A Fashionable Affair (21 page)

His mouth twisted. “Almighty God. That you
could ask me such a question.”

Thunder crashed in the distance, but neither
Patsy nor Michael appeared to notice. They were
too busy gazing, in astonished wonder and gradu
ally dawning belief, into each other’s eyes. Then she
raised tremulous fingers and touched his face gen
tly, searchingly, like a blind person seeking to
imprint the contours of his bones on her mind.

“But why?” Her voice was barely a whisper,
barely audible above the drumming sound of the
rain. “If that’s true, then why did you go away from me like you did?”

“Self-protection, really. I’ve wanted you all my life, and then, finally, I had you, and I had to live with the knowledge that it was only temporary. It was almost worse than not having you at all.”

“No. Oh, no.” She was slowly shaking her head. “How could you be so wrong?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled with his lips but his
eyes remained grave. “The pain in my leg was a pic
nic compared to what I’ve been feeling over you.”

She reached for him at that, holding him tightly
enough to strangle him, and saying, “Oh, Michael,
oh, Michael,” over and over and over again.

A flash of lightning illuminated the whole room
and, instinctively, Patsy jumped.

“It’s all right,” he said next to her ear. “It is, quite
incredibly, all right.” And he laughed.

At his words Patsy loosened her grip on him and
leaned back to gaze at his face. It was blazing with a
look she had never seen before. Thunder crashed
above them and she linked her hands loosely
behind his neck and smiled at him. He looked so
much younger, she thought. Just like that, he
looked so much younger.

“I never thought I’d marry anyone younger than
me,” she said.

“Are you proposing to me, Miss Clark?” Even his
voice sounded different.

“You bet I am, chum. Right now. What do you
say?”

He grinned. “You do me a great honor—”

“Oh, shut up,” she said rudely, “and kiss me.”

He complied almost instantly. Five minutes later
he raised his head and said huskily, “You pack a
bigger wallop than this storm does, sweetheart.”

“You inspire me,” she murmured. Her eyes were
heavy-lidded and very dark, her cheeks were
flushed.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said, the hawk-like look on
his face extremely pronounced.

“Mmm,” Patsy breathed, “I thought you’d never
ask.”

She had thought that nothing could be better
than the passion they had shared previously, but
she found, to her enchanted astonishment, that she
was wrong. His touch was so gentle. How could
such gentleness be so incredibly erotic? He looked at her as if she were a miracle and, for him, she felt
like a miracle—a miracle of love, of passion, of sur
render. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “how I love
you.”

“Patsy.” He entered her easily, his hands still
caressing the smooth creaminess of her waist, her hips. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her throat,
and began to move inside her very slowly. It was
like going mad with pleasure, building and waiting,
building and waiting, a master musician orchestrating his symphony to the final crashing conclusion of wild, exultant, soul-shattering triumph.

After a long time Patsy, cradled close against
him, heaved a great sigh. He laughed deep in his throat. “Feeling good?”

“Feeling fabulous. As well you know.” She
turned her head and kissed his bare shoulder. “You
didn’t hurt your leg?”

“I have no idea. If I did, it was worth it.”

She sat up. “Let me look.” The healing scar
looked perfectly normal, so she lay back down
again. “Looks okay,” she reported. “It’s a darn good
thing that bullet didn’t get you a few inches
higher.”

“I’ve thought of that possibility many times,” he
said fervently. “Believe me.”

She chuckled and settled her head comfortably
into the hollow of his shoulder. “Mother will be out
of her mind with joy,” she offered after a minute.

“Why?”

“She has been praying for me to get married for
years. She never approved of my modeling, you know. ‘So terribly public, Patsy dear.’’

Michael laughed at her imitation of her mother’s
accent. “Modernism was never your mother’s
strong suit.”

“Emphatically not,” Patsy said.

“I’ll tell you something my mother once said to
me, though,” he offered. “She said, ‘When you con
sider that Patsy is the only child of older parents,
and when you consider what a spoiled selfish brat she could have turned out to be, you have to take
your hat off to Anne Clark.’’

“Well, my mother’s most recent comments about you weren’t nearly so complimentary. She was furi
ous with you for getting me kidnapped. Couldn’t understand it at all. ‘Michael was always such a
responsible boy,’ she kept saying. But she’ll be
pleased as punch with you if you marry me.”

“I’ll promise her most faithfully never to get you
kidnapped again.”

“Thank you, darling. I would appreciate that.”
He kissed the top of her head and she continued on
a note of inquiry. “Did you mean what you said
before—about loving me all your life?”.

“I did.”

“But you never once hinted ...”

“There wouldn’t have been any point. You never
thought of me in that light. There was always that
damn year between us in school.” He was right. She
never had thought of him in any way that was
remotely romantic. “Do you know when I first real
ized that I loved you?” he asked.

“When?”

“It was when we were still in junior high. You and
Sally and I were walking home together from
school one day and we saw an old man lying at the
side of the road. There was a bunch of kids stand
ing not far away, staring and making comments.
The old guy was obviously drunk.” He raised him
self a little so he could see her face. “Do you remem
ber what you did?”

“Of course. I thought he might be hurt and I
went over to him to see if I could help.”

“You did. And it turned out he had cut his head
on the curb when he fell. And you sat down there
right in the street, and put his dirty, smelly old head in your lap, and told me to call for help.” He smiled at her. “It was then that I knew I loved you. And no
matter how hard I tried, I’ve never been able to
love another girl since.”

She looked into his eyes. “But, Michael, if that’s
true, then why were you so standoffish when we
met again?”

“Was I?”

“You know you were. That first night. I did have
to seduce you.”

He kissed the little crease of bewilderment that
furrowed her brow. “I was afraid,” he said. “When
you’ve wanted something for so long, all your life
almost, and suddenly there it is—all you have to do is reach out your hand and take it—it’s frightening.”

“Oh, darling.” Her voice was very soft. She
reached up and touched the lean cheek that was so
close to her. “Sally thought you loved Jane and that she jilted you.”

He sighed and laid back on his pillow. “No. The
person who got hurt in that relationship was Jane.
She expected to marry me, and she had every rea
son in the world to expect it. But in the end, I
couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to her. I put in
some pretty bad nights over Jane, I can tell you. She
didn’t deserve to get hurt. I was so glad to see her
with her family the other day. Salved my con
science, you might say.” There was a trace of bitter
ness in his laugh.

“I know.” Patsy’s voice was perfectly sober. “It’s
just wretched, having to hurt someone.”

“You’re quite a gal, Miss Clark.” He picked up
her hand. “No wonder half the world’s in love with
you.”

“No,” Patsy said, “they’re in love with my face.”

“I love that too,” he said reassuringly, and Patsy
laughed.

“Are you really safe from Garfield, Michael?” she
asked after a bit, changing the subject.

“Yes. It’s not as if my testimony was essential at
his trial. The Justice Department has all the
paperwork.”

‘I suppose you’re going to continue with your dangerous career of catching thieves?”

“Well,” he answered reasonably, “it’s my job.”

“Most accountants don’t end up having guns
pointed at them.”

“It’s not something I make a habit of myself.”

Patsy sighed. “Oh, well, far be it from me to inter
fere with your job. Only I would appreciate it if you
would exercise a little caution in the future. I have a
stake in your well-being now, you know.”

“A girl in a million,” he said reverently, and
kissed her hand.

“I suppose I’ll have to move in with you. The way
you complain about New York traffic, I don’t see
you commuting from my place.”

“Well, no.” He sounded amused.

“I don’t like to sound snobby, Michael, but this
house is ghastly.”

“You can fix it up however you like.”

“I have a better idea. If you can salvage some of
my money, we can buy our own house on the
beach.” There was a small silence and she turned
her head. “I hope you’re not going to object to
using my money?”

“The thought never occurred to me. I was just
running some properties through my mind.”

“You.” It was her turn to lean up on an elbow so she could watch his face. “Enjoy it while you can, my friend, because the flow of modeling money is
shortly going to stop.”

He raised his brows. “Oh? Why?”

“Once I fulfill my present contracts, I’m retiring,
that’s why. I’m going to do as Mother has always
wanted, and stay home and cook dinner for my
husband.”

He looked horrified. “Do you mean you’re going
to make me support you?”

She grinned. “Yep. But for a dowry, I’ll buy you a
house.”

“Well ...” he said, considering.

“A big house. I want a lot of children.”

“I’ll have to raise my fees.”

“And we’d better start soon. The sands of time
are running out, you know. In two years I’ll be
thirty ... Michael!”

He had pushed her down on her back, and now his shoulders loomed over her.

“You just told me you wanted to start soon,” he
said. “I’m only trying to oblige.”

“You nut.” She laughed at him. “Be careful of
your leg.”

“The hell with my leg. It’s another part of me
that concerns me at present.”

Patsy’s eyes widened as she felt what he was talk
ing about. “Oh, my. I see what you mean.”

“Now,” he murmured, his weight pressing her
back against her pillows. “You were saying some
thing about babies?”

Her arms reached up to encircle him. “So I was.”
And she drew his head toward hers. “Darling, so I
was.”

Copyright © 1985 by Joan Wolf

Originally published by Signet/Rapture Romance [ISBN 0451130170]

Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.