Home Field Advantage (19 page)

"Cleaned up...?"
she began, then remembered. Friday. His time to cut and run. How could she
have forgotten? "But you're not leaving yet, are you? Surely you'll want
to see Emma."

"I don't have
time," he said decisively. "Anyway, it's not the first and it won't
be the last time she has the flu. She'll live without me."

His tone was so offhand,
Marian was chilled. He had established his priorities all too clearly.

He reached for the pitchfork,
then stopped when he caught sight of her face. "What's wrong?"

Anger made her voice brittle.
"I just can't believe you aren't going to wait long enough to be sure
Emma's okay."

His own voice became crisper.
"Marian, there's a reason I have a housekeeper instead of depending on
day-care. This is it."

"In other words, that's
what you hired me for. To take care of your daughter when you're unable or
unwilling to."

"Unwilling?" He
took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell does that
mean?"

"That means I think Emma
should come first." Marian felt as though all the blood had left her face,
and her lips moved stiffly. "You're a single parent. Emma doesn't have
anyone else to take responsibility for her."

Very quietly, he said,
"Are you trying to tell me I don't?"

Marian knew she had long
overstepped any right she had, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.
"Sometimes that's the way it looks to me."

John's tension showed in the
rigid set of his neck and shoulders, though he still didn't raise his voice.
"But then, you have a slight bias, don't you?"

The air seemed to crackle,
making it hard to breathe. "Maybe," she said, sounding stifled.

"Let's make sure all the
cards are on the table here." He crossed his arms. "You think,
because I have a job that takes me away a couple of days a week, for maybe five
months a year, that I'm a lousy father."

"I didn't say you were a
lousy—"

His interruption sliced
across her protest like a sharp knife. "Just irresponsible."

Marian felt suddenly panicky.
"Not irrespon—"

"No?" he said coldly.

"Why couldn't you stay
home while Emma is young and needs you so much?" she burst out. "Why
couldn't you have waited?"

"You think I should have
been a full-time parent for a few years."

"Yes!"

"And it never occurred
to you that your perception might be a little warped by that son of a bitch you
were married to?"

"I..." The words
died. Had she been so grossly unfair? Or had Mark's ultimate irresponsibility
only opened her eyes to lesser forms of it?

John's cool abruptly cracked.
"God damn it, Marian, I'm not your ex-husband! I haven't walked out on my
daughter and I never would! And, by God, I wouldn't walk out on you,
either!"

She licked dry lips.
"I'm not the issue."

"Oh, yes, you are! Don't
tell me that hasn't crossed your mind."

Again, she couldn't lie.
Marian stood there, frozen, horrified by everything she had said and by the
anger he radiated.

"Well, since you asked,
I'll tell you why I work."

"Please…"

But she was far too late.
"I was a low draft choice. At twenty-one I was still tripping over my own
feet. I was so glad to make it with the Rams, I signed a contract that didn't
pay me a hell of a lot more than the bag boy at the grocery store gets. Yeah, I
had a few high-paying seasons before the last knee injury, but not
enough." The muscles in his jaw clenched and he gestured tightiy.
"You know how much a place like this costs to set up?"

She shook her head, mute.

"A bundle. Took
everything Isaiah and I had. And it's not going to pay back for a while. Those
little weekend jaunts foot the bill for the ranch. And you want to know
something else?" He stalked a couple of strides away from her, then swung
back. "I wasn't ready to do nothing but muck out stalls. Does that make me
a lousy father, because I still wanted to accomplish something with my
life?"

Marian shook her head. Doubt
clutched her, and it was all she could do to hold her head up and meet his
eyes.

"What the hell was I
supposed to do?" he demanded. "I was thirty-four years old, my career
gone to hell, and my wife dead in a car accident. Was I supposed to live for
parenthood? Would that have been right for me or Emma?"

Again she shook her head.
Faced with her own prejudice, she was badly shaken. Had she seen the entire
world through the filter of her own bitterness? How could she have let Mark do
this to her?

"No," she said,
squeezing her fingers together so tightly they hurt. "No. I didn't know
enough about you to make a judgment. I'm sorry, John. I was...it was none of my
business anyway. I...I don't have any excuse..."

"No. Don't do this,
Marian." Suddenly he was in front of her, his hands gripping her
shoulders. His gaze was so intense, it stripped her of defenses. "I want
it to be your business."

Marian felt raw,
frighteningly vulnerable. Was he saying what she thought...? But she quit
thinking, because he abruptly bent his head and took her mouth. She moaned, and
the kiss deepened. Her blood sang in her ears, deafening her. Under her hands,
automatically raised to brace against his chest, she felt his heartbeat,
somehow in time with hers like a chorus of African drums, primitive and
compelling.

She wrapped her arms around
his neck so that she could hold on. His body was long and powerful against
hers, both familiar and strange, comforting and terrifying. How could a kiss be
so tender even as it asked so much? Marian couldn't think clearly enough to
answer, but her body seemed to be doing it for her.

Desire was a heavy warmth
inside that weakened her even while it gave her strength. If there was a
decision to be made, she had already made it. She heard herself moan again as
she kissed him back, curled her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his
neck, pressed herself against him.

He shuddered, and then,
without breaking the kiss, he swung her into his arms and carried her into the
empty stall. He lowered her to the thick bedding of straw and followed her
down. She had dreamed of him above her like this, his eyes blazing down at her
before his mouth captured hers again. Now his hands were free to rove, to touch
and caress and sample the gentle curves of her body. When his hand went under
her shirt, her bare skin shivered in reaction, and when he cupped her breast
over the lacy bra, she whimpered.

But when he groaned and
lifted himself enough to start tugging her shirt off, she foggily realized what
they were doing—and where they were doing it.

"What if somebody
comes?" she whispered.

"They won't," he
said raggedly. "They just left for lunch."

"Oh." She hated the
reminder of mundane reality. He must have felt her hesitancy, because he
stilled, his fingers curled around her shirt. He held himself up on one elbow,
his breathing harsh and his face taut with restraint.

"Am I going too
fast?"

She wanted to cry, Don't make
me choose! But that was exactly what he wanted: Her to come to him freely, to
be certain that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

And somehow she found the
courage to whisper, "No. Please. Kiss me."

His eyes blazed, and then he
took her at her word. This kiss was passionate, starving, physical hunger out
of control. Pleasure shuddered through Marian, blurring reality. All that
counted was this moment, John's touch and kiss and weight heavy on her:

Her shirt was gone, the straw
scratchy under her back. John unfastened her bra, lifted his head to look at
her bare breasts, creamy skin, and puckered pink nipples. If she had not been
lost before, she would have been when she saw the expression on his face.
Wonder, heat, desperation. His calloused fingers were rough against her
sensitive skin, but his touch was as gentle as he could make it. And when he
bent his head to kiss her breasts, to nip and taste and tease, she cried out.
It was she who tugged his sweater off so that her hands could travel over the
damp, strong expanse of his back, feeling the muscles tighten at her exploring
touch.

And then he was kissing her
again, stroking between her jean-clad legs until she squirmed under him and
tried to pull him onto her. He half laughed, half groaned.

"That's it, love,"
he murmured. "I want you around me. All around me."

She had imagined this so many
times, dreaming and awake. She didn't know which she was this time, didn't
care. His body was more beautiful even than she'd imagined, the muscles long
and supple, his chest broad and his hips narrow. When he raised himself to kick
his jeans off, she sucked in her breath, and he said hoarsely, "Look all
you want, love. I'm going to disappear inside you any minute."

Her stomach clenched at the
thought and a ripple of excitement ran through her. His hands gentled her like
a fractious filly as he slowly eased her jeans and panties off. He touched the
matted dark curls, slid his finger into her, and then said in a voice that
sounded nothing like his, "I want to go slow and I can't. Sweetheart, I'm
sorry..."

In answer Marian smiled and
arched her hips. "Now," she whispered. "I want you."

He groaned again, deep in his
throat, and accepted her invitation. The first stroke was long and slow;
sweetness and agony, pleasure piercing her like a revelation. This was like
galloping with the wind, spending herself with laughter, dying of thirst and
swallowing ice-cold water, holding her newborn babies—all the joys of her life
in one, and surpassed. She did wrap her legs around him, held on to him for
safety in the whirlwind, and let herself be blown away.

She was spun in the power of
their lovemaking until she was hopelessly, helplessly dizzy, spiraling to the
end. Her convulsions were joined by his, and she knew the heady satisfaction of
giving as much as she had taken.

Dreamy, drained, Marian
became conscious in only tiny bits of their surroundings. John's weight first,
then the straw scraping at her back. The warmth of the bam, a soft whicker a
few stalls away. The rich aroma of hay and horse. Something tickling at her
nose, and then the rumble as John chuckled against her neck.

"Maybe the bed would
have been better, Emma or no."

"Mmm," she said
incoherently.

"Am I crushing
you?" He turned his head to brush a tender kiss over her swollen lips.

"Mmm," she said
again, refusing to let go of the mindless peace.

At last he rolled off her
onto his back, pulling her with him. In surprise, Marian shook her hair back
from her face and sat astride him. He smiled at her, a deep glow in his eyes,
and reached up to cup her breasts in his palms. "Beautiful," he said
huskily.

She smiled back with
unconscious sensuality and said, "You, too. Except..." she wrinkled
her nose, "maybe those scars on your knees."

His grin deepened the creases
in his cheeks. "I didn't think you ever got below the, uh...waist."

Startled, Marian laughed.
"I guess not," she admitted.

"Care to look your
fill?"

"I thought I already did
that."

His chest vibrated under her
hands when he laughed. Marian felt deliriously wanton—and increasingly
conscious of the passing time and the broad aisle just beyond the open stall
door. She needed to pick up Emma. And John's flight... "I hate to say
it..." she began.

"But we'd better get
dressed and respectable. I know." His big hands came up to frame her face
and his expression became heart stoppingly tender. "I wish I didn't have
to leave, but I owe them..."

"No." She covered
his mouth. "It's okay. I know you do. Emma will be fine, and I'll be
waiting. I promise."

"I'll call you," he
said.

Marian leaned down to give
him a quick kiss. "I like your phone calls," she said softly.

His eyes darkened. "Then
I'll call once an hour."

"And I'll watch you on
TV," she promised.

"You can watch me any
time," he said, and pulled her down to him for a kiss that was neither
tender nor quick.

*****

He was his usual self on
television: sharp-witted, funny, knowledgeable, relaxed. Marian watched the
half-time show with the kids at her feet turning the living room into a giant
city peopled by princesses and kings and one Tyrannosaurus Rex. Watching John
the first time on television had been disorienting enough—she knew him, he'd
stood in her living room the day before. But this time she gazed at the screen
with two images wavering over each other: the man who was comfortable, smiling,
charismatic, talking on about intensity levels and the number of holding
penalties and similar incomprehensible stuff, and the man who'd held her
astride him, his hands on her breasts and his face taut with passion.