Save My Soul (12 page)

He smiled slowly, deliberately, his gaze coming to rest on her lips. “Is this some sort of psychobabble meant to calm my narcissistic rage?”

“I don't think you're narcissistic.”

His smile broadened and he pressed his hands to either side of her neck. “Then what do you think of me?”

At the moment, lots of thoughts came to mind, but Maggie could barely swallow let alone speak. “Jordon?”

“Yes?” He dropped his voice to match hers.

“If we keep acting like this, what comes next?”

He leaned forward to brush his nose to hers. “You mean
who
… who comes next?”

His hot breath warmed her mouth, and Maggie inched her lips closer. “After the sex, Jordon. What happens then?”

“More sex.” He kissed her, lips to lips — no tongue — and then lifted his mouth. “More sex.” He kissed her again, slipping his hands around her shoulders, drawing her to his chest. “More sex. I think you get the idea.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and her heart beat against his. “You're oversimplifying things.”

He squeezed her tighter, and for some strange reason, the added pressure made her laugh.

“Honey, if you think being with me is simple, then you're in for a treat.” He brushed his lips below her ear.

Somewhere, something vibrated. Neither one of them moved for the longest time, but then Jordon snarled. “My phone.” He pressed his lips to her forehead before he answered the call and disappeared into the darkness.

After five minutes passed, Maggie could no longer feel the warmth where his lips had been. After thirty minutes, the couch cushion regained its shape. After an hour, Maggie thought it entirely possible she imaged the whole encounter. She closed her lids, breathed deeply, and opened her eyes again. No bed. No dream. Just an empty living room and a heart filled with disappointment.

Why did she even worry about giving in to her desire for Jordon? Between her conscience, Jordon's moods, Carlos's drama and the ever-present BlackBerry, they didn't stand a chance.

• • •

Jordon switched the phone to his other ear and rolled his eyes. He knew the call would sour once Mason's dad got on the line. Jordon listened to a few slurred words, and contempt stewed in his gut. The guy reminded Jordon of his father.

Hearing Mason's nervous chatter in the background pulled Jordon out of his sordid memories. “Mr. Cutler, we'll wait for the MRI. Once we have results, then we know what we're dealing with.”

The drunk stuttered, and Jordon cut him off. “I said we wait. In the meantime, I suggest you lay off the bottle and let Mason sleep.”

Like hundreds of phone calls before, this one ended with a sloppy apology from Old Man Cutler and a woeful goodnight from Mason. Jordon tossed the phone to the right side of the bed and smacked his head on the wrought iron a few times. When the sting of the blows subsided, he thought of Maggie.

How often had his married nights ended like this?

Jordon felt powerless over the replay of history, and Maggie had no idea what she was getting into. His jaw twitched, and he pressed his thumb to his cheek to calm the throbbing Bethany hadn't known what she was in for, either. And like Bethany, he suspected Maggie wouldn't appreciate constant brush-offs. But what was he supposed to do? Ignore a long-term client for a roll in the sheets? Of course not, and any woman who expected him to choose wasn't the right woman.

He smacked his head harder this time. What the hell was he thinking?
The right woman?
When had he stopped looking at Maggie as a means to end his sexual frustration and started looking at her as a … what? Girlfriend? He released a humorless laugh. He was too damn old for a girlfriend. A … wife? He tried that before.

Maggie had great legs, the sexiest mouth he'd ever seen — or tasted — and a body made for bending. Why did he want to complicate things by pushing for something more?

Jordon rubbed a hand over his tired eyes and thought about waltzing upstairs to do the deed without saying a word just to prove his point. He figured he could get her to comply without too much resistance. Hell, in their few physical entanglements he'd learned a thing or two about crushing her resolve.

His eyelids closed. Nibbling her ear. Yeah, that heated her up. His hands rested on his rising chest, and before he could think of another spot on Maggie's delicious body, he drifted to sleep.

The next thing Jordon knew, his BlackBerry alarm buzzed from the bedside table. He showered, shaved and dragged his heavy body into a single-breasted suit, all the while wondering what the hell was different.

He took late night calls. Part of the job. He travelled. Part of the job. He carried around more stress than a suspension bridge. Also part of the job. And yet, today, before the sun even shone, he felt like shit. He thought the unrest from last night would disappear with some sleep. Obviously, he was wrong.

The unrest led him to the bottom of a staircase he didn't intend to climb. Before he thought better, he'd reached the top and stood at Maggie's door. Jordon pushed the door open to watch her sleep. She curled into an extra pillow, the sheets tangled around her feet. Miles of silky skin extended from her ankles to the riding hem of her shirt, and all he wanted to do was run his hands over every inch.

This is a bad idea.

For once, Jordon listened to the voice in his head and turned to leave.

“Is everything okay?”

Her sleepy voice stopped him cold and forced his reply. “I'm sorry to bother you.”

“It's fine.” She sat, pulled the sheet to her knees and her knees to her chest, and smiled a lazy smile that begged him to stay, to crawl into bed where her arms and legs could wrap around him like a cocoon. “Did you need something?”

Talk about a loaded question. Jordon roughed a palm over his wrinkled forehead, trying to remember how he got to the foot of her bed in the first place. “Again, I'm sorry. My behavior isn't making any sense lately. I should go. Bernie's waiting.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York.” Instead of nodding goodbye and leaving, he sat on the end of the bed as if the spot was his ultimate destination. “I have meetings scheduled.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don't know. It all depends on the negotiations.”

She dropped her chin to her knees and even in the dim light of the moon he could see her smile fade. “Okay.”

He touched her — just a covered foot at first, but then his hand slid underneath the sheet to her ankle where he wrapped his fingers around the warm skin. “I'm sorry about last night.”

“What are you sorry for?”

The backseat. His anger in the parking lot. His distance at home. The phone call.
All of it.
Which wasn't true. Some parts he definitely didn't regret. Some parts he wanted nothing more than to repeat and expand upon … “I'm sorry for the way I acted in the car and in the parking lot, and I'm even more sorry I had to take that call when we were just getting to a point where I could've have made it up to you.”

She rubbed a palm against his shoulder, letting the tips of her fingernails nuzzle his neck. “I was disappointed, but I get it. I know what you do. I know who you are. You can no more turn that off than I can turn off what I do and who I am. You shouldn't be sorry for something you
had
to do.”

A pleasant chill rolled over him. “But there was something I
wanted
to do more.” He massaged her calf muscle.

“What time's your flight?” She smiled.

Her expression sparked in his chest, and he glanced at his watch, started calculating what time remained. But then he sighed. What the hell was happening to him? Bernie was in the driveway. Millions of dollars were up for grabs in New York, and he would rather stay home … in bed?

He jumped to his feet. “I'm late already.” He regretted the abrupt movement the minute her smile fell, her right cheek dropping to her knee. He reached out and laid a palm on the exposed side of her face. “Will you be here when I get back?” She had a home and a life that didn't include him, and as soon as she deemed Carlos well enough for virtual therapy, she'd leave. There'd be nothing keeping her here.

Maggie closed her eyes and leaned her head heavily into his hand. “Do you want me to be here?”

“Yes.” He spoke the word like a prayer.

“Then I'll be here.”

“Good. When I get back, we'll … ”

She opened her eyes, and the inquisition entranced him. “We'll what?” she whispered.

His conscience rumbled. This conversation should have started and ended with sex if it started at all. But when Jordon forced the crass words to his lips, he couldn't free them. Here was a man who made a living stating his demands. And suddenly, he didn't know what to ask for.

“Go. You're going to be late. When you get back we'll … talk.” She didn't look certain of her words. And as she stared at him with shiny eyes, all he wanted was to bury himself inside of her.

“Okay.” The word was weak, but it was stronger than his pulse. With the help of shallow breaths, he managed to walk out of the room without kissing her goodbye.

If he let his lips touch hers, he knew he'd never make his flight.

The dark sky opened with rain to spoil Maggie's day. This was a fresh insult, and she felt the foreign inclination to thumb her nose at the universe. For two weeks she'd enjoyed pleasant temperatures and sunny days. Jordon left and the sky darkened as if he were its power source.

Pushing her chest off a blanket spread on the living room floor, Maggie arched her back and held the posture while she faced the lake being beaten by rain. She missed him. A groan crossed her lips and she tried to clear her mind again, but she was too tormented. Her arms gave out, dumping her body to the floor.

“Dr. Maggie?”

“Just Maggie, Carlos. You don't need the doctor part.” She didn't feel much like an expert anyway.

“Okay. Maggie, come see the washer. I think something's wrong. It's shaking.”

She drew a breath, and her stomach and chest pushed against the hard floor. “You probably loaded it unevenly, but that's easy to fix.”

Rolling onto her knees, she stood and turned her back on the yoga and the rain. She padded through the living room, passed through the kitchen and entered the laundry room with Carlos like a puppy on her heels. “Lift the lid.”

“But it's running.”

“It'll stop when you lift the lid.”

He followed her directions.

“You have to spread sheets out like this.” She reached into the belly of the metal beast and tugged at the twisted clothes. “See what I'm doing?”

He nodded.

“Good. Close her up and she should be a lot happier.”

The machine purred to life, and Carlos's eyes widened in amazement. “Thanks.”

They were long overdue for a talk. Maggie patted his shoulder. “Follow me, young man.”

She led him to the dining room where she had placed a plastic container of supplies earlier that morning. The dark sky continued to cry and block the sunlight. Maggie flipped a switch and lit the iron chandelier hanging over the glass table. “Did you ever play with Play-Doh when you were little?”

His face went blank, and he shrugged. “No.”

“Well, you're going to do it now.” She held out a ball of blue modeling compound. “Go ahead. Touch it.”

Carlos hesitated. “Why?”

“It's an exercise meant to get creative juices flowing.” She held the ball closer to him. “Come on. Do it for me.”

He pushed a finger deep into the ball. “Gross.”

She laughed. “It is a little weird.” Flattening the blue ball between her hands, she dropped the dough to the table where she poked twice at the top of the circle and once in a u-shape across the bottom. “Mr. Smiley.”

Carlos looked at her like she'd lost her mind. Jordon looked at her like that too. Her stomach felt heavy, and she lifted her gaze to the misery outside. “Anyhow … I want you to make something for me.”

“What?”

“I'd like you to make an image of yourself, something that represents you.” She gestured to the only rainbow they were going to see today, lining the dining table. “You can use any color you'd like.”

He hesitated again, but then lifted the plastic can of white. He studied the unblemished, snowball shape in his hand and then traded it for a clump of red, smashing it between his tan hands. Bushy black brows knitted together in concentration.

With a pinch here and a push there, he shaped the flattened clay into a big red heart. Smiling, he reached again for the white ball. He peeled a strip of red from the heart and smoothed the injured area before breaking off a tiny piece of red and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. His trepid movements mesmerized her, and it only took one fleck of red placed on the ball of white for her to recognize a baseball.

When he finished, a grinning Carlos sat back and admired his work. “Like that?”

A heart and a baseball. Light infiltrated the clouds, and Maggie felt recharged. “Like that.”

He grabbed for the blue ball and poked.

“If you didn't do stuff like this as a kid, what did you do?” she asked.

“Played baseball.”

“Playing professional baseball means a lot in your country, doesn't it?”

“
Si
.” He rolled the blue clay between his palms.

“Do any of your other siblings play baseball?”

He sniffed. “I have sisters.”

“They must be very proud of you.”

He stopped playing with the clay and something in his yellow eyes stirred her pain. “They need the money. My father died.”

Another piece of the emotional puzzle snapped into place. “I can imagine how important the financial support is to them, but that's an awfully big burden on you. Do you mind supporting them?”