyone—except her son.

That was another thing they had to talk about. Tripper would get over his anger, he was sure, as soon as he realized his mother had only been trying to protect him.

He stared at the batter oozing from beneath the lid of the waffle iron. The memory of her from last night, shaking from the nightmare, left a sick feeling in his stomach. He wasn’t even sure just what terror haunted Claire. Was it the same nightmare she had been desperately trying to protect their son from?

When Claire ended her conversation with Connor, she used Matt’s computer to check her email. As she waited for the connection, she noticed a copy of
GQ
among the opened mail, Matt’s ruggedly handsome face gracing the cover.

She flipped to the article inside, smiled at the headline, then examined the accompanying photos of Matt: playing basketball on the desert set of his last film, shooting pool in a bar he owned in LA. She raised an eyebrow—he had never mentioned any of that. There was so much she didn’t know about him: his “other life,” as a movie star, the celebrity who made headlines just by taking a morning jog.

The man attracted women like an open box of chocolates. She had lost count of the number of names linked with his—the latest being Annie Cutler, the redhead he’d once used to taunt her. As Claire pictured her wholesome image, another face popped into her mind: Hayley James, another woman who had loved Matt too much.

It would be so easy to let herself love Matt, to dig those feelings out of the cave she had hidden them in and dust them off. And so incredibly stupid. Emotions carried a high price. By the age of six, she had learned that feelings were fragile little things. Like the tiny black kitten she had found, hungry and cold. She kept it in her closet until the reverend had discovered her secret and made her watch while he tied it in a bag and threw it in the pond.

Another ancient memory surfaced, this one of her first-grade teacher, Miss Carlson. At least she hadn’t ended up tied in a bag. Instead, Reverend Porter had pulled Claire out of the public school and taught her at home, enforcing his lessons with the rod he never spared.

Claire squared her shoulders. She figured everyone was allowed a momentary weakness—once every ten years wasn’t really such a bad record. And this time, if she was lucky, the only thing bruised would be Matt’s ego.

Glancing down again at the magazine, she gave a little laugh. A man who looked like that should have little trouble finding a remedy for a bruised ego.

Matt was mucking out a stall in the barn when Claire came around the corner, her boots crunching the hard-packed snow. She’d skipped breakfast, and he knew it was because she didn’t want the strain of sharing another meal with Tripper, who’d stared sullenly at his plate last night while Matt had tried to make the tension disappear.

“Can you drive me to the airport this afternoon?”