An Irresistible Impulse (16 page)

“And who did you think it was?” He grinned as he shifted onto his side.

“I was…thinking about something else.”

“So I noticed.” His hand crept along her waist and began a lazy upward trek. “But that’s against the rules.”

“Which one?”

“No thinking out of court.”

“That’s
not
one of the rules.”

“It is now. Let’s call it Wyeth’s Law.” His fingers traced the roundness of her breast and brushed once across her nipple. The effect was instant. Abby gasped.

“What are you doing, Ben?” she whispered hoarsely.

His eyes followed the play of his fingers. “I didn’t get a chance to see you before…it all happened so quickly.” His hands moved
over her then, exploring the soft curves of her side and hip before gliding back up across the silken skin of her stomach en route to her other breast. Even before it arrived, Abby felt herself swell in anticipation.

To her astonishment, that thirst she’d thought quenched was no longer so. Her body tingled back to warm, pulsing life. When he rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth across her nipple, she moaned aloud. When he lowered his head to replace that thumb with his mouth, she strained closer.

He was right. Wyeth’s Law. No thought allowed. Simply feel. Enjoy. Live.

Moving slowly upward, Ben left a trail of hot kisses along the slender line of her throat. His lips worshiped her eyes, her cheeks, the gentleness of her jaw, before finally reaching her mouth with a deep kiss.

But Abby’s fingers itched. After all, she hadn’t had a chance to see him either. When he released her lips with a thick moan of pleasure, she rolled to her side to face him. She’d touched his shoulders before. They were firm and as well developed as his chest. This too she’d touched. But his nipples. Flat as was so much of a man’s body. She gently caressed them to hardness.

“What are
you
doing?” he growled softly.

“Same thing you are. I want to know, too.”

“Know what?”

“What you feel like…all over….”

Her hand felt his quick inhalation. But she was too entranced by the smooth skin of his side to linger. Her fingers explored the leanness of his waist, moved up the soft stretch to his armpit before lowering to his hip.

“I’m really not a tease,” she whispered in belated response to an earlier accusation. “And I wasn’t aware of playing a game.” She moved her palm over his thigh, finding its haired texture a distinct contrast to the smoother skin of his groin.

“Maybe not then,” he warned unevenly, “but you’re sure as hell playing one now.”

She looked him in the eye, dead serious. “This is no game, Ben.”
I love you
.

As though hearing the words she’d so carefully left unspoken, he too sobered. His eyes took on a fierce glow; his lips thinned. But if there were thoughts to be shared, he too opted out. Only a muffled oath betrayed his anguish.

“I can almost begin to sympathize with Bradley,” he gritted. “If it’s insanity we’re talking about, he’s not the only one with the problem. Maybe it’s contagious.”

“It is not.”

“Then what’s to explain what we’re doing?”

Abby drew a pattern of invisible love signs from his stomach to his chest. “
You’re
the
one with the explanations. And the rules. What about Wyeth’s Law?”

“Wyeth’s Law.” He cleared his throat while her hand worked its way lower again. “Right. Wyeth’s Law.” Then he took her lips in a kiss bound to eradicate all thought that dared intrude.

Once more there was only sensation. Hot. Fast. Throbbing. Ben’s hands on her breasts, her stomach, then lower. Abby’s own finding him, stroking him, building his need to a frenzied level. Her thighs parting, his fingers discovering her. Her writhing in a rush of emotion so great she thought she’d explode there and then.

But he held her off, drawing back at the last, teasing her mercilessly, almost in punishment. When his hands finally cupped her bottom and he brought her to him again, she relived that exquisite joy only he could offer.

Much, much later they collapsed against one another, their bodies slick with sweat and utterly spent. Protected still by a heady daze, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, awakening to shower together and dress for dinner, returning immediately after to undress and make love again.

Neither tried to rationalize what was happening. Their lovemaking was divorced from all logic. Abby rode with it, yielding to the impulse that seemed so much stronger than
reason. There would be time to think…later.

She recalled that first day of the trial, when the prosecution had outlined its case and everything had seemed so simple. Everything. Now she had only to look at the defendant to remember the emotional testimony both for and against his case. Now she had only to steal a glance at Ben to remember the extent of her own emotional involvement.

As always, he sat with an air of composure, of intense concentration. Why then couldn’t
she
concentrate? All it took was the slightest movement on his part—a leg, an arm, a hand—and she recalled the long, bare length of that leg hooked around her own, the warm, supportive strength of that arm beneath her head, the incredibly tender work of that hand as it brought her to a high pitch of sexual arousal.

She felt torn, fragmented, a woman of three faces. There was the Abby Barnes who
sat in court as a member of the Bradley jury. There was the Abby Barnes who would soon be returning to her home, her job, her friends. And there was the Abby Barnes who spent each night now with Benjamin J. Wyeth.

Each night. Sunday night. Monday night. Tuesday night. Glorious hours of passion during which Abby refused to think of anything but the magnificent man with her, in her, beside her. Wyeth’s Law was firmly in effect.

If there was a rise in tension, it was easily attributable to the trial. On Wednesday morning, closing arguments were heard. First came the defense with a recap of its case and a final emotional plea for the sympathy of the jurors. An irresistible impulse. Derek Bradley’s behavior had been the result of an irresistible impulse; he’d temporarily lost control of his senses.

Then came the prosecution with a last-ditch effort to convince the jury of its case. Reason. Malicious intent. Revenge. Derek Bradley’s abduction of Greta Robinson had been a conscious and premeditated act. He deserved to be punished. Society should be protected. Justice must be served.

It was mid-afternoon when the judge charged the jury. In that solemn voice of his,
he reviewed the specifics of the charges and outlined the jury’s options. This was the final step before deliberations would begin.

Abby had never felt as keyed up. The situation, even beyond her involvement with Ben, was an overwhelming one. The jury was now to find the defendant guilty…or not guilty. The lawyers had been heard, the witnesses had been heard, the judge had been heard. There was nothing to do but deliberate.

Abby’s stomach churned at the sight of the court officers placing fourteen pieces of paper, each with a juror’s name on it, in a drum. Two names would be chosen. Two alternates. Those two would be segregated from the others for the duration of the trial. They would be kept in custody on the chance of one of the regulars becoming sick.

It was something she and Ben had discussed more than once, that awful possibility of being deprived of participation in the deliberations after having endured the entire trial with the others. And, of course, in Abby’s case there was a fear that now eclipsed even that. Should she be chosen an alternate, her time with Ben would in effect be over…. But she wouldn’t be chosen. She wouldn’t.

She held her breath when the first name was read. Joan Storrs. A woman. The chances were better than even that the next
would be a man. Her pulse gave a jolt. What if it were Ben?

The clerk reached once again into the drum and drew out a piece of paper. It wasn’t Ben. It was…

Abigail Barnes? Was that her own name she’d heard? It just couldn’t be. She wanted so very badly to stay with him. Disbelief held her immobile until Ben’s warm hand covered hers. Round in dismay, her eyes met his. His own pain was obvious.

But the court officer was waiting to lead Abby from the courtroom. Tightening his fingers on hers, Ben cocked his head almost imperceptibly toward the door. Then he released her hand.

If the highest point in her life had been reached in Ben’s arms, this had to be the lowest. She’d never know how she made it to her feet, then out of the jury box and to John’s side. She felt as though everything she’d become in the past three weeks had suddenly shattered.

Taking the steps in a daze, she heard Joan ask where they were going. Back to the inn. While the others deliberated in the jury room. While Ben deliberated with the others. Ben…

It was over for her. Simply a matter of sitting it out until the final verdict was returned. An hour. A day. Two. But she’d be
separated from Ben during all that time…even to the extent of having to move her things to a spare room on the ground floor of the inn, far away from Ben and the others.

Her own deliberations began then as she relived the past three weeks. Three weeks. Had it been that long? In hindsight it seemed the days had flown. But Ben had been in the picture then. Now each minute dragged.

What was to happen? She’d often wondered, but pushed the thought aside. There was no more evading the issue. She loved Ben Wyeth as she’d loved no other man…and now they’d be going their separate ways. After all, he had no intention of falling in love.

Distraught, she sat in her room, unable to do anything but study her watch. How long would they deliberate? When would they return to the inn? Would the trial be over tonight? Tomorrow?

Dinner was a quiet affair with Joan, herself, and Grace, who’d replaced John with the alternates in deference to their gender. Abby was scarcely able to talk, much less eat. And those few things she did say reflected her thoughts.

“Won’t they be back for dinner?” she asked Grace, all too aware of the empty dining room.

“They’ll be eating at the courthouse.”

“How long will they be allowed to go on tonight?”

“Possibly until nine or ten.”

“Then what?”

“If they haven’t reached a decision by then, the judge will suspend deliberations until morning.”

“Is everyone else there…just sitting around the courtroom?”

“They’re…within calling distance.”

“And the verdict really could come in at any time?”

“It’s possible. Not probable.”

“Why not?”

“The trial’s lasted three weeks. There’s a lot of testimony to review…unless the jury reaches a decision on the first ballot.”

“When might that be taken?”

“It may have been taken already.”

If so, there had been no unanimous decision. For the drive leading to the inn was empty, the lobby deserted. There was no sign of jurors filing in to pack their bags and return home at last.

Home. Abby tried to envision her house and came up with the image of a lonely place. She tried to envision the office and came up with a place of necessity. She tried to envision Sean and drew a blank.

As the evening dragged on interminably, she grew more and more upset. The disbelief
she’d felt in the courtroom had long since been replaced by feelings of loss and frustration, of anger, of misery. Try as she might to cope, she simply couldn’t.

Nine o’clock came and went, as did ten. With tears ever on the brink, she never left her room. Instead she listened for the noise, any noise that would signal the return of the others. Of Ben.

But isolated as she was now, she heard nothing. Pacing the floor did nothing to ease her tension. Lying on the bed was worse. Showering, she could only recall those times she and Ben had stood beneath the warm spray together.

At long last, wearing the nightgown that had been unnecessary during the past few nights, she slumped down on the window seat and stared dully out at the pitch black night. There was nothing there, nothing to blur when her tears finally gathered in force and spilled in slow trickles down her cheeks.

It was well past midnight when the quiet turn of the doorknob penetrated her wretchedness. Her head flew around; her heartbeat faltered. The door inched open and Ben stole through. For only a second, they stared at one another. Then she was in his arms, clinging to him, being held tightly.

“Oh, Ben,” she sobbed, crying uncontrollably now.

His voice was not much steadier. “I know, babe. I know.” He pressed her cheek to his chest and buried his face in her hair. “It’s all right…all right.”

She seemed to cry forever, unable to stem either the tears or the shivering of her body. At some point he lifted her and carried her to the bed, but she only knew that he stayed with her, and that was all that mattered.

Then finally, like a sedative, the warmth of his body calmed her. He caressed her back and her arms, drew her hair back from her face. Her tears slowed, her limbs gradually relaxed. And she met his lips in a kiss so fierce as to instantly activate Wyeth’s Law.