Banish Misfortune (26 page)

She found that her fingers were clutching his strong shoulders, digging in tightly as his tender mouth traveled the circumference of her breast. She should say something, warn him, slow him down...

"Andrew," she gasped, her fingers tightening in sudden fear. "You don't know what you're doing. You don't want..."

He lifted his head and looked at her clearly in the moonlight, and his green eyes were full of tender amusement. "Marianne, my sweet viper, I am twenty-nine years old. I assure you, I know very well what I'm doing, and just how to do it. And I know what I want, have known it since I caught you in my raspberry bushes last summer."

"I'm not the experienced woman you think," she protested.

"You mean you're a virgin?" There was a lilt of laughter beneath the Scottish burr. "To be sure, after meeting that sorry specimen that used to be your husband, I'm not surprised, but Eric and Shannon are a pretty neat trick."

"That sorry specimen is the sum total of my sexual experience," she said with an attempt at sharpness that sounded far too much like a moan as his hands continued their wicked way with her soft, aching breasts. Andrew was taking this far too frivolously.

"Don't worry, lass," he whispered. "Rely on me to see to your advanced education." Before she realized what he was doing he'd scooped her up effortlessly in his strong arms and was carrying her across the room to the bed.

"Cameron, put me down! I'm too big—" Before the words were out of her mouth the bed was soft and warm against her back, and Andrew Cameron was above her, smiling down. "I thought you said you weren't strong enough to carry me," she said breathlessly. He was leaning above her, one strong hand slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt.

"I lied," he said.

She reached up, pushing his hand out of the way, taking over the task herself. His skin was sleek and hard and strong in the moonlight, and her hands trembled when they reached the waistband of his corduroys.

"You first," he said, slipping her jeans off her rounded hips and tossing them in the corner with his discarded shirt. She lay there naked before him, uncertain whether to blush or preen.

Andrew had no such doubts. "Marianne, you're the most beautiful creature in God's creation. You're worth all you've put me through and more. I—"

She stopped his mouth with hers. She didn't want to hear the words she knew would come, wasn't ready for them.

And Andrew seemed to understand. He said nothing more to her, using his mouth in far more elemental ways, kissing, biting, arousing, thrusting, until she was arching into the bed with helpless delight as wave after wave of pleasure swept over her. Tom had never used his mouth on her the way Andrew had, though he'd graciously allowed her free rein with his body. But Andrew seemed to take inordinate pleasure in loving her, with his hands, his mouth, until she was writhing and trembling and desperate for more.

He slid up the bed to lie beside her, and she buried her face against his smooth, warm shoulder. "My turn, viper," he whispered, taking her hand and pressing it against him. He was still wearing the soft old corduroys, straining against them, and she undid them with trembling hands, releasing him from his confinement.

He'd warned her, of course. He'd told her women hadn't complained about his lack of size, but she'd thought he'd been teasing her. But he'd been nothing more than truthful. Andrew Cameron was a great deal more man than Tom Trainor, so much so that Marianne suddenly panicked.

He must have felt the tension race through her body. The moment he slipped out of the corduroys he pulled her back into his arms, his strong, rough-textured hands oddly soothing.

"Hush, my brave lioness," he whispered, though she hadn't said a word. "I promise you I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you."

With gentle hands he rolled her over on her back, leaning over her, a dark, strong shadow in the moonlight. She tensed at the feel of him against her, but his hands and lips and words soothed her, eased her fears, as slowly, carefully, he filled her, coming to rest against her with a strangled sigh that proved his iron control was hard-won indeed.

She lay there beneath him, absorbing the feel, the size, the smell, the warmth of him, reveling in the utter delight of a possession that had no victor and no vanquished. Slowly experimentally, she tightened around him, and his eyelids fluttered open.

She raised her hips, nudging him into action, suddenly desperate for more. His dazed eyes filled with a blazing light, and then her momentary control was gone, shredded beneath the practiced, devilishly glorious heaven of his body.

She hadn't known it could be that way. She was sailing, blissfully awash with the sound and the smell and the feel and the sheer joy of Andrew Cameron pleasuring her body, willing it to go on forever, when suddenly she felt herself fly into a million pieces, shattering into stardust and scattered to the four winds. She heard her voice cry out, a small cry of pleasure so intense that it was pain, and then Andrew was with her, holding her, lost amid the same mystical glories that were beyond comprehension.

It seemed ages before their breathing slowed, before the tumultuous counterpoint of their hearts lessened their calamitous pounding. She felt him lift his head, could feel those dark Celtic eyes of his watching her in the moonlight. The tears would be plain on her face, and slowly, shyly, she opened her eyes.

"Are you all right, lass?" he whispered anxiously. "Did I hurt you?"

It was a faintly tremulous smile that she managed, and she knew her heart was in her eyes with no way of hiding it. "We lionesses are a tough lot," she whispered back. "Didn't you promise that you'd never hurt me? I take you at your word."

He smiled back, and there was no way she could avoid recognizing the look in his eyes—the look of love that no one but her children had ever shown her.

"You can trust me," he said, and it held a thousand different meanings.

"I trust you," she said. And for the moment she believed it.

weary hand through her mane of wheat-blond hair. How had the macho Slaughterer, with his only average height, his massive shoulders, his marine haircut that disguised its color, and his gunmetal gray eyes turned into a tall, sinuous basketball player? The last thing she needed was Springer MacDowell invading her life, even in such a nebulous way.

Of course, she couldn't really blame herself. The August warmth was beckoning to her, the lake a shimmering blue over her shoulder. Her heart wasn't in the exploits of the Slaughterer right now. She refused to think where her heart really was.

But discipline was discipline, and she had to finish volume ninety-nine soon if she was going to continue to keep Matthew in Huggies and formula. Pushing away from the dining-room table that served as her workspace, she crossed the cavernous living room, keeping her eyes averted from the tantalizing lake, and rummaged through the stack of magazines by the woodbox.
Combat Handguns
was on the bottom, tucked away. With her usual reluctant grin she pulled it out, grimacing at the gun ads. Her subscription must have surprised Arlton down at the post office—she certainly wasn't the type to belong to the NRA. But the magazine had been invaluable in providing fictional guns for the bloodthirsty Decker, whose hardware was half of his charm, according to market surveys.

She wandered back to the table, thumbing through the magazine until she came to a promising picture. An ex-Green Beret, wanted for selling arms and bombs to right-wing terrorists—she couldn't tell whether the magazine approved or disapproved—stared back at her, his flinty gray eyes the color of the machine gun in one beefy hand. He wore a T-shirt with the legend "Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out." "Matt Decker to the life," she murmured, propping the magazine up against the candlesticks and dropping back into the chair.

Matt Decker's namesake would probably sleep for another hour, maybe two. She had to get another ten pages done or she'd be in real trouble. Her fingers went to the keys, her eyes to the Green Beret's grim countenance, and the words went flying.

At least for two paragraphs—and then ground to a dead halt. She leaned back again, staring at the neat white paper with intense dislike. She never bothered with first drafts—in the case of the Slaughterer it was usually a waste of time. First instincts usually proved the best, no matter how ridiculous they seemed, and each page Jessica labored over was finished copy. She ended up with a lot of wasted twenty-pound bond, but it cost less than her time.

Maybe another cup of coffee. A nice, strong jolt of caffeine might get the old creative juices flowing, even though it would be her third. And food. There was a Sara Lee raspberry coffee cake in the freezer, some cold roast beef in the fridge. She'd eaten frozen coffee cake before—she'd do it again. Why hadn't she appreciated her lack of appetite when she had it, she thought with a sigh, heading for the freezer.

Marianne would be horrified if she saw Jessica devouring frozen coffee cake. But then, Marianne was too preoccupied right now to pay much attention to anyone else's moral lapses. Having come at nine that morning to pick up the children, she had arrived breathless, flushed, happy and nervous. She had chattered on and on, refusing to meet Jessica's eyes as she drank a cup of coffee, not realizing it contained the despised white sugar until she'd almost finished it.

"Where's Andrew?" Jessica had asked lazily, unable to resist the temptation to needle her.

Marianne had almost dropped the thick earthenware mug. "How should I know?" she shot back with a trace of her usual belligerence.

Jessica wasn't to be put off. "Didn't you see him this morning?" she queried gently.

A woebegone look shadowed Marianne's freckled face. "No," she said in a small voice.

"He'd left by the time you woke up?" Jessica persisted, knowing it was none of her business, knowing she should leave it up to Marianne to volunteer the information, knowing she was going to pump her for all she was worth.

"Yes," said Marianne.

"Is that all you're going to say? Yes, no?"

"Yes."

Jessica let out an exasperated sigh. "You're a rotten human being, do you know that, Marianne Trainor?"

"And you're a voyeur," Marianne shot back with some of her old cheer. She still had that slightly off-balance look, almost a mild case of shock, but a relatively happy state of shock for all that. "What do you want, all the details?"

"Yes," Jessica replied promptly. "But I know you're not going to tell me anything. Will you at least tell me how things stand between the two of you?"

"No."

"Marianne..."

Marianne relented. "I won't tell you because I can't. He was gone when I woke up, and he didn't leave a note. I have no idea whether I'll ever see him again." Once more cheerfulness gave way to despair, and she drained the rest of her cold, sweetened coffee with a shudder.

"It's a pretty small island, Marianne," Jessica said caustically. "What makes you think it was a one-night stand? He's certainly waited long enough to get you."

"How do you know it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing?"

"Don't be ridiculous. What have you been running from for the past year if he wasn't chasing? In a very low-keyed, determined sort of way, I grant you, but Andrew Cameron was chasing."

"Well, now he's caught me," Marianne said morosely. "And he's probably booked the first flight back to Scotland."

"I don't think so. Despite the fact that you always insulted him, complained about his age and his size—"

A muffled laugh broke through Marianne's confusion, and her freckled, pretty face flushed a deep red. Jessica stared at her in absolute amazement as a reluctant giggle followed.

"What's so funny?" she queried calmly.

"Just your saying I complained about his size." She giggled again.

"I don't think I'll pursue that any further," Jessica said, her voice caustic again. "You had a miserable time last night, you're never going to see Andrew again, and you're sitting there giggling and blushing like a teenager. I don't think I'm going to waste my time worrying about you."

Marianne shook her head. "I think I'm having a midlife crisis." She sighed, scooping Shannon up in her tired arms and heading for the door. "I'll tell you one thing, though. Either I've hit my sexual peak a little early, which is entirely possible. Or—" she opened the door into the summer sunshine "—Andrew Cameron is simply amazing." She drew the word out on a long, lascivious sigh, giggled again, blushed and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

The very memory of Marianne's addled state brought a smile to Jessica's face. She had no doubt Andrew would return and set all her doubts to rest—she was more worried about Marianne's honorable intentions than Cameron's. She shook her head, staring down at the piece of paper with two short paragraphs leering evilly up at her.

Maybe she should give Matt Decker more time with the estimable Ilse? She was a magnificent, strapping wench along Marianne's lines, capable of holding her own in a firefight or in hand-to-hand combat, the perfect creature to romp amid the sheets in Decker's mobile home-cum-army tank. Maybe they could even get married.

The idea had promise, but it merited more thought. Flicking off the Selectric, she rose happily, a child reprieved from dreaded schoolwork. She'd sit out on the side porch in the sunshine, watch the light sparkle on the lake, and play the banjo while she let Matt Decker and his lady simmer on the back burner.

Matthew was still sleeping soundly, tummy-down, in
the rush Moses basket Marianne had given her as a necessity for Vermont baby rearing. Leaving his door open just a crack, she grabbed Andrew's firebird banjo and stepped out the French doors onto the side porch. It was a glorious day, she thought with a happy sigh, sliding down and stretching her long tanned legs out in front of her. Her cutoffs had seen better days, and her legs were scratched and bruised from a tangle with a raspberry bush. The sleeveless cotton shirt exposed her tanned muscled arms to the beneficent sunlight, and she pushed her hair back from her face, drinking in the warmth. Her hair had grown at a phenomenal rate at first, but it had slowed down during the past few months. It went just below her shoulders, a thick curtain that more often than not got tied in a braid and pushed out of the way. Pregnancy and a hard, physical life had filled her out and toughened her. She was strong and lean and muscled and inordinately proud of her body. She gave herself a satisfied appraisal before propping the banjo in her lap.

She had mastered every fiddle tune and jig Andrew had presented her, from "Came Haste to the Wedding" to "Devil's Dream" to "Flowers of the Forest." She still preferred "Banish Misfortune" best of all, its modal lilt a mantra against all the trouble that sometimes seemed to lurk just out of reach, waiting to pounce. She leaned back against the pillar and began to play.

The 1963 Lotus Europa
ate up the Vermont highways with more than its usual impatience. It was midafter-noon, and John Springer MacDowell had been driving since early morning, his simmering rage tempering to a cold, determined fury. It was a damned lucky thing Jessica hadn't stayed in New York—if she'd been in reach he might have hit a woman for the first time in his life.

Not that he should have had any sexist qualms. He'd hit men in anger, more than once. He'd even killed, in Vietnam. But never had he wanted to hurt someone as much as he wanted to hurt ice-blooded, devious, lying Jessica Hansen.

But he wasn't going to hit her, much as a deep-seated part of him wanted to. He'd never hit anyone that much smaller than he was, and he'd never thrown the first punch. And he hadn't hit anyone in almost fifteen years—he wasn't going to start now.

His foot had pressed down harder on the gas pedal as Jessica filtered back into his thoughts, and he forced himself to relax, to pull back on the speed. He'd already had one ticket that morning; he didn't need another. Jessica could wait—she'd still be there. Jessica and his son would still be there.

Vermont hadn't changed in the years since he'd been there. The road at the north end of the island was still as rutted, the maples as tall and sheltering, the lake as clear and shimmeringly blue as he remembered from his childhood. The old Clary place was occupied, he noticed absently as the car purred its quiet way to the lake. The roof looked just as tenuous, the porch even more sagging. The tall woman on the porch was staring after him, he noticed in his rearview mirror, and for a moment he wondered if it was Jessica and he hadn't recognized her.

But the woman's hair was brown, not blond, and the child she'd been holding was closer to four. No, Jessica was at the end of the road, innocently unaware that all hell was about to break loose. If anything about her could be called innocent.

The old house looked no older, he thought as he pulled the car to a stop in front of the circular drive. The shingles were a little more weathered, the flower gardens no longer benefiting from his mother's care. They were blowsy, tangled and overgrown, a riot of color against the bleached gray of the house. For a moment he sat there, strong wrists draped over the steering wheel, as he took in the memories of his childhood.

There was a faint sound on the light breeze, one he couldn't place. With a weary sigh he pulled himself out of the cramped car. Sometime he really ought to invest in a car more his size, he thought ruefully, stretching against the afternoon sunlight.

He could smell the faint scent of raspberries on the breeze, the tang of the towering pines that surrounded the house, and he tried to summon forth that monumental rage that had driven him up here at breakneck speeds.

But it wouldn't come. Other emotions were crowding it out. He was going to see his child, his son, for the first time in his life. And he was going to see Jessica. Jessica, whom he told himself he hated, Jessica of the ice-blue eyes and the lies. He wondered if she'd feel the slightest bit guilty. He doubted it.

He took the steps lightly, two at a time, his ear attuned to the faint thread of music coming from the side porch. He saw her long before she saw him, her long legs stretched out in front of her, her strong hands cradling the banjo as you'd cradle a child.

He realized then that he hadn't really looked at her last month when his father died. He'd been too caught up in his own anger and misery to notice the changes in her. Motherhood had both softened and toughened her. Her body was stronger looking, fuller, rounder, her face surprisingly tranquil as she leaned against the pillar. The blue eyes that stared dreamily out at the lake were no longer icy, they were soft and dreamy and welcoming. He wondered if they would turn back to ice when he confronted her, whether they'd cloud with guilt. And for a moment a longing, strong and unexpected, swept over him.

He wanted to cross the porch and pull her into his arms; he wanted to crush that soft, smiling mouth with his; he wanted to make love to her on his father's porch beneath the warm Vermont sunshine.

But it was no longer his father's porch; it was his son's. And the woman that he'd felt that astonishing desire for was a cheat and liar, not to be trusted. There were no extenuating circumstances, no room for doubt. She'd known what she was doing, known full well. And it was up to him just how he'd repay her.

His mouth tightened as the remembered anger returned. He took another step toward her, and the porch creaked underneath his Nikes. She looked up, startled, and he had the dubious satisfaction of watching all that warm, sun-kissed color drain from her face, her eyes darken with what could only be called horror, and absolute panic sweep over her features.

He hadn't seen that kind of fear since Vietnam, and he didn't like it. But some small, mean part of him gave her a lazy, menacing smile. "Hi, there, little mother," he drawled.