Reflections of Yesterday (18 page)

“Simon,” she whispered, and held out her hand. “Don’t sleep on the sofa.”

Briefly he closed his eyes to the gnawing ache in his loins. She couldn’t possibly expect him to go to bed with her and not touch her. As desperately as he wanted to, he realized he couldn’t take her now! Not with Clay on his deathbed and Angie distraught and confused. Yet he didn’t know if there was anything he could refuse her.

“Here, let me tuck you in.” He struggled to keep his voice cool and impersonal, and crossed the room, not daring to look at her.

Her bedroom was small and dominated by the bed and dresser. Her slacks and blouse were neatly folded across the foot of the mattress. Simon turned back the covers and fluffed up the pillow. “There,” he said. “Your bed awaits you, my lady.” Again he avoided looking directly
into those soulful, dark eyes as she slipped between the crisp sheets. Wordlessly he pulled the covers over her shoulders and tucked them under the lip of the mattress as if he were putting a small child to bed.

Angie cast him a look of mild surprise. “Simon,” she said in a low, husky voice. “Could you … would you mind lying down with me? I don’t want to be alone.”

Simon felt like gnashing his teeth. She had no conception of what she was asking of him. “Sure.” He removed his shirt and trousers and slid between the sheets beside her. The narrow bed that forced her to scoot her thinly clad body close to him was an additional torture. He gathered her in his embrace and closed his eyes to the agony of being so near her. Breathing in the fresh scent of her hair, Simon held himself completely still. He tried not to think of the satin feel of her ivory skin and forced himself to concentrate on anything but the warm, vital woman in his arms.

Angie sighed contentedly, not completely unaware of what she was doing to Simon. Maybe it was selfish to use him this way, she thought sleepily, but she couldn’t help herself. Today, more than any time in her life, she needed him. Dreamily, she smiled up at him and nestled in his embrace, pressing her face to the hardness of his chest. Her arm was draped over his lean ribs, and she paused to murmur. “Thank you,” she whispered, grateful for his sacrifice. Already she felt groggy, as if she were floating away on a thick cloud. Her eyes felt heavy, and Simon was warm and smooth and wonderfully masculine. Gradually she could feel the tension drain out of him. After an exaggerated moment, he released a long, slow breath and curved an arm over her.

“I love you,” Simon whispered sleepily, as his hand roamed down her back in long, soothing strokes.

His voice sounded far away. “I know,” she murmured back, and shifted her head so she could lightly kiss his jaw. “I love you, too.”

“Be good, understand?”

“Yes.”

Neither spoke again, and Angie drifted into a deep slumber, content to be in his arms.

Sometime during the morning, Angie’s sleep became filled with resplendent, color-filled dreams that were vivid with detail. Pleasant dreams of when she was young and her mother was alive. Clay was handsome and happy, singing his songs and loving her mother with everything that was in him to love. Their trio was on a picnic by a clear blue lake. The sun was shining and
the birds sang merrily from the flowering trees. Clay and her mother and Angie were in a long wooden canoe on the crystal-clear water. Clay had brought along his guitar and was serenading them with the silly jingles he loved to create. Angie clapped her hands with delight and doubled over with laughter. When she straightened, her mother was gone and Clay sat across from her, old and gray-haired and in terrible pain. His hand was clenching his stomach and he looked at her in such agony that Angie cried out with shock. Clay begged her to get him to the hospital and Angie reached for the paddle—only it was missing. If she didn’t hurry, Clay would die.

Frantic, Angie cried out, her voice piercing the still room. Weeping and thrashing about, she knocked aside the blankets and bolted upright.

“Angie.” The voice was low and frenzied, and Angie opened her eyes to find Simon standing above her.

“Oh Simon.” Her breath came in deep, uneven gasps. “I had a horrible nightmare.” Blindly she reached for him, seeking his comfort. Simon was her closest friend, her most trusted love. Vaguely she recalled that he had been in bed with her, but now it was obvious that he had come from the living room.

“It was a dream.” He bent over her, his hands folding around her back.

Angie’s arms tightened as she clung to him. “Hold me, please, hold me.” She whispered the words against his throat as her hands clenched at him with fear and anguish.

Simon braced a knee on the edge of the mattress and pulled aside the blankets as he came onto the bed and lay beside her. Angie’s arms remained locked around his neck as the full length of his hard body joined her.

“Hold me, hold me,” she repeated again and again.

Simon did as she asked with a tenderness and love she had known from no other. His hands stroked her hair, her shoulders, and her back. Angie buried her face in the hollow of his throat and drew in deep, shaking breaths as she closed her eyes. He didn’t try to soothe her with words but simply held her, his hands caressing her.

Gradually the fear subsided and in its place came another emotion so strong, so powerful, that her senses clamored with the intensity. Her grip relaxed and the muscles under her exploring fingers flexed powerfully. This was Simon holding her so tenderly. Her husband of twelve years.

As if aware of what was happening to her thoughts, Simon’s hands stilled and he tossed back his head. “Angie?” His voice was filled with question.

She answered by kissing the salty-tasting skin at his throat, darting her tongue in and out in a provocative action.

“Angie,” he pleaded hoarsely, “are you sure?”

In response, she kissed his Adam’s apple, her tongue teasing and challenging him as it explored the throbbing pulse point on his neck.

“Angie. It isn’t in me to refuse you … I don’t have the strength to turn you down.”

“Love me, Simon. Please, oh please, love me.”

Angie heard the sharply indrawn breath and opened her eyes to stare into the stormy, doubt-filled gray ones looking down on her.

Her hands slid over his shoulders and back again as their eyes continued to drink in each other. One palm slid down over his chest, and then lower, to his muscle-hard belly. “I want you,” she whispered.

Simon groaned and positioned his hard body over hers. His breath was heavy, coming in deep pants as if he’d recently finished working out. He continued to hold her as he gradually lowered his mouth to hers, feasting on the sweetness of her lips with unhurried ease. He kissed her again and again until her mind was lost, incapable of any function beyond feeling the incredible sensations Simon awoke within her.

Simon’s hands were unsteady as he pulled the satin gown over her head in an urgent movement, tossing it carelessly aside. “Simon,” she moaned, her fingers digging into his hair as she arched her back to the exquisite sensations burning through her.

His lips found hers and she kissed him back greedily. Simon’s fingers worked at removing the last barrier of his clothing that separated them. Free of the restricting material, he laid her back against the pillow.

Mindless of anything but the taste and feel of Simon, Angie dug long nails into his shoulder blades. The pleasure that had been denied her for twelve years burst forth gloriously within her and sent her swirling to the heights of heaven. She gave a small whimper and clenched his neck, kissing him again and again as the tears slid down her cheeks.

“Angie, my sweet Angie, I’ll love you on my dying day.”

Her hands framed his face and she kissed him, her mouth slanting over his. “Simon,” she whispered, poignantly moved by his lovemaking. “It’s even better than I remember.” She sniffled, smiling up at him. Lazily, his thumb wiped the moisture from her face.

“Yes,” he agreed. He didn’t move, kissing her again and again. “Am I too heavy for you?”

“Never.” She closed her eyes, drinking in the warmth of his body sprawled over hers. “Don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t,” her murmured, close to her ear. “Never again.”

Angie didn’t know how or when it happened, but she fell into a deep slumber. She stirred once and felt the dead weight of Simon’s arm over her waist. He was cuddling her, spoon fashion, in the narrow bed. The sound and feel of his even breathing assured her he was asleep. She nestled closer within his arms and returned to a contented, blissful sleep.

When she woke again it was to the warm sensation of someone kissing her earlobe.

Caught in the delicious sensations that shot through her, Angie rolled onto her back. “What time is it?” she asked, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Almost dinnertime.”

Her eyes flew open. “That late?” She sat up, pulling the sheet with her. “I’ve got to …”

“I’ve already called the hospital. Your father is showing definite signs of improvement. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he’s in better shape than last night at this time,” he told her, sitting beside her, fully dressed. His hands were positioned on the delicate slope of her shoulders and his gaze was filled with fierce tenderness.

It didn’t seem possible that it was less than twenty-four hours ago that she had been sitting in a doctor’s office with Clay.

“Are you hungry?” Simon questioned.

She smiled at him with all the love stored in her heart these past years. “Starved.”

“Good. I took the liberty of snooping through your kitchen and fixing us something to eat.”

Angie leaned against the headboard and stretched her arms out in a long yawn. “I feel wonderful.”

Simon leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “You cried.”

Self-conscious, Angie lowered her gaze. “I always did.”

“I know,” he said in a husky, low voice. “Angie …” He paused. “There hasn’t been anyone else, has there.” It was more a statement than a question.

“No. I couldn’t.”

He gathered her in his arms and buried his face in her throat. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I love you.”

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life letting you know how much.”

“Do you honestly think that’ll be long enough?” she teased.

Clay’s eyes were closed when Angie went into the hospital room an hour and a half later. The nurse standing at his bedside glanced up as Angie entered the room.

“He’s been comfortable,” the woman whispered, answering Angie’s question before she could ask it. “He’s showing signs of improvement.”

Angie felt a rush of intense gratitude flow through her. “Good.”

The nurse left a few minutes later after charting her findings. Angie pulled out a chair and sat, taking Clay’s hand between hers.

“Hi, Dad,” she said softly. “Simon and I are back.”

Simon stepped forward and placed a hand on Angie’s shoulder. “I don’t think he can hear you.”

She turned around and smiled up at him warmly. “Maybe not, but I feel better talking to him.”

Simon located a chair and scooted it beside Angie’s. “How is Clay going to feel about us?”

“I … I don’t know.” Some of her happiness dimmed. “Once I talk to him and explain how much I love you, then he’ll come around.”

“He’s hated me for a lot of years.”

“Simon, Clay doesn’t hate you.”

His hand squeezed her shoulder. “That’s something we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yes, I guess we will.”

They sat, both caught in their doubts for a long half hour.

“Clay never says your name,” Angie said. “He calls you ‘that rich boy’ or ‘the Canfield boy.’ He’ll be surprised when he sees you to note that you’re far from a lad.”

Simon’s soft chuckle was interrupted by a low strangling sound. At first Angie didn’t hear it. Only when the amusement drained from Simon’s eyes did Angie pick up on the soft sound. Standing, she stood over her father. “Daddy?”

“Angelcake.” His voice was incredibly weak.

“How do you feel?”

“Like hell … should be dead.”

“No,” she protested.

Quietly, Simon stood and moved to the back of the room, out of Clay’s line of vision.

“You did wonderfully well,” she continued.

Clay scoffed at her with a small mocking sound. “Do the doctors expect me to kick the bucket?”

“No one’s given up on you yet,” Angie told him softly, and brushed the hair from his temple. “Least of all me.”

“I may prove you right yet.”

“Good.”

Clay closed his eyes. The effort of keeping them open this short length of time had apparently drained him of all strength.

“Go back to sleep.”

“I dreamed—”

“Shhh.” She placed a finger over his lips. “We’ll talk later.”

Within minutes, Clay returned to a peaceful slumber. Angie tossed a triumphant glance to Simon, her heart soaring. Her greatest fear had been that Clay would never wake up.

A jubilant sensation filled her breast. “He’s going to be all right,” she announced confidently, holding her hand out to Simon. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Simon’s arms slipped around her waist and he held her close. “I don’t doubt that Clay Robinson will be seeing his grandchildren.”

Angie and Simon left the hospital after visiting hours. Night was settling like a restless cloud over the land. The sky was dark and threatening, promising an imminent rainfall.

Simon followed Angie into her apartment.

“Angie.” His voice was a husky caress. “Come here, love.”

Obediently she walked into his embrace, sliding her arms around his waist and tilting her head back to smile at him. “You wanted something?” she teased.

“If only you knew.”

“I think I do.” She undid the first button of his shirt.

“Just what do you have in mind?” he asked with mock surprise.

“Let me show you, Mr. Canfield.” The second button followed. She smiled a little and arched a suggestive brow. When the shirt was unfastened, she eased it from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

Hesitant at first, she reached out a hand and touched him, trailing her fingertips over the hard muscles of his naked torso. Simon closed his eyes and grinned. Angie’s exploring hands paused at his belt buckle.