The Comforts of Home (8 page)

If he had to watch her walk away the same number of times he’d left women, Denver figured he had a few more years of torture to come.

He opened the door to his room and noticed that the flowers he always ordered when Claire joined him were already by the bed. A meal would be delivered at nine. Her favorites. He’d learned what she preferred from every menu in every hotel where they’d stayed.

Only the details didn’t hide the fact that they were in a hotel room again. He was close enough to her to walk from his house to hers in Harmony, but she would meet him only in hotel rooms. He could understand why he’d never been asked to stay at her place; Claire Matheson lived in a rambling old ranch house with her mother, her daughter, and her two great-aunts. The place had so many guests and relatives and ranch hands dropping by he was surprised it didn’t have a revolving door. Claire’s art studio was on the third floor, in what had been the attic. He’d have to get through two floors of relatives to even see her. She was right, the hotels probably were easier.

Denver figured he wouldn’t be welcome at the ranch for breakfast and they’d probably shoot him if he tried to leave in the middle of the night. When Hank Matheson, the only male on the ranch, married and moved out, the women had Denver’s friend and army buddy, Gabe Leary, put in a first-class security system. Denver knew he could slip through the system, but their having it wasn’t exactly a welcome mat.

Claire could come to his place, though. Maybe not for the night, but for a few hours. He’d built on a huge kitchen and a master bedroom bigger than most apartments he’d rented. His place looked nothing like the old farmhouse he’d bought two years ago. Only Claire had never been there.

Putting his Glock in the safe, he pul ed the drapes open and watched planes take off and land. She’d said she was landing twenty minutes after him, but she didn’t want him to be at the gate. As always, she wanted him to meet her alone, away from everyone. He’d attended her art shows in a dozen places, eaten meals with her family when they were both in Harmony, and stood near when she’d won awards for her paintings, but their affair had to remain a secret from everyone. Denver couldn’t even tel his best friend, Gabe Leary, because Gabe was married to Claire’s sister.

This was one hel of a mess where affairs were concerned. He felt like they were flying under the radar and it was just a matter of time before the blip showed up.

Denver barked a laugh and turned to pour his first whiskey. What they had wasn’t an affair. He hadn’t looked at another woman for two years. He didn’t need a band on his left hand to know they belonged together. Claire wasn’t a passing fancy, she was his life, and it hurt al the way to his core to know he was no more than an accessory in hers.

He watched his reflection in the crystal glass. He saw a man distorted. Parts. No whole.

The door lock clicked. Denver turned, bracing for the beauty of her to hit him like a tropical storm.

She didn’t disappoint. Dressed in black with only a touch of white col ar showing, she stepped into the room.

Her long, wine-red hair was tied in a knot at the back of her neck, but he could feel it in his hands already. She looked at him with bottomless brown eyes and smiled. His heart started up again. Sometimes he felt like those characters in
Brigadoon
. He lived only when she was with him; the rest of the time was just existing. They’d seen each other a few times that first year, and each time had been wild, like a lost moment in time and reality. The second year they couldn’t get enough of each other. Every month their paths crossed, always at hotels near airports. She left him fulfil ed, satisfied, and planning the next encounter.

Only lately, once a month wasn’t enough, not nearly enough for him, and he stil wasn’t sure she real y liked him .

. . or even knew him, but he had no doubt she needed him.

She’d given up tel ing him how much she hated him and al men after they’d made love in New York for the first time.

She’d been setting up for a big show and he’d had a three-day layover. They’d spent it in bed unable to get enough.

He’d added
love, Denver
to his texts and whispered how he adored every part of her, but he’d never told her straight out. He wasn’t sure how he’d react when she didn’t answer back.

Each month she seemed to be more popular in the art world. Her paintings of men dying horrible deaths seemed to have caught on. Apparently every woman knew at least one man she’d like to see barbecued over an open fire or hanged from the Empire State Building by a rope made from ugly ties. As her legend grew, she met him less and less in public, even for a drink or coffee, until final y this fal she hadn’t even joined him for breakfast when they both happened to be in Harmony. But when she e-mailed him her flight schedule, he knew to book a room if he could get there for the layover.

“Hel o, darlin’,” he said now, as if it had been only hours and not more than a month since they’d seen each other.

“You look beautiful, as always.”

She turned and closed the door. Then without a word, she slipped out of her heels as she pul ed her hair free of the bun. The long strands danced to her waist.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe. Al he could do was watch. In al his life he’d never had a woman affect him so completely. He didn’t just want to touch her, he wanted to breathe her in, watch her every move, listen to the way she breathed when she slept or how she sighed when he ran his hands over her gently.

She let her black jacket fal to the floor, then unbuttoned her tailored trousers and let them pool at her feet so she could step free.

Standing in only her white blouse, she waited. Stil no greeting.

Denver swal owed the last of his whiskey and moved toward her. He’d meant to talk first. Wanted to catch up on how her world was going. He knew her, maybe better than she knew herself. He knew she didn’t care much about her success even though that was mainly what she talked about when she was around people. He also knew that beneath the perfect mask was a shattered woman whose husband had ended her world years ago, and she’d barely been able to tape the fragments together. She was a mother, a daughter, a sister, and an artist, but she wasn’t his. He sometimes asked himself the question that if this was al he could have of her—one wild night now and then—was it enough?

When he raised one finger and slid it down the V of her blouse, she jerked slightly and closed her eyes. “I said hel o,” he whispered in a low voice as he kissed his way from her ear to her mouth while his hands slid beneath her shirttail and cupped her hips.

She sighed and backed a step away.

He moved close again, barely touching her as he freed the first few buttons of her blouse. “I don’t care if you talk to me, darlin’. I know what you want.”

She backed away again, her breath coming quickly.

Each movement shifted the cotton top just enough that he saw she wore no bra.

“And you know what I want.” He wasn’t holding her, just touching.

She stepped away again, her eyes wide.

He let a foot remain between them as he slowly pushed his hand between the starched white cotton of her blouse and brushed his fingers around her breast.

She shut her eyes and gulped deep breaths as he finished unbuttoning her blouse and pushed it off her shoulders.

“You are so beautiful, Claire,” he whispered as his hand gently moved over her.

She backed to the door and he closed the distance between them as he pressed his body over the length of hers. He held her head in his hands as he kissed her ful out for several minutes before breaking the kiss so that he could stare into her eyes.

She wasn’t a woman many people touched, and he knew no man had touched her but him in a long time. “You planning on talking to me tonight, Claire?”

“No,” she answered, trying to turn her head away.

“Fine,” he said, then pul ed her mouth to his again.

“We’l have to find another way to communicate.” He kissed her until he felt her give up any resistance.

When he broke the kiss, she leaned her head back against his arm, her mouth stil slightly open. He swore the woman melted into his skin every time she came close, but the first few moments were always a sparring match before she surrendered to what they both wanted.

“Are you glad to see me?” he whispered as he bit lightly against her bottom lip. When she didn’t answer, he moved his hand over her middle, then up, taking his time exploring her flesh. His hands grew bolder. He smiled, loving the little sounds she made, purring to his touch.

“Yes,” she whispered final y. “Yes.”

He picked her up and carried her to bed. As she stretched atop the sheets, he pul ed the drapes, turning the room and his life into shadows.

Al the things he’d planned to say vanished as he spread out beside her. He didn’t just need her, he was addicted to her. The time for words was over. Tomorrow after they’d made love until they were exhausted, then slept until noon, he’d order breakfast and they’d talk while they ate.

Then, he knew they’d make love one more time. He’d rol over and act like he was asleep while she showered, dressed, and left. She’d know he was awake just as he’d know she knew, but they’d learned months ago that neither one knew how to say good-bye.

TYLER WRIGHT SAT IN THE WINTER’S INN BED-AND-Breakfast pretending to eat. Three days had passed since he’d picked up his Kate at the Amaril o airport and she’d slept in his arms. Three days and they’d yet to talk about anything important. Why was she sad? Would she be interested in marrying him? Nothing.

In fact, they’d barely been alone with each other. At the bed-and-breakfast, Martha Q was always around. She seemed to think Kate came to town just to visit with her.

Tyler had long ago decided that Martha Q had probably talked at least half her husbands to death. She’d been married so many times folks played a drinking game in the local bar of trying to name the men in order. Tyler had heard it was more popular than naming the seven dwarves.

Martha Q’s latest crazy plan was to start a once-a-week meeting of a “lonely hearts club” that came, for a price, with instructions for how to find and catch a man. Martha Q saw herself as an expert in this field. She’d talked one of the Mathesons, an almost-lawyer by the name of Rick, into helping any of the women, pro bono, of course, if they should need any advice on handling their money or land before going into a new marriage. Martha Q even said Rick would help with ending the present, unhappy union if they needed him.

Tyler thought the whole idea sounded one inch short of insane, but on a scale with her other ideas it was about par.

Mrs. Biggs, the cook at Winter’s Inn, wasn’t much better at al owing him time alone with Kate. She’d spent an hour yesterday teaching Kate to make Italian bread. They’d made so much they decided to make lasagna to go with it and invite over everyone Kate knew.

Tyler felt like he was being selfish, not wanting to share Kate’s time. Yesterday, when he had to leave to work, he’d hurried back to find she’d gone to lunch with the sheriff, Alexandra McAl en-Matheson. When Kate returned late in the afternoon, Tyler asked what the two women had talked about, but Kate had simply said, “An old police matter.” Talking to everyone in town about everything seemed more important than talking to him. Tyler felt forgotten, and mad at himself for being selfish of her time. He knew she was fitting in and loving it.

When Alexandra and her husband, Hank Matheson, came over for the lasagna, Tyler was happy to see his best friend, but part of him wanted to stand on a chair and yel that it was time for everyone to go home so he could be alone with Kate. After al , he was the reason she had come to Harmony this week.

He worried he was neglecting work too, which was rare.

Tyler had managed to get Ida Louise buried, but he stil hadn’t checked out the car parked at the back of the cemetery. It had disappeared Friday, and then Calvin told him it was back this morning. Tyler liked everything in his life in order, and even a car parked out of place bothered that order. But this week the car was only one of many things that didn’t settle right.

Having a funeral where no family bothered to attend always upset him. Then he had Wil amina to deal with, or more accurately, not to deal with. His housekeeper, who’d worked for the Wright family most of his life, had left him a letter saying she was taking her vacation days, eighty-three to be exact, and then going into retirement. When he tried to contact her, Wil amina’s sister, Dottie, told him she’d gone on a cruise. He’d be more likely to believe that the two old women in their seventies got in a fight and Dottie kil ed her. Wil amina usual y left town to visit her children on her days off and, to his knowledge, never took her sister along or
ever
went anywhere else.