Scenes of Passion (14 page)

He lay beside her and kissed her, intending to take his time. He'd waited so long for this moment. Every minute, every second was going to count.

But when she opened her mouth to him, when she threw one leg over his hips, he knew he couldn't wait. And she was just as eager. He was surprised by her strength as she pulled him on top of her.

She reached for him, guiding him and then…

Oh,
yes
.

She moved with him, breathing his name, kissing him, touching him, surrounding him.

Time stood still and there was only Maggie, only these incredible sensations she was making him feel. His desire for her blazed through him, his heart pumping fire through his
veins. His need consumed him and he heard himself call out her name as she exploded around him, as the rush of his own release nearly stopped his heart.

She kissed him, so sweetly, so completely, and he knew without a doubt that he would love her until the day that he died.

Please God, don't let it be too soon.

Matt rolled over, pulling her with him so that her head rested on his shoulder. He kissed her again and again, kisses for the sake of kissing, delighting in the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth.

Her eyes were so filled with love, he nearly wept.

“I love you,” he whispered.

She smiled. “I believe you. You're a good actor, but you're not
that
good.”

Matt laughed, but it faded away as he realized what he had to do now. There was no putting it off any longer. “We have to talk.”

Maggie sighed, running her fingers across his chest and arms, already starting to make him crazy again.

He couldn't do this here. Not like this. “Why don't we go into the kitchen?” he suggested. “Make a cup of tea?”

Something in his voice must've telegraphed his anxiety, because she sat up. “I'm listening,” she said. “Really.”

“Can we go downstairs?” he asked.

She nodded and reached for her nightgown.

A
fter putting the kettle on the stove, Matt pushed the kitchen windows closed. The night air had gone from cool to cold, with the wind blowing off the sound. Maggie had a sweatshirt on over her nightgown, but she still shivered slightly.

He sat down at the table, across from her, fiddling with the napkin holder as he tried to figure out how to start.

“Now that we're down here,” he said with a laugh, “I'm not sure how to say this.”

She reached across the table, putting her hands on his. “Whatever you have to say, it can't be
that
terrible, can it?”

He met her eyes. “Mags, it's about when I went into the hospital. And yes, it's terrible.”

She looked down at their hands for a moment, and when she looked back up, into his eyes again, there was so much love on her face, it nearly took his breath away. “You know there's nothing you can say that will make me stop loving you.
Nothing.
”

“I had cancer,” he told her. There. He said it.

Maggie couldn't breathe. She stared across the table at him, waiting, hoping,
praying
for it to be a joke. Any minute now he'd tell her the punchline.

“I was diagnosed,” Matt said softly, “with Hodgkin's disease.”

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. It was indeed a joke, a cruel, horrible joke of fate. “Was? Past tense?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No, I don't want to lie to you.” He looked up at her, his face apologetic, his eyes dark with unhappiness. “The truth is, I hope it's gone, but I don't know for sure. It's been almost a year since I had my last treatment of chemo. The odds of a recurrence are pretty high for the first year—”

“How high?” Tears were slipping down her cheeks.

“Fifty percent,” he said. “Sixty percent, maybe more. I'm on the high end, because my cancer's already recurred.”

How could he sit there so calmly and tell her that the odds of his cancer returning were so terribly high?

“But you know, instead of saying I've got a sixty percent chance of dying, I say there's a forty percent chance I'm going to live to be an old man. And that's great. That's…There was a time during my second round of chemo that my chances of surviving barely broke double digits,” he said quietly.

“You had chemotherapy,” Maggie said, pulling her hands away to wipe her eyes and cheeks. “For how long?”

“Two six-month courses. The second was intensive and kind of experimental.”

“God, Matt, why didn't you tell me?”

“Before we made love? I tried to—”

“No, damn it!” Maggie hit the table with the palm of her hand and the flower vase came perilously close to toppling. “When you were in the hospital!”

The teakettle began to whistle, and they both stood up. Maggie reached the stove first, switching off the gas. She
turned back to Matt and glared at him. “Why didn't you call me?”

He shook his head. “I couldn't. Besides, what was I supposed to say? Hi, how are you, it's been ten years, and oh, by the way, I have cancer?”

“Why not? God, do you know how it makes me feel that you were in that hospital, and I didn't even know? I was living my stupid, mundane life, completely unaware that any minute you were maybe going to
die?
”

She began to cry again, and Matt wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

“I didn't die,” he told her. “I'm not going to die. Not now. Especially not now.”

She glared at him. “Cancer isn't something you can wish away.”

He shrugged, pushing her hair back from her face. “Hey, why not? I'm willing to try anything. And wishing is relatively inexpensive and pain-free.” He kissed her gently. “Tonight was so perfect. I'm sorry I had to ruin it.”

“What, now you're apologizing for having had
cancer?
” With her arms wrapped around his waist, he felt so solid, so vital. She could hear his heart beating, steady and strong. It didn't seem possible that cancer was growing inside of Matt's perfect body. “I'm so glad you finally told me.”

“I had to,” he said.

“No, you didn't.” She tilted her head back to look at him.

“Yeah, I did. If you love me, you deserve to know. I just…don't be scared, okay?”

“I'm not scared,” Maggie told him. No, she was terrified. She reached up to touch his hair. “When you had chemo…”

His smile turned rueful. “Yup. I was balder than Yul Brenner. Except I didn't look as good as he did.”

“You probably haven't cut it since…”

“Only to even it out.” Matt sat down, pulling Maggie onto his lap. “Or to trim the ends. I kind of have this superstition. It's silly…”

“Tell me.”

“It's dumb,” he admitted, “but after my hair started growing back in, I kind of saw it as a symbol of life. And I got this crazy idea that if I didn't cut my hair, the cancer wouldn't come back. I know it's ridiculous, but it's gotten to the point where it's become like a superstition or a good-luck charm. It's kind of like lifting your feet and touching the roof of the car when you cross railroad tracks, so you'll have good luck. Deep down you know it's not going to matter one damn bit, but you still do it—just in case.”

She fingered his hair again. “Gee, if you're never going to cut it, it's going to get pretty long. In about five years, you're going to have to hire someone to carry your hair around behind you.”

“I hope so,” Matt said.

His eyes were sober as Maggie gazed into them, and she realized with a jolt of fear that there was a very good chance Matt wouldn't be alive in five years. “When will you know?” she asked.

He knew what she meant. “I'm flying out to California at the end of next week.”

“California?”

“Yeah, I suppose I could go into Yale New Haven Hospital, but I'd rather go back to the doctor who treated me,” Matt told her. “We know each other pretty well. They'll do a series of tests to find out if I'm still clean.”

“And if you are?” she asked. “What then?”

“Then I get happy.” He traced her lips with his thumb. “Then I come back and we make love for the rest of our long, happy lives.”

Maggie started to cry.

“Whoa,” Matt said. “Mags, that was the
good
part.”

“I love you,” she said. “Don't you dare die!”

Matt held her close, his heart squeezing with pain, knowing that he couldn't make her any promises.

 

Maggie turned on the light in the late Mr. Stone's ostentatious office and went straight to the bookshelf. It didn't take her long to find what she wanted—she'd seen the books before, even though she hadn't realized their significance. She pulled the big
American Cancer Society's Cancer Handbook
off the shelf, along with several others.

As she looked through the books, she realized that her suspicions were true. Mr. Stone had these books because he knew about Matt's cancer. He had used a pink highlight pen to mark the sections on Hodgkin's, and she silently thanked him as she leafed through, reading the marked pages.

She was still sitting there an hour later, books spread out in front of her on the huge desk, when Matt came in. His breezy steps slowed as he saw what she was reading.

“Sometimes it's scarier to read about it,” Matt said. “The books tell you only so much and make you realize how many unanswered questions you have. And if they go into any kind of detail, you need a medical degree to understand—”

“There's a lot you didn't tell me.” Maggie tried hard to keep her voice from shaking. “You didn't tell me that even if there's no sign of a recurrence, that doesn't mean the cancer's gone. All it means is that you have a better chance of living five more years. And if you live the five years without a recurrence, all
that
means is you have a better chance of living
another
five years. And it just keeps on going. Forever.”

“Mags, people who live for five years without their cancer returning are virtually cured.”

She was silent, just watching him. He stared down at the red carpeting for a moment, then back up at her. His expression was unreadable, his eyes guarded. “Look, I know how tough it is to come to grips with this. If you don't want to deal with it, with
me
, I understand—”

“No!” Maggie stood up fast and the big leather chair rocked wildly behind her. “I just need to know
everything.
Don't hide stuff from me, okay?”

He nodded, watching her pace. “Okay. Then there is something else I should tell you.”

Maggie froze, gripped with a sudden rush of fear. “What?”

“The chemo and radiation made me sterile,” he said. “I'll never be able to have children.” He laughed without humor. “At least not the regular way.”

Relief flooded through her. She'd thought he was going to tell her that he felt sick again, that he thought the cancer was coming back.

“I've got some deposits in a sperm bank,” he said, “but that's not very romantic—”

“I read something in here that scared me,” she interrupted him. “I read that one of the symptoms of this kind of cancer is sleep problems. Night sweats and—”

“No,” he said. “The problems I'm having sleeping now is different. It's in my head, Mags. I don't sleep much because it's important to me not to waste any time.” He stood up, crossed behind the desk and threw open the heavy shutters. Sunlight streamed in, and then cool fresh air, as he opened the big window. He turned to face her. “I don't kid myself. I know I might not be here this time next year.”

“How do you live with that?” she asked softly. “Tell me, so I can learn how to live with it, too.”

He smiled at her. “You start by believing in miracles. You know, when I was diagnosed, they gave me seven months, tops. But here I am, three years later.” He put his arms around her, kissed her sweetly. “Every day I wake up, Mags, I think of as a gift. I've been given one more day to live, and I'm not going to waste it.”

“But don't you feel it's not fair? Don't you feel cheated?”

“Cheated?”
He laughed. “No way. I've been given a second chance. I won big, Maggie. They told me I was going to die. I was dead, it was a given. But miracles happen.” He kissed her again. “I'm more convinced of that than ever after
last night. Not only am I not dead, but I'm living my dream. How incredibly great is that?”

He kissed her again, and she clung to him.

“Let's go back to bed,” he breathed into her ear.

She made herself laugh instead of crying. “Taking a nap in the middle of the day,” she teased. “Doesn't that fall into the ‘waste of time' category?”

He laughed, a glint in his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Matt took her hand and pulled her out of the office, into the main part of the house, all the way up the stairs to his tower room. The blinds were up and the windows were open wide, letting in the sun and the ocean breeze. The sky was a brilliant blue—it was like being on top of the world.

He undressed her slowly, taking his time to touch and kiss her, as she did the same to him.

And there they were. Naked in the sunlight.

They took their sweet time, falling together back on his bed, touching, tasting, exploring.

He would have spent hours in foreplay, but it was Maggie who grew impatient.

She pushed him back on the bed, straddling him, plunging him deeply inside of her.

She laughed at his gasp of pleasure, smiling down at him as she moved on top of him, setting him on fire.

“Hey,” he tried to slow her down. “If you keep doing that, I'm going to lose control.”

“I know,” she said. “I like it when you lose control.”

Oh dear God, what she was doing to him…But…“Mags, I'm serious—”

“Hey,” she said, pretending to frown at him. “Who's on top?”

He had to laugh. “You are. Mistress.”

She laughed at that. “Damn straight.” God, she was so incredibly sexy. “Tell me when,” she ordered him.

Matt could see her love for him in her eyes, in her smile, on her face, radiating from her, and he knew that all the hell
he'd been through had been worth it—if only to live for this one moment. And there would be other moments like this one, he knew, not just making love, but sharing their love.

She loved him. Maggie
loved
him. And it was all over for him.