Nan Ryan (28 page)

“Helen. You’re exceptionally beautiful, Helen.”

Kurt abruptly put both his hands into her hair. His gaze dropped to her parted lips as his fingers tightened in the heavy golden locks and he tilted her face more fully up to his.

He looked deeply into Helen’s eyes, his lips curled in a seductive half smile. The timbre of his voice deep and soft, he said, “Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?” Slowly lowering his dark head until his lips were nearly touching hers, he finished in a whisper. “Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.”

Helen’s eyes were fixed on his mouth, now dangerously close to her own. Kurt was going to kiss her. She knew he was. She knew as well that he was giving her ample opportunity to stop him if she didn’t want to be kissed. Helen didn’t pull away. She didn’t say no. She wanted to kiss him. Had to kiss him.

Kurt hesitated for another heartbeat, then covered her trembling mouth with his own. It was the briefest, the tenderest of kisses, his lips lightly brushing across hers, then lifting, hovering close. His fingers entwined in her hair, he gently urged her head back a little farther, and whispering her name, he slowly kissed her face, admiring each perfect feature with the faint, fleeting touch of his adoring lips.

When his mouth returned to hers, Helen softly sighed. He kissed her again and this time his lips lingered longer on hers. Spellbound by his amazingly chaste yet pleasing kiss, Helen stood on tiptoe against him. His lips were incredibly warm and smooth and infinitely gentle. Such a surprisingly guarded kiss from a man who looked so dangerous. Enthralled, Helen felt as if she wanted the sweetness of this slow, soft kiss to last forever. She relaxed completely against him, loving the way he was molding her mouth to fit his with such subtle ease, exerting very little pressure, yet skillfully inducing her lips to cling to his.

Kurt’s lips dallied expertly against Helen’s, soft, pliable, cautiously teasing. Playful plucking little kisses soon became punctuated with longer, more insistent ones. His tongue brushed along Helen’s lower lip and she made a small sound of protest. But her lips parted a little. His tongue skimmed over her teeth as his hand left her hair, went around her waist. Kurt drew her closer against him and in seconds his kiss became hot and demanding.

Helen trembled, wrapped her arms around him, clung to his long, deeply clefted back. His tongue explored the inner recesses of her mouth and Helen gloried in the dazzling intimacy. His tongue touching hers set off explosions of sensation which sent her senses reeling. Her body blazed with a new kind of heat and she snuggled closer to the hard-muscled frame of the man so expertly kissing her, holding her. His teeth gently tugged on her full bottom lip before his mouth slid down over her cheek to the side of her throat.

Helen couldn’t stifle the little gasp of ecstasy that escaped when his mouth—that marvelous, experienced mouth—pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. Her eyes helplessly closed when his searing lips slowly traced along her throat and down over her shoulder. Tingling excitement raced through her when he opened his mouth and spread biting, sucking kisses over her hot bare skin.

Helen felt her bare toes curl, her stomach flutter wildly, her nipples tighten into aching points of feeling. When his mouth returned to hers, Helen kissed him with unrestrained passion, her mouth opening wide to him, her tongue as bold as his. Her fiery response rendered Kurt helpless against the total, involuntary arousal of his body. His heart thudded against his ribs and the hot heavy blood began beating in his temple as well as in his groin.

Cradling her closer to him, one arm tight around her as though he would never let her go, Kurt kissed her again and again, each kiss becoming wetter, hotter, longer. Helen whimpered softly when his searing mouth left hers, but she sighed and shivered when he kissed the hollow of her throat. She squirmed with pleasure when his lips began a slow steady slide downward. When his mouth reached the fabric of her low-cut dress, he tugged on it with his teeth, carrying it lower until Helen murmured softly, “No … no.”

Kurt’s dark head lifted and Helen saw the raw passion in his eyes, knew it was mirrored in her own. He turned her more fully to him and they came together anxiously, their kisses now fierce, savage, devouring tongues meeting, mouths fusing with impatient hunger and release of pent-up loneliness and need.

“Helen, Helen.” Kurt whispered her name in voice heavy with desire. “Sweetheart, let me love you,” he murmured, his lips again on her soft white shoulder, his hands pressing her closer to the throbbing erection straining against the confines of his black linen trousers.

“Kurt.” Helen excitedly whispered his name, sought his fiery lips, kissed him hotly, and for only a second allowed herself the illicit thrill of feeling the power of that hard male flesh throbbing insistently against her responsively thrusting pelvis.

Breathless, shaken, Helen finally came to her senses. They must stop and stop now. She tore her burning lips from his and murmured against his tanned throat, “No. No, Kurt—”

“Oh, baby, please.” Kurt’s lips were in her hair. “Sweetheart, let me—”

“Captain Northway,” Helen anxiously interrupted, “let me go.” Shaking with emotion, she struggled to free herself.

The strong arms wrapped tightly around her immediately loosened and reluctantly released her. Forcefully Helen pushed him away, turned, and fled into the safety of the darkened house, hot tears of shame, guilt, and frustration stinging her eyes.

Trembling, his heart pounding, Kurt stood there alone on the moonlit porch. His dark face was hardened with disappointment and passion, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He ground his even white teeth and his lids closed over eyes filled with pain.

At last he drew a long, ragged breath, opened his eyes, turned, and walked down the steps and into the moon-silvered yard. Kurt harshly reminded himself that he should never have come up to the house in the first place. She hadn’t invited him here. Hadn’t wanted him here.

In mental and physical agony, Kurt returned to his place in the barn.

Chapter Thirty-two

T
he summer grew hotter and so did they.

Kurt fought his agonizing hunger for Helen the way men have fought it for centuries. He worked himself half to death, falling into bed each night physically exhausted, the edge taken off his burning desire.

Utter fatigue helped curb his troublesome carnal appetite, but the deep longing lingered, never fully left him. Tired as he was each night, he lay in the darkness seeing Helen’s face awash in the moonlight. Wishing he could feel her there beside him. Wishing he could hold her again for just an hour, or a moment even. Wanting to pull his fingers through her long golden hair. Wanting to hear her laugh. Wanting to hear her breathe. Wanting her … wanting her.

Helen fought too.

She stayed away from Kurt as much as possible. And each night at bedtime she took out the cameo and gazed at the picture of the husband whose face was growing dimmer in her memory with every passing day.

Repeatedly she reminded herself that the dark man sleeping in the quarters down at the barn was one of the murderous devils responsible for the deaths and destruction which had forever changed her life and her beloved Southland.

But that didn’t work anymore.

She could no longer make herself think of Kurt as a hated Yankee. The label didn’t fit the man she’d come to know. Kurt Northway had proven himself to be a decent, hardworking, kind, and sensitive man.

That’s what made it so hard.

If he were mean and callous, a no-good, worthless through and through, it would have been so much easier. Then at least she could console herself with the sure and comforting knowledge that she didn’t belong in his arms.

And he didn’t belong in her heart.

Confused, tom between the endless yearning to be held by him and the growing guilt she suffered because of it, Helen lost sleep. She tossed and turned in her bed, seeing Kurt’s dark face silvered by moonlight. Wishing she could feel him there beside her. Wishing he would hold her again for just an hour, or even a moment. Wanting to run her fingers through his silky midnight hair. Wanting to hear him laugh. Wanting to hear him breathe. Wanting him … wanting him.

The sleepless nights left Helen so listless she moved through the long hot summer days in a somnambulant daze. She welcomed the exhaustion; it helped dampen the unwelcome fire that burned within her. Still the sweet yearning never fully left her and Helen was afraid it never would.

Young Charlie unwittingly and unknowingly saved Kurt and Helen from themselves and from each other. The tireless, full-of-life little boy was everywhere at once. It would have been nearly impossible to put anything past the bright, inquisitive, big-eyed Charlie.

At times Kurt guiltily wondered what might happen if his son were not always underfoot.

Helen never allowed herself to consider such a possibility. She was eternally grateful that the little boy who had become such a happy, curious, lovable child—thanks to Jolly Grubbs—was rarely out of sight.

The adorable Charlie was either trailing after his father or helping her. Even when he went fishing with Jolly—which was often—he was liable to turn up at any minute, proudly holding up his catch.

Helen was relieved that there were enough obstacles in their way to prevent anything from happening between Kurt and herself. To further ensure safety, Helen no longer risked sitting on the gallery in the evenings after dark.

She avoided going outdoors at nighttime once and for all after a dangerously close call one sweltering, muggy night when she’d slipped down to the bay. Hot, miserable, feeling as if she couldn’t stand one more second in her stuffy bedroom, she had stolen out onto the gallery, around the house, and down the front steps.

She had dashed across the front yard and hurried down the wooden bay stairs, savoring the occasional gusts of night wind, anticipating a cooling walk in the shallow waters along the shore. But she had barely stepped down onto the sand when she stopped short. She saw something. Something that was not a part of the natural landscape.

A statue to rival the beauty of Michelangelo’s David.

A solitary figure on the solitary beach, Kurt North-way stood unmoving on a jutting cliff of rock, gazing transfixed at the bay, unconscious of her presence.

As naked as the day he came into the world.

His lean dark body glistened wetly in the moonlight and his raven hair was plastered to his well-shaped head. Helen openly stared, overwhelmed by his unadorned male beauty. She was totally awed. Everything about him was perfection. His imposing height. His wide smooth shoulders and deeply clefted back. His drum-tight belly. His powerful thighs and long legs well muscled, but supple.

Proud, naked, he was the embodiment of all that is male and the sight of him caused her heart to miss several beats.

Helen was tempted as she’d never been tempted in her life.

It was all she could do to keep from calling his name and running to him. Nearly impossible not to strip the hot choking nightgown from her burning body and give herself up to the passion which threatened to consume her.

She could almost feel those strong wet arms come around her, that magnificent naked male body press her’ insistently close. Could almost taste the heated kisses, feel the caressing hands, experience the swift melding of his hard hot flesh with the waiting softness of her own, the two of them coming together in primitive ecstasy there on the slippery, sea-sprayed rocks.

Helen turned and fled in fear of the dark Adonis on the rocks, telling herself he must surely be an appealing, irresistible form of Satan risen up from the depths of hell to lure her to everlasting damnation. Well, she was just too smart for him. She would not yield to the powerful pull of his dangerous allure. She would not behave in a manner totally at odds with the way she had been raised, with the way in which she had always conducted her life. She would not sacrifice self-respect and decency for one night of stolen rapture.

But most of all, she would not—could not—stand the prospect of spending long, lonely months or even years ahead missing the dark careless lover who would all too soon be gone.

And she would be forgotten.

After that one near-disastrous occurrence, Helen didn’t go outdoors at night. She was afraid. Afraid she might see Kurt. Afraid Kurt might see her. Afraid he might come to her. Afraid she might go to him. Afraid he might take her in his arms again and kiss her and kiss her until she begged him never, ever to stop.

Chapter Thirty-three

“O
wwwww!” howled Charlie.

“What is it?” Helen called, a worried expression on her face.

It was a blistering hot Thursday afternoon, the very last day of a long, sweltering August. Helen sat on the front steps of the sunny gallery shelling peas. Charlie was out on the lawn, attempting to teach the Russian Blue to fetch a stick he kept throwing. The dignified Dom refused to play such a senseless game. He had no use for the stick, so why would he want to chase after it? He looked at Charlie with those strange green eyes and didn’t stir. So Charlie had to retrieve the stick each time. On the last go-round his bare foot had come squarely down atop a grass burr.

“A sticker,” Charlie shouted. “I stepped on a sticker.”

“Come, let me see,” Helen instructed. She set her pan of shelled peas aside.

Hopping on one foot, Charlie sprang over to her, pulling terrible faces, making sure she knew he was in excruciating pain. “Owwww, oooh, mmmmm,” he grunted and groaned.

“Give me your foot,” Helen ordered when he reached her.

Charlie put his hands on her shoulders and stuck his bare, dirty foot in her lap. “Looks like a nasty old goathead,” Helen said, and gingerly caught it between thumb and forefinger and swiftly plucked it free. “There!” she said, and held it out for Charlie to see. “Got it. It is a big one, isn’t it?”

Charlie studied the sticker thoughtfully, frowned, shook his blond head, and said, “Well, by jeeters, no wonder it hurt so bad!”