Harlequin - Jennifer Greene (16 page)

Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to get either.

At that instant she hated the kind of world that would hurt Fox that way. The kind of world where a child could die that way. It was infuriating and untenable and despairing and awful. She told him, in hot velvet kisses, in angry pressure-cooker kisses, in rubbed-in caresses and kneaded stroking. She told him, with her hands, sliding over skin, touching, owning, claiming every part of Fox she could love. She told him by closing her eyes and concentrating and emoting every ounce of love she could beg, borrow or conjure.

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He hissed a swear word. She was pretty sure it was her name.

She gave him her fury…another gift she could offer through the sense of touch and sound and taste. She whispered kisses on him, closing his eyelids with the most precious touch, painting softness with more kisses down his throat. It wasn’t fury the way a man would express it, but it was a torrent of feeling all the same. It was all she knew how to do. When something was this unbearable, it was all she could do.

There was no fixing his wounds, so all she could try to do was share them.

She whisked more kisses down his chest, over his shirt, down to the open vee of his zipper. My. He popped up faster than a kid for candy. She couldn’t make that memory disappear for him. Now, and maybe forever, she’d never make that mental picture disappear for herself, either. But she could slip her hands inside his jeans and slide that fabric down, down, down. He yelped when his bare, bony fanny connected with the cold boards of the deck.

“Is this any way to treat an invalid?” he demanded in a whisper.

“Don’t try to get out of this.”

“Are you out of your tree? I wouldn’t want to get out of this if my life depended on it. I’d just as soon we weren’t arrested for public exposure, though. At least until after.”

“We might be. But my neighbors aren’t kids. Don’t have kids.”

“Good,” he murmured, and then took his turn at sweeping her under. Most of her clothes had undergone major rearranging by then. Her sweater was completely gone. One bra strap seemed to be hanging off her shoulder. Her black slacks seemed to be hanging around her hips—but only for another second or so, because once Fox got motivated, he could have given courses in inspired action.

Yet there was suddenly a moment when he slowed everything down. He threaded his hands through her hair, just looking at her in the moonlight, and then tortured them both by tuning their channel to slow, lazy motion. He scraped his bearded cheek between her breasts, polished her nipples with his tongue, took in each breast. Tenderly. Ardently. He offered a caress of tongue and teeth that pulled at every need she’d never known and made a girl-growl hiss from her throat.

“Oh, yeah, you,” he murmured. “Now. Now, Phoebe…”

Shewas doing the seducing, darn it, but somehow…somehow he was the one strapping her legs around him, probing and then diving in, then fitting the two of them tighter than satin Velcro. Moonbeams danced in front of her closed eyes. Sunshine seemed to shine from the inside of him to the inside of her. He started the ride…a wild, wild ride on the cold porch on their dark, dark night…and something loosened in her that had never been loosened before.

It was the rage, she thought. She’d never been angry like this.

That had to be it.

They both seemed to tip off the cliff at the same time. He let out a joyful yell that made her want to laugh…yet she felt the same exuberant burst of joy. Nothing was going to erase that terrible experience for him, she knew that. But for this moment—these moments—that sadness had been bearable. Love had a way of lifting and healing, she believed from the heart…which was why she simply had to offer him hers.

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Eyes still closed, still breathing like a freight train, she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. They started regaining their breath—and a cold whisk of midnight air made them both shiver…and smile at each other. A private smile that belonged to the two of them and no one else.

No one had ever smiled at her the way Fox did.

No one had ever made her feel the way Fox did.

He stroked her hair back. “You take my breath, red,” he whispered.

“And you take mine.”

“We’re going to catch our death.”

“I know. We need to go in—”

“And we will. But I just have to tell you…” He shook his head, still smiling, still looking at her with midnight-dark, loving eyes. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known. You’re my dream.”

Her smile died. She froze completely—inside and out.

Nine

Fox turned the corner. Just ahead was Lockwood’s restaurant, lit up brighter than the Taj Mahal. His brother Moose had never done anything halfway. You couldn’t get in the restaurant door without a tie. A kid in tux parked the cars. Even on a cool spring night like this, the outside garden was decked out with teensy lights and a golden fountain. Hell, the cheapest thing on the menu was $50 a plate.

Fox parked behind the building, next to his brother’s BMW. Thankfully there were back stairs, so he could sneak up to Moose’s place without being seen. He was wearing old, battered jeans and a USC

sweatshirt from his college years—which was held together by threads.

He hadn’t played poker in over a year, and wouldn’t be now if Phoebe hadn’t put the idea of a night out in his brother’s head. Fox had to unearth his “lucky” clothes from the depths of his closet.

And he needed some luck, he thought as he clomped up the private back stairs. Not for poker. But with Phoebe.

He thought they’d turned a milestone the other night. Making love—my God, who could deny how powerfully they came together, who they became together? Even for a man who’d never wanted love, who didn’t believe he was in a position to offer love—or a life—Phoebe was forcing him to rethink everything.

If he couldn’t live without her, he obviously had to find a way to kick himself in the butt, completely heal and start a real life again.

It would seem he couldn’t live without her.

It would also seem that he couldn’t possibly live without making love to her—preferably every night,
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possibly more often, for the rest of their natural lives.

Only, she’d freaked after. He mentally replayed those moments after they’d made love. Yeah, he’d told her she was the sexiest woman alive. That didn’t seem like an insult, did it? I mean, for damn sure, he should have said she was the most beautiful, the most brilliant, the most wonderful woman in the world before he got to the sexy adjective. But God knew, he meant the compliment with love. He meant it with honesty. And he could have sworn Phoebe didn’t need flowery packaging to tell her something straight from his heart.

Besides, he’d known she had a little thing about thinking of herself as unsexy. But that was the point.

Why he’d said it. Why he’d wanted to compliment her that way. Guys prayed to find a lover who was honestly, uninhibitedly hot for them, someone who fired up for the same things he fired up for. Yet no male with a brain really thought he’d ever find that. You worked at sex just like you worked on everything else.

Except with Phoebe. She was more than his dream. Every time they touched, she felt like his missing half. He’d reached heights with her he hadn’t known existed…and as far as he could tell, she had, too.

Yet he’d made that comment, and suddenly she’d run inside on the excuse of their needing to warm up.

Then she’d insisted his session time was up. He’d said, what the hell did that matter. She’d said, “Fergus, I thought you were only going to be here for two hours. I’ve got a baby scheduled to come over tonight.

It’s not as if I knew we were going to make love.”

And that was the crux of the crisis. Not what she’d said. But that she’d called him Fergus instead of Fox.

She might as well have punched him in the stomach.

When he reached the top of the stairs at Moose’s place, he knocked once, then freely opened the door.

“It’s just me,” he called out.

But he still couldn’t get his mind off Phoebe. He loved his brother, even loved to play poker, once upon a time. Just not tonight. He needed time alone. It wasn’t just that he was all riled up about Phoebe, but that he needed concentrated time to think about life. A job. The serious decisions looming imminently in his future.

Still, again his mind sneaked back to Phoebe with another itchy problem. He never had gotten an answer about what happened with her ex-fiancé. That had to be a major key, he figured, because hell, if it wasn’t a major key, he was in major trouble. She’d only committed to helping him for a month, and that month was up in a matter of days.

He knew, as sure as he knew he was allergic to clams, that once that month was over, she was out of there unless he found some way to stop her in her tracks.

“Moose? Where the hell are you?” he called out.

He assumed the poker table would be set up in the den. It always had been. But the den was as quiet as the kitchen, where Fox automatically opened the fridge and pulled out a beer.

The whole upstairs apartment was bigger than it looked, and Moose wasn’t one to deprive himself of creature comforts. The kitchen looked like an audition for appliance heaven, and the living room was fancied-up with a home theater, set-in bar, recessed lighting and a lit-up aquarium with exotic fish.

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“Moose? Am I really the first one here?”

Past the leather and sleek technology center were a pair of bedrooms and baths, one on either side of the hall, and then came a long narrow sun room that Moose had always used for an office. Now, though, Fox saw the gaming table as he crossed the threshold. He opened his mouth to offer a greeting and instead closed it faster than a gulping fish.

Moose jerked to his feet. “Hey, Fox, didn’t hear you come in. You’re a little early—”

“I know, I—”

“Fox, you know Marjorie, don’t you? Marjorie White?”

“No. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Fox stepped forward with his hand outstretched because his mom hadn’t raised any sons who didn’t know their manners. But in a single glance, he could see the gaming table had no cards on it, no drinks, no junk food. No one else was in the room but Moose and this woman.

And where he was dressed like a rag man and holding a long-necked bottle of beer, she was wearing what his mom called country club clothes. Stockings. Clunks of gold here and there. Blond hair sharply styled. Subtle makeup, little black dress, expensive perfume.

“Fergus, I’ve heard so much about you for years.”

“Well…I’m glad to meet you.” He said politely, and then shot a shocked and confused look at Moose.

“I thought you two hadn’t met each other before,” Moose said heartily. “Marjorie doesn’t teach, Fox.

But she used to be married to Wild Curly Forster. Remember him? Linebacker, my class, not yours, but turned into the sharpest lawyer this side of Gold River.”

“Sure,” Fox said, who had never heard of the guy before.

“He died a few years ago. Car accident.”

“I’m sorry,” Fox said automatically.

“So you both know something about loss,” Moose said firmly.

“Say what?”

Marjorie intervened with a quiet little laugh. “Your big brother is springing this surprise on you, I realize.

But we don’t have to make a big deal out of it, Fergus. He just thought you’d like some feminine company for a change. Let’s just have a drink and talk a bit, all right?”

“Sure,” Fox said, and again spared a glance at his brother. Murder was too good for him. Hell. Torture was too good for him. “I could have dressed differently, but I assumed I was coming for a poker game.”

Moose slapped him on the shoulder. “Marjorie could care less how you’re dressed. You two just put your feet up. Get to know each other. I put a couple DVDs in the machine, got some wine cooling. I’ve got to go check downstairs. We’re having a hell of a gig downstairs tonight, company party for
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Wolcott’s.”

“Moose, hold up—”

“I had the boys make up a tray of finger foods, so just pull it out when either of you are hungry—”

Marjorie hadn’t stopped looking at him, and now a miserable flush climbed her neck. “Fergus, I realize you weren’t told about this. I never liked the idea of blind dates, either. But I’d thought, from what your brother said…I mean, it’s not like I’m so hard up that I need to be set up.”

“Of course you don’t.” Hell. Hell. Hell. Her feelings were hurt. Fox could plainly see the flush, the trembling mouth, and thought he was going to strangle his brother, and enjoy doing it. He couldn’t fulfill that daydream quite that fast, though. “Marjorie, just sit down, all right? We’ll talk. I really didn’t mean to come across as…”

God knew how he filled out that thought. Cruel? Mean hearted? He really didn’t mean to give her the impression that she was too ugly to warrant his time. She was pretty. Very pretty. Actually, she was damn near gorgeous.

She just wasn’t Phoebe.

Before he could turn around, his brother had disappeared. There was nothing he could do about it—not for a few minutes. She was obviously mortified and miserable. He couldn’t insult her, just because he wanted to kill his brother. Come to think of it, he’d really wanted to kill both brothers, because for damn sure, Bear had been consulted on anything Moose did.

Both of them were dirt. Turncoats. Pond scum.

He served Marjorie a glass of wine and then unearthed the platter of hors d’oeuvres, after which he listened to the entire, unabridged story of her marriage to Wild Curly Foster. Their courtship. His death.

Their two children. The money he’d left her. Her evil in-laws. The trip she’d taken to Paris last year to recover from all the stress. How much she missed a man.