Texas rich (9 page)

{52}

lowing the rhythmic rise and fail as she pressed herself against him, following his hand, seeking passion's reward.

Billie was ravaged by this hunger he created in her, confused by it, not knowing where it would end, afraid it would. There was an emptiness at her center that craved him, demanded release. There was an exquisiteness in this contact and it was as though she were being fragmented, separated from herself, and nothing existed in the world but her body and his hand.

Moving over her, he placed himself between her thighs, his eyes igniting embers wherever they touched her. The gold spill of her hair on the pillow, her white skin, her gentle curves that were young and appealing, all beckoned to him. His eyes locked with hers as he continued his caress; his passions were fired as she met his gaze with abandon, letting him see the desire that dweh there and echoed in the trembling of her loins. "Bil-He, Billie." He murmured her name as if it were a love lyric. "You're lovely, so lovely."

He fed her passions, gentled her desires, and brought her slowly and inexorably to the point of no return, smiling tenderiy when she gasped with the sweetness of her release. She climaxed beneath his touch, crying her surprise, rolling her head back and forth as she called his name. He eased the tension in her thighs, pressed his palm into the contractions of her belly, smiling down at her reassuringly and persuading her doubts away. When she calmed, she smiled with the wonder of this discovery he had unfolded for her, and Moss had never felt such a surge of tenderness as he did for Billie at that moment. He wanted to be her lover, to carry her over the threshold of her passions, to explore the mysteries of her sensuality.

"Tell me you want more, Billie. Tell me again how you want me to show you more." His voice was so deep, a rumble in her ears, but she understood and eagerly whispered the words he wanted to hear.

He leaned forward, entering her, gently, so gently, filling her with himself. Her flesh closed around him, capturing him in an exquisite embrace. She caressed the smooth expanse of his back, arched her breasts against his chest. Her mouth yielded to his, deeply, lovingly. She encouraged his embrace, heightened his passions, grasping his buttocks and holding him deep within her. She felt the heat rise again from the contact of their flesh. She felt herself matching the slow sensual rhythm he initiated. She was aware of the building of tension again at her

{53}

center, driving herself and him once more to that sweet release.

He felt her tighten and become rigid with her climax, her pulsations beckoning him to his own release. He raised himself up, grasping her bottom in his hands, lifting her, thrusting himself into her with shorter, quicker strokes.

Her body was a delight, her responses instinctive, and the expression of complete surrender on her lovely face brought him to the edge of passion and he plummeted over to the other side to join her in the celebration of her womanhood.

Their bodies glistened with the sheen of their pleasure and satisfaction. They lay side by side on the narrow bed, legs entwined, her head resting upon his shoulder. He brought her back from the far side of passion with caresses to her breasts and throat. He kissed her brow and inhaled the fragrance of her hair. His voice was soft and husky as he exulted in the delight he had found in her, enumerating those qualities he found so beautiful.

"I love you," she breathed, nuzzling her lips into the furring on his chest.

"I know you do, Billie. I know." And his answer was a kiss, so gentle and tender that it brought a tear to her eye.

Agnes walked across the front yard, keeping to the grass so her heels wouldn't click on tfie flagstones, and let herself in through the kitchen door. Laying her purse on the kitchen table, she went into the darkened living room. Frank Sinatra was crooning on the radio. Billie's bedroom door was closed and Agnes drew in her breath when she heard Moss's soft, intimate-sounding laughter and Billie's urgent whispers.

Sitting down on the dark brown Morris chair that had been her mother's favorite, Agnes faced the door to Billie's room and contemplated the quiet sounds she heard from within. She was aware that Moss was in there with Billie and she knew what they were doing.

It seemed strange to Agnes to be sitting out here when any decent mother would be breaking down the door to save her daughter. But, in many ways, Agnes was saving Billie—and herself as well. In all likelihood, considering Billie's recent behavior and the glow in her eyes. Moss would have landed her in bed sooner or later. The trick was to turn every disadvantage—such as having a lovestruck daughter who no longer wanted to be a virgin—into an advantage. Deliberately spilling the punch down the front of Billie's dress and arranging for

{54}

her to be alone with Moss had been a terrible gamble, but so far things seemed to be going just as she'd planned. Taking a deep breath, Agnes waited. The next move in this little game had to be well played and she had to keep her head about her.

Hands folded in her lap, her face expressionless, time had no meaning as Agnes waited. When the door finally opened and Moss, naked except for his white slacks, stepped out, the first thing he saw as the Andrews Sisters sang "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" was Agnes glaring at him with icy calm. Billie, her robe clutched tightly about her, bumped into him and saw immediately what had brought him up short.

"Mother!"

Agnes stared first at Billie and then at Moss. Yes, it was a terrible gamble to take. Moss grinned at her, his eyes saying he knew what she'd done. Agnes recoiled slightly, but she knew she'd won. She could feel it in her bones, in every breath she took. Billie was going to be Mrs. Moss Coleman. What was disturbing Agnes at this moment was the knowledge that she hadn't won this little game by outsmarting Moss. No, Lieutenant Coleman had allowed her this victory.

As he'd walked out into the living room, Moss's thoughts had been filled with Billie. What an exciting bed partner she was! Willing. So very willing to please. And she was beautiful, in her soft, sweet way. Even now, thinking about it, he could hardly believe her boldness. One minute she'd had the robe on and the next, after seeing him in the doorway, she was lifting those warm tender arms to him, inviting him to be her lover. A wry, satisfied grin was stretching across his face—and then he saw her sitting in the chair watching the door. Agnes. He hadn't needed a bolt of lightning to tell him she'd been sitting there for a very long time. And the look in her eyes reminded him of Pap's just after he'd closed a very profitable business deal. In that split second, Moss knew that if he had a chance to do it all over again, he'd do it. Agnes or no Agnes. Billie was worth it.

One of Pap's famous admonishments skittered through his brain. Mothers automatically think in terms of rape; they can never accept that their darling daughters are ready and willing. Their second thought is of bastard children and social embarrassment. Their last—and most comforting—thought is of marriage.

"Close your zipper, Lieutenant," Agnes said softly. "It's getting late. There's no point in going back to the dance. It

{55}

would be a good idea if you got dressed and left."

Dismissed. Caught just like a kid with his fist in the cookie jar. Moss wanted to laugh. He'd just stolen her daughter's innocence and virginity and she was dismissing him. But Moss knew she wasn't finished with him, not yet, not till she'd gotten what she wanted. He saw her eyes flick to BiUie and realized that Agnes would say what she had to say when Billie wasn't around to hear or object. The urge to laugh was so strong that his throat began to tickle. Pap, you old bastard, you didn't tell me there were mothers like this one.

Billie, standing just behind Moss, pulled the belt of her terry robe tighter. The sight of her mother calmly sitting there made her feel faint. Grasping Moss's arm, more to keep herself steady than in any gesture of protectiveness, she protested Agnes's sending him away like a naughty boy. "Mother, this wasn't Moss's fault. I made him do it. I wanted him to and I'm not sorry!" she cried defiantly. "You have to believe me. I love him. You have to understand that."

Moss felt Billie's nails digging into his bare arm. Noble. Little Billie was making her declaration of love and defending him to Agnes. He should be saying all the things Billie was saying. She was stealing his thunder. This time there was no controlling the laughter that bubbled out of him. He put his arm around Billie's shoulder and drew her to him. That little movement, that little declaration of his own, was all Agnes needed. She bit back her smile, lowering her head to cloak her face in the semidarkness.

Billie sat on the edge of her bed watching Moss dress. She needed reassurance; she wanted to hear the words that would tell her he loved her, but she couldn't ask. What would happen once Moss left the house? Would he come back? If he asked her to leave with him now, this minute, she would. Please, God, let him come back. She was silent as she watched him button his white tunic with slow, unhurried hands.

Moss was avoiding Billie's eyes. Her naked love for him was almost more than he could handle. All his life he'd known that when someone loved you that way it demanded something in return. With Seth, the demand had been responsibility and obligation. He refused to imagine what Billie would demand in return. Closer to the truth, it was what Agnes would demand that made him cringe. He knew he had to look at Billie, knew he must take her in his arms. Poor little thing, she looked so

{56}

frightened. What did she fear most—Agnes's anger or that he wouldn't return her love? Billie had nothing to fear from Agnes. Things had gone exactly the way she'd planned from the moment she'd doused Billie with punch. That left only himself. Love? Not yet.

He gathered Billie into his arms. She felt so good, all warm and soft. He felt himself stiffening. Billie smiled up at him and then laid her head against his chest. How right she felt, how good. She fit just right in the crook of his arm. Think. He had to think. But not here. He had to get out of here. He kissed Billie lightly on the lips, on the tip of her nose, on her closed eyes, and again on her lips. "I'll call you tomorrow, between eleven and noon. The admiral is playing golf then and I'll have the office all to myself. We'll talk. Good night, Billie."

"Good night. Moss," Billie said, choking back a sob. She looked so abandoned and lost and afraid.

"Don't worry, Billie. Things'll work out." He hated to see a woman cry. They got all red-eyed and sniffly and then they had to blow their nose. His sister was forever crying and blowing. Jesus, the things a guy had to tolerate. "Don't cry." The depths of his caring stunned him. Yes, he did care about Billie. "Stay here. I'll let myself out. Call you tomorrow."

Billie nearly collapsed on the bed once she'd heard the door close. She clenched her hands in her lap and waited for her mother. Billie's heart thumped madly all the while she waited. She wasn't sorry for what she'd done. She'd never be sorry. He'd faced Agnes. He'd said he'd call tomorrow. He would call tomorrow. Her eyes went to the rumpled bed and the wrinkled sheets. Emotionally drained, she fell back against the pillows and her eyes burned with tears when the scent of Moss's after-shave caressed her cheek.

It had been wonderful, everything she thought it would be. She pleased him, she knew she did; he'd told her. She smiled when she remembered his gentleness, his wildness. She flushed when she thought of her own abandon. How could something so wonderful between two people be wrong? Moss didn't think it was wrong or he wouldn't have made love to her. How she hated now the phrase the kids used. "Doing it." It sounded like two dogs in heat. Moss and she hadn't "done it." They'd made love. Inexperienced as she was, she knew the difference.

Where was her mother? Why hadn't she come into the room to express her disappointment and disgust? To shout, to chastise and issue dire warnings and threats. When the little enamel

{57}

clock with the painted fleur-de-lis read one o'clock, Billie turned off the lamp and lay back against the pillow Moss had lain on.

Moss drove slowly, savoring the warm sunmier breezes that blew in through the car window. It had been danm close to a perfect evening. Caught. Caught like two kids behind the bam. He laughed, a rich sound that began in his middle and bellowed out his throat. Damn near perfect. But his thoughts didn't take him beyond the following day. There would be no more nights like tonight. Agnes had allowed him to sample the merchandise and it was to be his one and only. From here on in, he either made arrangements to buy the goods—and this meant marriage—or else removed himself from the situation entirely.

Moss whipped out his ID and idled past the guard at the gatehouse. He had some deep thinking to do. He parked the car, went to his quarters, and changed. Dressed in fatigues, he made his way back to the admiral's office. Now was a good time to take apart the maritime compass on the admiral's desk and put it in working order, as he'd promised. The admiral liked to avail himself of Moss's expertise with anything mechanical, and there was always a radio or clock or something on the car awaiting his attention.

He worked slowly and methodically, and was surprised to find that the sun was rising as he finished. He replaced the antique compass on the admiral's desk and devilishly propped up a sign diat read KILROY WAS HERE, complete with the caricature of the little bald guy with a bulbous nose peeping over the fence. The sign struck him as funny and he wondered briefly about the origin of the popular slogan, but instead of laughing he felt like crying. Sitting at an admiral's desk fixing little contraptions wasn't Moss's idea of fighting a war. There was an aching at his center to be airborne, skidding off the flat deck of a carrier and rushing off to face his destiny. There had to be some way of getting out of this stinking assignment. But he couldn't go against his father. Seth was an old man and Moss was the apple of his eye, the old man's chance for im-mortahty, as Pap liked to put it. Seth loved him and in return for that love. Moss owed it to Pap to go along. Seth was set on creating a dynasty, a Coleman dynasty, and his fierce pride demanded that Moss produce future generations of Colemans to inherit the fabulous wealth he'd created out of nothing but shrewd business dealings and a lot of hick. But maybe, just maybe, there was a way to appease Pap and still get what he