The Word of a Child (32 page)

"I think I bought enough for both of us," Connor
said.

Mariah took his arm. "It was fun," she decided.
"I got all the satisfaction and none of the pain. After all, it's not my
checkbook."

"Hey, thanks." Connor poked her with his elbow.
"You egged me on."

"Did not!"

"Did, too."

She poked him back. "Did not. I'm too cowardly to spend
that much money, even if it's
not
mine."

Tacitly admitting defeat, he said with satisfaction,
"Now I can unpack my books."

"Mmm-hmm," she agreed contentedly, slowing to look
into a toy shop window at a wonderful train set, the tracks laid to wind
through a cotton-batting wonderland of fir trees and tiny villages sparkling
with Christmas lights.

"I always wanted one of those," Connor said, first
going stock-still, then crowding close to the window to take in every detail,
like a child with his nose pressed to the glass.

"If you have a son…" she suggested gently,
watching the wonder on his face rather than the chugging train.

"Yeah." Clearly reluctant, he turned away from the
display, then stopped. "Hey! Maybe Evan would like one for
Christmas."

"What kid wouldn't?" She trailed him into the toy shop
and offered consultation when asked as he chose a beginning set.

"Once you get started," the clerk told him,
"you can add a car or more tracks or accessories for a birthday or another
holiday."

Connor and Mariah made it back to the car, both lugging heavy
bagfuls of boxes containing railroad cars and tracks.

"An early start on Christmas shopping," Connor
declared, as he opened the trunk and unloaded them both.

"I've been buying all fall."

"Yeah, but you're a woman. That's different."

"We plan ahead?" she said in amusement.

He grinned at her, making her heart skip a beat.
"Something like that."

"Exactly why women should be running the world."

"What shall we do for dinner?" he asked as they
got into the car. "You in the mood to gussy up and go out on the town? Or
shall we stick to jeans and go for burgers or Chinese?"

Mariah grabbed for a little bit of courage and suggested,
almost casually, "We could cook."

Hand outstretched to turn the key, Connor suddenly went very
still, his narrowed gaze pinning her. "Are you sure you'd rather? I figure
you have to cook every day."

Her smile was meant to be flirtatious and came closer to
tremulous. "I thought
we'd
cook."

"Are you sure?" he asked again, voice husky.

Her minute amount of courage deserted her. "If you'd rather
eat out…"

"No," he said. "I'd love to cook with
you."

The rough moment was past. She could almost pretend they'd
only been talking about dinner. As they drove to the grocery store, they
discussed what to make, settling on chicken in an incredible—he claimed—orange
sauce with her wild rice cooked in chicken stock with herbs. Asparagus looked
good, they decided, browsing the produce section. Connor chose a white wine.

"Zofie and I baked cookies Thursday night. Two
kinds," she told him, when he asked, "oatmeal raisin and peanut
butter. Will that do for dessert?"

"Milk and cookies?" He nuzzled her cheek, brushing
a kiss below her ear. "Are you kidding?"

He insisted on paying the total, but they companionably
carried the groceries into her apartment and prepared their feast, pausing only
a dozen times or so for slow kisses that made her guess dizzily that Connor
already expected to stay.

Mariah dug in the back of her buffet for her good crystal,
candlestick holders and a pair of elegant white tapers she'd saved for a
rainy—or romantic—day. She lit them and then turned off the dining-room lights.

In the golden light of the candles she could almost imagine
this wasn't really the table where she and Zofie ate every night, the
six-year-old separating all her food into color categories.

When Mariah said so, Connor laughed. "I didn't like
foods mixed together when I was a kid, either. Especially unfamiliar ones. Mom
was always ripping out recipes for casseroles from the newspaper or the back of
a box and presenting it without warning. I'd sit there wondering what that evil
bit of green was. 'Eat,' she'd order."

"I'm too tolerant," Mariah admitted. "Your
mother's way is probably best. You aren't picky anymore, are you?"

"I still like to know what's going in a dish."

She took a first bite of tender chicken. "This is
divine."

"And perfect with the rice." He smiled at her, the
flickering light accenting cheekbones and the strength of his jaw, casting
shadows that made him mysterious.

Mariah wondered if she looked any more exotic without bare
electric lighting.

As if he'd read her mind, he suddenly set down his fork.
"Do you know how beautiful you are?" he asked, voice thickened.
"You have the sexiest mouth I've ever seen, and the most glorious eyes. Your
eyes were the first thing I noticed about you."

"They're just … hazel." She swallowed. "I
always wanted dark eyes, like Zofie's."

"Yours look like a forest floor with shafts of sunlight
touching it." He took her hand, his thumb drawing patterns on the back.
"Have you ever hiked up in the Olympics? Back to places where moss creeps
across the ground and up the trunks of ancient trees? Where the silence is so
profound, you barely dare breathe?"

She shook her head wordlessly.

"I'll take you and Zofie. This summer. I want to see
you there, with a band of sunshine lighting the fire in your hair and bringing
out the gold in your eyes."

"That … would be fun," she whispered. "I've
never hiked. I didn't know where to go."

He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a soft kiss on the
back, and gently returned it to her. Taking a sip of wine, he seemed to make a
deliberate effort to become a good guest again, rather than an ardent lover.
His voice was only a little husky when he resumed talking, this time
meditatively. "I grew up in the mountains. Hiking, climbing—I was sixteen
when John and I went up Mount Olympus. Hugh was plenty steamed at being told he
was too young to go."

"I'll bet."

"He talked someone into taking him the very next
summer, when he was fifteen. Never let us forget he was the youngest to climb
Olympus."

They both ate, but not as much as the dinner deserved.
Conversation began and trailed off sporadically. Mariah was conscious only of
his shadowed eyes, the curve of his mouth, the strength of his big hand
fingering the delicate wineglass. She had never been so very aware of anyone
before, had never made a decision like this—
I will make love with this man.
Simon had been her only lover, and their first time had just
… happened. This was far more difficult, and yet she had no doubts.

Connor suddenly looked directly at her. His voice roughened.
"Am I staying tonight, Mariah? Is it too soon for me to ask?"

"No … I mean, yes. I mean…" She gave up. Took a deep
breath. "Please stay."

"Then," he pushed back his chair and stood,
"I'm done eating. All I can think about is you."

Her heart leaped and tumbled, her pulse bouncing in her ears
and making her own voice sound far away to her. "I'm … not hungry,
either."

He held out a hand; she took it and let him pull her to her
feet. Then he framed her face with his hands and looked for a long time, his
mouth curving. "Ah, Mariah," he murmured huskily, just before he
kissed her.

Chapter
15

«
^
»

H
e started gentle
, seeking, his lips soft, touching her nowhere but here,
with his mouth on hers and his hands lifting her face. She shivered and swayed,
and abruptly the kiss deepened. His tongue probed her mouth, sliding over hers,
and his hands dropped to her shoulders, then her back and hip as he pulled her
tight against him.

Mariah had thought she might feel many things: pleasure in
the closeness to another person, perhaps, or acute nervousness or a sweet
unfurling of passion. What she had never expected was this sudden raw urgency,
ignited by powerful thighs hard against hers, by the evidence of his arousal,
by the skill of his touch. She wanted closer, she was desperate to feel his
bare skin beneath her hands, his mouth on her breast, his weight pressing her
down.

Connor nipped her neck. "I have wanted you," he
said hoarsely, "from the minute you walked into the principal's office. I
thought, It's her."

Her voice wasn't her own. "And all I could think about
was your eyes on me. I could never forget your eyes." She kissed the
hollow at the base of his throat.

A sound vibrated beneath her lips. "Sometimes I feel so
damned guilty…"

"Don't!" She pressed a hand over his mouth. Her
breath came in small gasps. "Not now. Please. Not now."

He groaned and took her mouth in a long, drugging kiss.
"Not now," he whispered. "You're right. Anytime but now."

He blew out the candles. Then, without warning, he bent and
lifted her into his arms. Letting out a cry, she wrapped her arms around his
neck and held on as he maneuvered her through the doorway and started down the
hall.

"Which room?"

"At the end." His neck was strong, the skin smooth
and she loved the smell of sweat and aftershave and Connor. Mariah kissed his
throat, felt him swallow, kissed him again.

Her bedroom was plainer than the rest of the apartment;
Zofie's needs came first. Mariah had a moment of wanting to explain, forgotten
when Connor lowered her to the bed. He hadn't even looked at her room. His eyes
hadn't left hers. He knelt beside the bed and untied her sneakers, tossing them
aside, the socks after them. Just his hands on her feet sent heat crashing though
her. Then his fingers wrapped her ankles and gently massaged.

She moaned.

Connor rose to kick off his own shoes and socks before he
joined her on the bed. Instead of kissing her, he began unbuttoning her blouse,
taking his time, running a fingertip down the bare skin from one button to the
next. Mariah held her breath and watched his face. She saw much the same wonder
as when he looked at the magical train set, but more was there, too: tenderness
and desire that made the silver-gray of his eyes molten.

After he spread her blouse wide, he flicked open the front
catch of her bra. Murmuring his pleasure, he filled his hands with her breasts.
The river of heat pouring through Mariah's veins pooled in her belly. She
shivered and arched, pushing her hands under his sweatshirt to stroke bare
skin. He groaned in turn and bent to take her breast in his mouth.

They said everything and nothing as they explored each
other, shedding one article of clothing at a time. It was lovely and slow and
infuriating, so that she was glad when he cracked first, suddenly pressing her
back on the mattress, his mouth hot and demanding, his knee urging her thighs
apart. She opened herself to him willingly, with no trepidation, no
thoughts
at all,
only an intense waterfall of feelings.

There was a pause during which he swore under his breath and
she heard the tearing of a package. He had come prepared, thank goodness. For
all her vaunted ability to plan, she hadn't. Not about this.

One more kiss, a glimpse of his face, taut with wanting,
eyes glittering, and he was pressing into her. The effort to go slowly cost
him; he was shaking, his teeth gritted. But, oh, it felt exquisite, as
unfamiliar as if it were her first time, and yet not so frightening. Her body
adjusted, tightening when he tried to pull back.

The next time he filled her felt just as good. He moved
faster, harder, deeper, until she was clutching on to him for dear life,
meeting his every thrust, crying out for the completion that was a breath away.

It came in stunning waves that brought his name to her lips,
a whisper, a paean. "Connor!"