The List (20 page)

The slick glide of his tongue against hers made her shudder. Daniel kissed her with the urgency of a man sliding down the dark well of lust. “Upstairs?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Here. Now.”

She tugged her fingers free from his, then reached for her skirt, shifting and wriggling to pull it up to the tops of her thighs, then the top of her backside. Her breathing was loud enough, huffing against the cupboard and reverberating in her brain, but Daniel’s . . . Daniel’s exhale caught in his throat, turning into a rough little growl that sent shock waves of desire straight to her clit.

He still leaned against the cupboard, forearm braced by her head, other hand on the counter by her hip, giving her just enough room to get her skirt up and give him a good look. “God,” he whispered, and that was rough, too.

She tucked her thumbs into the gossamer black panties and pulled them down. They caught on her thighs, but Daniel turned her to face him using a movement that was about hips and shoulders and chest because his hands were preoccupied with getting her panties to drop to the floor. He wrapped his arm around her waist and hoisted her up on the counter. She spread her knees, he stepped between them, and for a split second she thought about the familiarity of a long-term lover, the ease with which he put his hands on her hips and pulled her closer while she opened his threadbare jeans and worked them just low enough to release his cock.

Daniel braced both forearms on either side of her head, and watched her wrap her hand around his shaft and draw him forward. A shift, a tilt to her hips, and he slid right inside, going deep on the first stroke. A soft, shocked, disbelieving sound drifted into the air between them.

“Okay?” he murmured.

She could breathe again, like this, with him inside her, the familiar sensation of erotic desire coursing along her nerves, precursors to the impending storm of release. He stretched her deliciously, and waited until she gave a full-body undulation, snugging them up more tightly. She wrapped her legs around his waist and one arm around his neck, fisting the other hand in the loose denim at his hip to keep him close. He didn’t flinch at taking her weight, just braced his bare feet more solidly against the slate floor and started to thrust, putting the power of his thighs and hips into each movement.

Someone was whimpering. It must have been her, because the sounds were too high to be Daniel, but someone was definitely whimpering into the hot, damp air between their bodies. She tilted her head a little to the side, and felt his hot temple slide along hers, so they both looked down at the dirty, erotic sight of his shaft, gleaming with her juices, gliding in and out. There was something so primitive and carnal about the possession. Electric heat cracked through her body, tightening muscles to bone.

“This is too good to be real,” Daniel gasped.

One shoe, then the other, dropped to the kitchen floor, the sounds distant and unimportant in her brain. Each thrust sent a hard jolt of pleasure pulsing out from her core, building against her skin, until she was too hot, her dress too tight, her very skin on the verge of flaring into flame, like a match in that nanosecond before ignition.

“God,” Daniel said, almost inaudible. “Yes. Yes.”

In some distant part of her brain she knew reducing Daniel to single, hissed syllables was a significant accomplishment, but oh, she needed this, she needed it. All the auxiliary details coalesced, the catch and rub of her lace bra against her nipples, the incidental brush of his mouth against hers, the redness of his eyes, his cheeks, his throat. Her legs drew up even more, closing as her knees pressed against his lower ribs. With one hand he reached down and hooked his elbow under her knee, forcing it wide, lunging into her body on the next stroke, and the next. The impact against her clit sent her soaring into the void, with him just seconds behind her.

As the tremors eased, his lips sought hers, soft and sweet. Then he reached for a roll of paper towels and tore off a long segment.

“I need to take a shower,” she said as she slid off the counter and dealt with the mess. “I can’t go back to work smelling like I’ve had a quickie over lunch.”

“Take the afternoon off,” he said.

The words were quiet, a plea, if she didn’t know better. “I can’t,” she said, and took a handful of paper towels. Sex certainly was less messy when condoms were involved. “I’m behind from that last trip to Tokyo. If I don’t stay on top of things with Quality, they’ll think I’ve lost interest.”

A beat of silence passed before he answered. “Yeah. Sure,” he said. “No problem. I’ll probably go for a run.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “A run?”

“Not a long one. It’ll flush out the toxins, one way or another.”

He followed her up the stairs. He was dressed in running shorts, a long-sleeved NYU T-shirt, and his sneakers when she emerged. Something in the tight set of his jaw made her pause and reach for him. “I am sorry,” she said.

“I know. You’re busy.”

They parted ways at the front door. She walked back to the shop knowing she was doing what she had to do, knowing she’d failed him, not knowing how to stop.

May

“D
essert?”

Seated at an intimate table for two under a tall ficus tree at the Four Seasons Restaurant, Tilda angled her knife and fork precisely across her plate. The silver gleamed in the light from the candle flickering in the middle of the table. Hushed talk flowed around them, the clink of silverware against china like the burble of water over rocks in a stream. Across the table Tilda flicked him a look, her eyes the color of the waxing moon outside, and muted by thick lashes.

“Perhaps just a coffee,” she said.

“Coffee and dessert. It’s your birthday. You have to have something sweet.” He signaled the waiter, who cleared their plates, cleaned up a few stray crumbs from the bread basket, and handed them both dessert menus.

“The flourless chocolate torte,” Daniel said.

“Decadent. I’ll have the profiterole,” Tilda said as she handed the menu to the waiter.

“And two decaf cappuccinos.”

She tilted her head and studied him. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“This is a belated Valentine’s Day celebration, and it’s your birthday,” he said. “Which I knew only because I saw it on your birth certificate when we got married.”

Lips pursed, one eyebrow raised, she gave him the look that said she was calling bullshit. “Really, Agent Logan?”

The banter relieved him. She’d been so distant since Deshawn’s funeral, a distance he wanted to close, but without knowing why it existed, he wasn’t sure how to go about handling it. There was no point in reassuring Tilda, but he could show her he cared, that he’d love her forever, that despite their hectic schedules and her weird, wired body clock, they were in sync. Show, don’t tell. Actions speak louder than words. “All right, fine, I ran you through the system after I saw you at the party.”

“Not after we met?”

“I was thinking about other things after we met.”

Her smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Such as?”

“What I’d ask you for,” he said.

“You let me believe you knew about my little hobby, prattle on about letters when all you wanted was a date.”

He smiled and said, “And you turned me down.”

“And yet here we are. Married, even.”

“Here we are.” He sat back, and treated himself to a long, frankly assessing look. He could switch perspectives on Tilda, get lost in conversation with her, but pull back and see her as other people saw her. Tall, slim, dressed in a dark blue sheath, unrepentantly unruly curls in this age of poker-straight hair. The bones of her shoulders and collarbone peeked out from the neckline and sleeves of her dress. Her silver hoops winked in her ears and her wedding ring glinted on her left hand, but otherwise she wore no jewelry at all. As nearly as he could tell she owned inexpensive costume pieces, and rarely wore even those.

“We weren’t together on my last birthday,” she said.

“Would you have said anything this time around, or just let me realize we’d been together for a couple of years and never celebrated your birthday?”

She gave him that smile, that winking little smile. “It’s not important.”

“It’s extremely important,” he said, thinking of the red box in his jacket pocket.

“Did you celebrate birthdays in grand style when you were growing up?”

“Always,” he said. “We’d have a family party, and a friends party. Bowling or laser tag or the movies, a sleepover in the basement. Some years there would be ten kids asleep in sleeping bags on the floor. My dad would make everyone waffles and sausage and we’d eat the rest of the cake before my friends went home.”

“Your mother does that for the grandkids.”

“She’s carrying on tradition. When Angie’s birthday came around, I used to go spend the night with a friend. Then, when we got older, my friends wanted to hang out at the house and check out Angie’s friends.”

“Your mum was okay with that?”

“She figured it was better to have us under her roof, where she could keep an eye on us, than somewhere else. All of our friends hung out at our house. What about you?”

“My birthday fell during the school term. We’d have treats after chapel, but otherwise, it was business as usual.”

“You didn’t celebrate afterward?”

“Nan made me a cake, of course, and my friends in the village would come by, but if I were in Oxford with Mum, well, Mum didn’t give much credence to celebrating birthdays.”

“How is Nan?”

“She’s back from hospital. I called her earlier today. She’s not pleased about being off her feet for a few weeks, and is convinced the farm will go to ruin without her doing everything, and won’t admit to being in any pain.”

“Are you going to go see her?”

“I added a couple of days to my next trip to London,” she said, but the worry lines didn’t smooth from her forehead.

Dessert and coffee arrived. He offered her a bite of the cake from his own fork. “Oh, that’s good,” she said. “Very rich.”

“What was your best birthday?” he said as he waited for the server to process his credit card.

Her eyes went distant. “The year I was eight, I suppose. I was with Nan, and she invited all the girls in the village to her house for a tea party. Everyone brought presents, and we played games. Pin the tail on the donkey. In hindsight, I think she must have known . . .” Her voice trailed off. The waiter arrived and left the receipts with Daniel. Tilda gave her head a faint shake and smiled at him. “Do kids even play games like that at birthday parties these days?”

“Not the ones my nieces and nephews go to,” he said as he signed the receipt. “Kids these days are organized to within an inch of their lives. Bounce castles and trampoline parks and miniature golf. I can’t see my sister giving Jessie and Little K a donkey’s tail with a pin in it.”

“You could use tape,” she said, obviously amused.

He stood and offered her his hand to help her up from her chair. She took it, her fingers chilly, so he laced his fingers with hers to warm them up. They walked through the foyer to the street, where Tilda stretched. “What a gorgeous night,” she said.

It was Manhattan at its best, warm from the spring sunshine but not yet starting to stink from the summer heat. He looked at her shoes. Four-inch heels, as usual. “Can you walk in those?”

“To the West Village?” she asked incredulously. “I’d prefer not to.”

“We’re not going home.”

“We’re not?”

He tucked her hand in his elbow and turned uptown. “We’re not.”

“Daniel, what’s going on?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said, the box in his jacket pocket bumping against his opposite hip. “It’s not far. A few blocks.”

“I don’t really like surprises,” she said.

“I’ve guessed as much,” he said. “But this is a good surprise.”

They strolled in silence, Tilda’s long legs easily keeping up with him despite the heels. When they reached the imposing granite facade inscribed with
Waldorf Astoria
in polished gold letters, he put his hand at the small of her back to guide her up the steps. To his surprise, she balked under the brass-railed canopy. Tilda looked like a strong breeze would blow her away, but she could hold her ground.

“Really, what’s going on? You don’t have two hundred people in a ballroom waiting to jump out and shout
happy birthday
at me, do you?”

“I don’t,” he said.

“Then what are we doing here?”

“Celebrating your birthday,” he said, and tugged gently at her hand. “Come on. I promise it’s not a surprise party.”

She ducked her head but let him pull her up the steps and into the opulent foyer. “Wait here,” he said, and left her by the ornate clock topped with the Statue of Liberty while he checked in. He reclaimed his wife and walked across the marble floors to the elevator bank. When the doors whooshed shut behind them, Daniel closed the distance between him and Tilda and braced his hands on the hip-high brass railing. He leaned in to kiss her, because he had to kiss her, had to have that lush mouth under his if only for the duration of the ride to the twelfth floor.

“Don’t,” she said.

He paused, no more than a millimeter from her mouth, assessing her tone, the look on her face, the glitter in her eyes. The scent of her perfume and the shocking, earthy, blood-dark scent of lust rising from her skin went straight to his back brain, so he didn’t pull back. “Why not?”

She somehow managed to work one index finger, the nails painted in clear, unchipped polish, into the infinitesimal space between his mouth and hers. The pad of her finger traversed the contours of his mouth from one corner to the other, the slick polish on the nail covering the same distance on her own mouth. Her gaze angled to one corner of the elevator, rising slowly through the building’s core. “We should be discreet. Someone might be watching.”

Discreet? Tilda? He remembered the bathroom at the art gallery, the ledge, and smiled at the sheer delight of it all, because he’d read her changing mood correctly. “That’s what you want for your birthday?” he murmured. He didn’t move, didn’t back up, let her feel the heat and strength of his body, pressed against hers from knees to lips. “You want something private and intimate?”

For a long second she didn’t respond at all. Then the elevator bell dinged and the doors opened. Without a word he stepped back and held out his hand, indicating she should precede him down the hallway. He watched her, tall and lean and swaying elegantly on her killer heels that sank into the carpet with every step. The muted lights caught her hair, raven black and gleaming. Once again he jerked from participant to observer. The color of her dress turned her eyes almost silver. She could have been a businesswoman returning to her hotel after a long day of meetings. She could have been an expensive call girl, the kind you could take to a cocktail party on the Upper East Side and fool everyone in the room. She could have been a yummy mummy, returning to her family after ducking out for some shopping.

She could have been his wife, gliding down the silent corridor to an anonymous hotel room. She could have been anything, anyone—virgin, fertility goddess—or she could have been exactly what she was. A woman. His wife.

As he reached past her to insert the key card into the lock, a wave of love washed through him. His wife. As mysterious as she was the day he met her, the day he married her. Once inside she set her tote by the dresser and looked around. Arrangements of white roses spilled from vases and containers on the dresser, nightstand, desk. Carefully dethorned single stems lay scattered on the king bed, which had been stripped to the bottom sheet. A bottle of champagne chilled in the bucket, next to two glasses. “You planned this,” she said when she saw her vintage Louis Vuitton overnight bag sitting on the luggage rack. Packing for Tilda was easy. She traveled light, never more than one bag, no matter the length of the trip or the destination. Sometimes he got the feeling she’d be perfectly happy to live out of a suitcase, always in the air.

“I did,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

She made a little noise, then drew back the curtains covering the view onto Park Avenue and peered out at Manhattan’s skyline. Hands in his pockets, he looked at her elegant profile washed clean by the city lights and felt his heart turn slow loops in his chest.

“It’s lovely,” she said finally.

The scent of white roses, clean and simple and pure, danced in the air molecules as he crossed the carpet, laid his hand alongside her jaw, and kissed her. She turned to him, her hands coming up to hold his lapels, her mouth soft and closed under his until he licked into it, coaxing it open. She bent her head and brushed her lips back and forth over his jaw, then to the spot where his pulse thumped above his collar. The move was so timid, so hesitant, so unlike her. A desire to protect her overwhelmed him.

“Shhhh,” he said without knowing why. “Come here. I’ve got you.”

He led her to the bed and unzipped her dress, slowly drawing the tab of the zipper down her back to reveal her spine, the bird’s wings of her shoulder blades bisected by a black lace bra. He unfastened the hooks and slipped both dress and bra forward, down her arms to pool on the floor at their feet, leaving her in a matching pair of black lace panties and her heels.

She once again tucked her hands together just under her chin and bent her head. “Daniel,” she said quietly.

The air hummed with something secretive, something deep and unspoken. “Lie down,” he whispered into her nape.

She knelt on the bed, turning and tucking her feet under her bottom as she turned to face him. Sitting among the scattered roses on white sheets, she glowed like an ember. Hair, eyes, cheeks flushed, lips, the tips of her nipples, the black lace panties, her black heels. The sheer beauty of her took his breath away, while the blood pumping to his cock reduced him to one primitive word.
Mine.

As she watched he shucked his jacket and tossed it on a chair, loosened his tie, then knelt on the bed next to her. He picked up one of the roses and trailed it along her jaw to her mouth. She exhaled shakily, a darker shade of red staining her cheeks and throat. He followed the line of her throat to the notch between her collarbones, twirling the rose for a moment, then bent and kissed the skin. Her scent, uniquely Tilda, wafted into the air, dissipating the smell of the rose.

The tops of her breasts received the same treatment, as he carefully brushed the petals against the curves while her nipples tightened into hard peaks. She shifted restlessly, trying to bring the dark buds into contact with the rose, inhaling shakily when he drew the flower down the side of her breast to avoid the contact.

“Your skin is almost the same shade of white as the rose,” he said as he lifted the flower between her breasts, back to her mouth. Her lips parted and her tongue flicked out, but he pulled the flower back and down. This time he brushed the edges of the petals over each nipple before continuing down to tease the crux of her thighs.

She dropped back to her elbows and parted her legs. He brushed the flower over her mound again and again, until her head dropped back and she moaned. “Daniel,” she said.