Don't Tempt Me (10 page)

Read Don't Tempt Me Online

Authors: Barbara Delinsky

BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
4.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Before she could find a suitable retort, he was gone.
Somehow.
A warm flush seeped slowly upward as her thoughts turned to that
somehow.
How misleading life could be at times, she mused. Having always thought of herself as a feminist of sorts, she should have been soundly offended by his parting shot.
Earn her keep,
she laughed, particularly recalling the none-too-subtle leer which had
accompanied that poignant
somehow.
Yet she felt no offense—none whatsoever. She had chosen freely to give herself to Sloane, and, in the process, had discovered that the giving was far from one-sided. Submission had never entered into their lovemaking. There had been giving and taking and sharing—all beautiful, all satisfying. Nothing would please her more than to spend the weekend in his arms!
As it happened, she did her share of amateur decorating as well. Much of Saturday was spent in this endeavor, as the two walked from room to room while Sloane noted her suggestions as to furniture, light fixtures, wall hangings and artwork, accessories, and floor treatment. “I would leave the windows as bare as possible”—she toyed with a concept that was totally out of the question in the city. “Privacy is not an issue here—you are surrounded by trees and ocean. Why not let it all in? Plants, perhaps—hang them there”—she pointed to the opposite ends of a wide window in the living room—“and there, but make sure that they complement the natural landscape rather than vie with it for attention.”
“And the bedrooms … ?”
“There you'll need something for darkening effect alone. If, that is, you hope to sleep late once in a while. Otherwise, the bright sun pouring in at six may be a bit disturbing.” She grinned, recalling how late they had slept this very morning, sun and all.
“We were
both
exhausted, sweetheart,” he said, mirroring her memory. “For my part”—a strong forearm fell across her shoulders—“I don't know whether it was work … or you.”
Justine curled her arms around his waist, closing her eyes and resting her cheek against his chest. She inhaled deeply of his manly scent, then sighed her contentment. The moment was so beautiful, she mused. No past, no future—just now.
“Okay, to work!” Sloane ordered good-naturedly, setting her back from him. “I picked up cleaning supplies with lunch. What will you take—windows or bathrooms?”
“Windows.” Given the choice of those particular two, Justine would do windows anyday!
“Coward,” he taunted under his breath, as he handed her a cloth and a large spray bottle then selected his own and was off. At intervals they checked up on one another, with Justine starting on windows which were nearest the particular bathroom he scrubbed at a given time. After several hours they took a rest, walking the beach with carefree ease, enjoying the presence of each other and the mild ocean breeze.
Dinner was, by mutual choice, a joint endeavor. They had stocked the refrigerator and the cupboards with the basics—after Justine had wiped down the cabinets, inside and out, with Sloane calling directions from the last of the three bathrooms. “Nothing exotic,” they had agreed, yet one thing had led to another, and, before they knew it, they sat down—in the bare middle of the shiny parquet of the dining room floor—to a dinner of London broil, baked stuffed potatoes, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, and peach melba. The irony of paper plates, plastic knives and forks, and the starkness of the empty room went by unnoticed. Hungry as they were, they ate. Romantic-minded as they were, they sipped fine wine from Dixie cups, grinning all the while. For Justine the dinner held as much elegance as any she had ever eaten.
Sloane lazed back on his elbow, stretched his legs their length and crossed them at the ankle as he watched her savor the last of her peach melba. “Do you have any idea,” he finally asked, when every drop had been irrevocably consumed, “how many calories you've just consumed?”
She cocked her head defensively. “I said that I splurged once in a while. This happens to be that once!”
“And pizza last night?” he ribbed her, rolling his eyes skyward in memory. “I seem to recall that you matched me, bite for bite.”
Tossing her head back at the unimportance of it, she grinned. “I daresay I've worked off every one of those calories.” Bounding up, she loaded her hands with empty plates. “I'll have to see to that oven tomorrow. It badly needs a cleaning.”
True to her word, the following afternoon found her head in the oven, her hands scrubbing. On a cold surface the spray was only marginally successful. Following the can's directions, she heated the oven, then set to it again. As she scrubbed diligently, her mind wandered. It came to her suddenly that she hadn't thought of law all weekend! In her adult life, this was a first! In case of emergency, Susan knew of her whereabouts. Yet, nothing had interrupted the bliss she had shared here with Sloane this weekend. The thought of its end, of returning to the city tonight, brought with it a knot of regret. Convinced of Sloane's love, she knew she would see him again and often. But, she mused, it had been so nice … so private … so quiet … here … alone with him.
“Justine!” Her own anticipatory frustration was embodied and intensified in Sloane's bellow. “Justine!” He stormed into the kitchen in time to see her reflexive flinch as her arm inadvertently came in solid contact with the heat of the oven shelf. “Where are the damned sleeping bags?” he shouted, then stopped. “Justine, are you all right?”
Doubled over, she slowly straightened and tried to stand, fighting the stinging sensation on her arm. “I think I've burned myself … .” She grimaced, clutching the injured forearm. Sloane reacted instantly, pulling her swiftly toward the sink and thrusting her arm beneath the stream of cold water. “Ahhh … that feels a little better … .”
Engrossed as she was in an attempt to examine the damage, Justine was oblivious to Sloane's scowl. “How did you manage to do
this?”
It was a new and impatient Sloane, one she'd never seen before.
“I … I was startled when you … barged in here like that!”
“So it was
my
fault?” he challenged her darkly.
“Of course not!” she snapped back defensively. “I take full responsibility for my actions. It was my own dumb fault … and it's fine now, really it is.” The arm was fine; oh, yes, it would probably turn into a minor blister before healing, but she felt no pain from
that
source. It was by Sloane that she felt injured.
He read the hurt in her soft and questioning green eyes, then turned the water off with a jerk and stepped back, combing his fingers carelessly through his hair. “Look, Justine. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bark at you like that. It's just … trying to get things together before we go back …” He abbreviated his explanation, turning instead and heading for the door. “I feel really grubby, after scrubbing the patio. I'm going to take a shower.”
Justine watched him disappear, her heart lodged somewhere between chest and mouth. Absently, she patted her arm dry with a paper towel, then stowed the cleaning supplies beneath the sink. Her brow bore a frown, her eyes a distinct look of worry. Could she let him stalk off like this? Why hadn't she said anything? After all, hadn't his gruffness been simply an expression of her own frustration? And, he
had
apologized.
Her hand slapped the counter determinedly as her sneaker-clad feet crossed the floor to follow him. The water was already running when she reached the bathroom, its air filled with billowing steam. Entering, then closing the door behind her, she leaned back against it, eyes mesmerized by the surrealism of the scene. Amid the mist she watched the shower door, its thickly textured
glass a sensual conductor. Behind it Sloane welcomed the beat of the steady spray, turning slowly, throwing back his head, flexing his neck from side to side. His arms were bent at the elbows, his hands cocked surely on his hips. His skin took on a smoothly rippled texture through the shower door, investing her own fingertips with the yearning to touch as she had touched before. As he pivoted slowly, his every line was revealed to her, clear, then blurred, then clear again beyond the glass.
Driven by the new woman she had just discovered, Justine stepped carefully between his scattered clothes, peeled her own off, one by one, to join the pile, then approached and opened the shower door. The brunt of the spray was deflected from her by the sinewed breadth of his back as Sloane stared at her for several dark and heart-stopping moments. He seemed to be struggling, waging an inner war that she could only imagine. Then, before her wide-eyed watch a slow relaxation spread over his features until he resembled, at last, the man she adored. With a grin he took her in his arms, swinging her around and into the full spray of the shower, holding her there, despite her sputtering protest, until she was thoroughly soaked. Her hair was darker, truly copper when wet, and tumbled in tangled curls which he gently tucked behind her ears. When he kissed her, surrealism took on a different face, then burst quickly into blinding passion as desire washed over them both.
It was much later when he finally reached back to turn off the water. In the steam-shrouded silence, he held her body tightly against his, waiting as the last waves of ecstasy faded to loving memories. Her cheek was wet against his chest, her flesh against his as their heartbeats hammered through each other in one, nonending circle,
“Marry me, Justine,” he murmured softly. “I want you for my wife.”
Stunned, she caught her breath … then waited … listened … wondered whether she had heard correctly … feared she had … yet prayed she'd only imagined it. Her heart told her she had not, even before the voice, deeper now and with conviction, came again.
“Will you marry me, Justine?”
His arms slipped in their hold to let her step back, though his palms snugly cupped her wet shoulders. She clung to his dripping features, adoring them with a sadness in her gaze, before averting her eyes to the blue and white tiling of the shower, still glistening with moisture. “It's a shame to have used it,” she mumbled pathetically, “after you spent so long polishing—”
“Justine, did you hear what I said?” The fingers tightening on her flesh drew her attention back to Sloane's face. “That was a proposal. I just asked you to marry me. Will you?” His eyes were black as coal, yet soft, infinitely soft. For the first time in the whirlwind evolution of their relationship, she sensed a power that she, herself, held over this commanding and compelling man. It gave her no pleasure, only pain. To hurt him—to fail to give him anything, everything, he wanted—to deny him—was agony in itself.
“I … this is so … sudden …” she stammered, slipping easily from his wet grasp and stepping from the shower. She had wrapped her body in a bath sheet by the time his corded arm reached by her for the other that hung folded on the rack, the “his” to her “hers.”
“There's nothing whatsoever sudden about it,” he spoke softly, the frown which her fleeting glance detected his only outward symptom of disturbance. “After waiting
thirty-nine years to find you, I would say that “sudden” is the last word I'd use to describe the situation.”
“Precipitant, then. Impulsive …” She hung her head, groping defensively, blindly.
“When you gave yourself to me on Friday—when you surrendered that virginity you've held for twenty-nine years, was that on
impulse?
”
Her brows knit; she simply couldn't lie. “No,” she whispered.
“What was it then?”
Silence hung heavy in the sultry air. “ … Desire …”
“Was that all?”
Again, she hesitated, sensing that she was slowly and inexorably being forced into a corner.
Hunted. Captured. Pinioned.
The image of the fox penetrated her consciousness with a force made awesome by the firm set of his jaw, the acute sharpness of his dark eyes, the full-headed lushness of his glistening silver hair.
The Silver Fox.
He would have to know it all … soon.
“I love you,” she quietly voiced the depth of her feeling.
“Then marry me, Justine! You have no excuse not to!”
Whirling on her heel, she faced him. His towel was doubled up and low-slung across his hips. Hands on the damp flesh just above, he stared at her, looming tall, much taller than he normally seemed to be. Intimidating at mildest, his physical presence threatened to wilt her. Quickly she fought to hold her head high.
“I can't. I won't, Sloane.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she inhaled deeply, “I don't believe in marriage.”
“Ah,” he sighed and looked at the ceiling for a minute. “I remember you told me that once before. I let it pass then, but I will not now. What is so terrible about marriage?”
“It brings nothing but misery.”
“That's not true—”
“It is, Sloane!” she interrupted forcefully. “I see it constantly in my work. Marriage seems to turn people hard and vindictive! It's marriage that—”
It was Sloane's turn to interrupt. “Not marriage, Justine. Love. Love … and the lack of it. If a marriage is built on love—as ours would be—the chances of success are high.”
She shook her head sadly. “You don't understand … .”
“I understand that you're afraid. You're afraid to make a commitment to another person.”
“That's ridiculous! I make commitments to people every day! When I take on a case, I make a commitment to that particular client.”
The bridge of his nose drew taut with tension as he struggled for control. “There are many different kinds of commitment. I'm talking about the family kind … a husband … children—”
“No!” she shrieked unthinkingly, then quickly quieted. “I don't want to get married.”
Sloane's patience seemed fast dwindling, as his rising voice implied. “Then what
do
you want? You say you love me, and you know that I love you. Where do we go from here, if not into marriage?”
Perspiration beaded thinly above her upper lip, born of nerves rather than the small room's slowly dissipating heat. This was the question she had refused to face as yet. Sloane was forcing the issue. “I don't know,” she finally murmured in defeat.
“Well, that's just fine!” He raised his hands, then let them fall limp by his sides. “Would you suggest we just say ‘good-bye' and go our separate ways—after this, this weekend?”
“No.” The moist green pools of her eyes pleaded with him for some miraculous solution to the quandary.
“Then, what?” he prodded relentlessly, deep grooves carved by his mouth. “Should we just continue to have … an affair? Would you like to be my mistress … no further strings attached? Is that what would please you?”
“I—I don't know.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Perhaps we should simply pass on the streets, in the corridors of your precious firm, and be good friends.” His eyes suddenly took on a deeper tinge in passion's wake. “That would never work, Justine. I cannot see you”—he stepped closer—“without wanting to touch you”—he did —“to hold you”—he did—“to make love to you—”
She tore herself from his arms and fled to the bedroom, scooping up her clothes as she went. Sloane was close on her heels. “Running away from it won't do any good!” he roared. But, if he was nearing the end of his taut cord of control, Justine was no less so. Her body shook with tremors of emotion as she started to dress. His bellow shook her even more. “I
love
you, you fool! Doesn't that mean anything to you?”
“It's not enough!” she yelled, an equal partner now in the shouting match. “The odds are still against us!”
Suddenly, he grew more calm. “But aren't they worth risking? Isn't the end result worth taking the chance?” It was his quiet pleading that finally broke her.
“I can't,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes and tightening her throat. As her cheeks grew wet, she turned away from him, hugging her stomach protectively. In the silence that followed, she wondered if he had given up. She flinched when he stepped around in front of her, clad only in his jeans, his feet and upper torso bare.
“There's something else, isn't there? Something you haven't told me.” He paused, calculating her air of dejection, sensing confirmation of his suspicion in her lack of
denial. “What is it, Justine? It has to do with … your family, doesn't it?”
When she tried to turn from him, he held her, his strong hands gentle but firm on her arms. Head bent, she shook it, refusing to confront that old pain. But Sloane was persistent. “I have a right to know, Justine. I love you. I want you to be
my
family, to help me
make
my family. You are a seeker of the truth, aren't you? Then respect my need for it, too. If you're asking me to settle for something less than what my heart wants, you owe me this much.”
She could fight him no longer. Inching away from him, she moved the short distance to the wall, propped her back against it, and slid down until she sat at its base, knees bent up, arms clamped tightly around them. “My parents fought from the earliest time I could remember,” she began, releasing the hold on her mind, letting it make the agonizing journey back over the years. “My father was a businessman, trying to get started. Money was a constant issue between them. My mother had patience for neither my father nor me.” She looked up sadly at Sloane. “I took after him—the hair coloring and all.” That very coloring, vivid now in hair dried freely and with benefit of neither comb nor brush, gave her a frail, waiflike air. She felt, indeed, small and vulnerable.
“They separated when I was eight, divorced when I was nine. In the meantime, I was shuttled back and forth between neighbors and relatives, never quite knowing where I would be spending the next week, month, or year. I …” She faltered, recalling those years of insecurity so sharply. “I withdrew into myself … buried myself in fantasy as much as was possible. It was a difficult situation, you see. My father wanted me, but it was my mother who had the money—her family's money—to raise me in the style she felt I should be raised. My mother didn't want
me;
she simply didn't want my father to have me! So I was bounced around for a while.”
Breathing deeply, she forced herself to retain some measure of composure. The tears had dried, yet she felt on edge. Sloane had not said a word; his tall form was ramrod straight, his hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, their balled fists clearly marked. The muscle of his jaw moved once, then again. “Go on.”
His traditional command,
she mused somberly, recalling other times when he had used it. As in those cases, she acquiesced.
“It finally went to court. I was the star witness. What was it like living at home? they asked me. Were my parents good to me? Could I talk with my mother? With my father? Whom did I feel most comfortable with? Had anyone ever struck me? Did
he
read me good-night stories? Did
she
sit down at night and comb my hair?” Closing her eyes, she pictured that nightmare, reliving it and its pain once more. “They kept repeating that everyone should remember that I was only nine years old. What did I know about things? they implied. Well”—she turned her gaze, strong and venom-filled, at Sloane—“I knew plenty! I knew the guilt of having to testify in favor of, then against, a parent. I knew the confusion of being pulled from both ends. I knew the fear of punishment, of reprisal. I was terrified!”
Her eyes, in all their emerald sharpness, reflected that terror, bringing Sloane down to kneel before her and stroke her cheek. “I'm sorry, Justine. I didn't know—”
“There's more!” she exclaimed, suddenly angry at having been forced into the declaration. “You wanted to hear? Well, there's more. You see, not only did I hear my parents' arguments, but I heard the gossip of the neighbors. My mother was a selfish witch, they said, who only wanted to cover her own mistake—the mistake being marrying my father in the first place. I was the major pawn; she also wanted to recover the money her family had invested in his business. Make him suffer. After all, they said, he was out having a good time. The ‘Red Rover,' they called him
on occasion. Fast and wild with the women, they said. A rogue … a dandy … you name it. I heard it all, but somewhere, deep inside, I knew that he loved me.”
Suddenly, she was crying again. Soft sobs escaped her lips as she buried her face against her knees. Sloane's hand massaged her neck, his fingers working on the tautness there.
“I'm sure he did, Justine,” he crooned gently. “What finally happened? I want to hear it all.”
“My mother was given custody, at which point she handed me over to whoever was willing to keep an eye on me for a year or two. Aunts, cousins—I finally spent most of my teenage years with a great-aunt. Then, I came east to college and … you know the rest.”
Having bared herself of the sordid story, she felt relieved. Her body yielded as Sloane drew her closer against him, and she succumbed to his comforting warmth. “Did you see your father much?”
“Never.
She
saw to that! Even though she didn't care to spend much time with me herself, she was determined that he should never see me. When I was a child, I was too young to know any better. I didn't fight the edict. As I grew older, I always wondered about him but … I was … I still am … frightened. There's always that chance that he didn't really want me either—that I reminded
him
of
her
—that
he
wanted me simply because she said
she
did!” She shook her head against his chest. “It's all very ugly.”
“So you've made it your life's work to help people—children—who are put in similar positions?”
His perceptivity stunned her. She hadn't quite expected him to make the connection as quickly as he had. “Yes. I have.”
“And in the process,” his voice hardened noticeably, “you see only the negative in marriage. You've surrounded
yourself with failures. You refuse to look at the others—the successes.”
“No, it's not that at all—”
“Isn't it?” he growled dangerously, holding her back and spearing her with his daggered look. “It's self-reinforcing—your work. What we have here is a self-fulfilling prophesy once removed. You see failure after failure and are now totally convinced that that's all there is.” Justine could only stare in shock at Sloane's rising anger. They had come full circle; was it possible he could not understand what she was trying to say? His next words were in apparent proof of this. “You
are
afraid, Justine. I've heard your story and, as painful as it must have been, the living of it is only an excuse. The fact that you remained a virgin for twenty-nine years then gave that virginity to me should tell you something … .” He stood tall now, drawn high in conviction. “But you're afraid to take the greater chance. Evidently you don't love me enough!” With a final glower of dismissal, he stalked from the room, his bare feet echoing on the flooring in ever-fading pads.

Other books

Debatable Land by Candia McWilliam
We All Looked Up by Tommy Wallach
Diagnosis: Danger by Marie Ferrarella
Elizabeth Powell by The Traitors Daughter
Catch the Lightning by Catherine Asaro
Havana Noir by Achy Obejas
The Fellowship of the Hand by Edward D. Hoch
Tomato Red by Daniel Woodrell