Passing Through Midnight (14 page)

"Would you like to sit down?" She motioned to the next
room with her head. "I finally uncovered the stuff in the living room.
It's nice. I don't watch much television, but sometimes it…
well, it helps pass the time, and I got tired of sitting on the
dustcovers. It's a nice room."

"Maybe another time."

They stared at each other for a long moment. They were
going to play an adult game by the adult rules. They were agreed. It
was what they both wanted. What they needed. Still, Dorie wished for a
little more time. A few minutes more, for no good reason she could
think of.

He took a step toward her. Unconsciously she took a step
backward, toward the stairs, and pressed the starter button on her
mouth.

"I… I
was
in college the
first time I did this," she rattled. "Jerry Feldman was his name. I
waited a long time. I thought love was important, and we were nuts
about each other." She laughed softly. "Funny the way those things go,
isn't it? And then there was Philip. My husband. My ex-husband.
So… well, you can see I don't come with much of a sexual
history, and I suppose these are things we should discuss," she said,
matching his forward step with another to the rear. "I mean, as a doctor, I feel we should know certain things
about each other."

"Six months ago I refinanced my place and had a complete
physical for the insurance. I tested negative, and I haven't been with
anyone since."

"Oh. Great. That's good to know. Me too. I mean, I test
negative also." Then she thought to add, "It's a routine
thing… at the hospital, to test. And… and the
blood I got in the hospital, after the accident, was pretty much
homogenized by the time I got it. They screen and rescreen it nowadays."

He nodded.

"There are probably other things you should know about me
too," she said, stepping backward onto the first step. She put a
trembling hand on the banister, and he covered it with one of his. Her
mouth was dry, and she could feel tears pressing on the back of her
eyes, though she didn't feel like crying.

"Like what?" He bent his head to look at the bowed sash at
her waist. He pulled lightly at a free end, and the knot fell apart.

"Like I'll be forty in two years."

"Me too. In four."

"I guess I should tell you why my husband left me too."

"You don't have to." He could tell she didn't want to,
that it would be hard for her.

"I can't have children," she said, blurting it out as if
she were ripping off a Band-Aid, to get the pain over with as quickly
as possible.

He was about to follow her up the two steps between them,
but stopped.

"That's why he left? Because you can't have children?"

"He wanted children."

"And you didn't?" Calling to mind the way she looked at
his boys, it didn't make sense.

"No. I did. I couldn't."

"You couldn't adopt?"

"He wanted his own." He sighed and lowered his eyes to
curse a man he hoped he'd never have to meet. "I thought you'd be
relieved to know."

Abruptly, in one movement, he took the two steps between
them and met her eye-to-eye.

"It's not a relief," he said, his lips barely inches from
hers. "But it also doesn't matter to me. Plenty of women can have
children, but they can't all love a child." He was thinking of Joy.
"Can you love a child, Dorie?"

"Yes," she murmured. "With all my heart."

"That's where it counts," he said, brushing his open lips
over hers, teasing and seductive. His gaze wandered over her face,
searching the depths of her eyes. The palm of his hand settled lightly
on her chest as his fingers grazed the soft skin of her neck. "That's
all that counts."

She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Their breaths
mingled warm and gaspy as their lips swept slightly, carelessly,
maddeningly against each other. Her heart raced, and her body trembled
with anticipation. She ached to touch him, but moved back and up once
more.

"There are other things I should warn you about," she said
quickly as he followed her. Step after step.

The soft folds of her robe hung open in the middle to
reveal the deep-green pajamas and the rapid rise and fall of her
breasts with every frightened breath she took. Though she was covered
from shoulders to ankles, she was naked before his eyes. Everything she
was, was clear to see in her eyes. Her unprotected pride, her
susceptible courage, her vulnerable self-esteem. They were there, his
to beat and break if he so chose.

"Tell me," he whispered, feeling her torment, refusing to
let it come between them. The robe slipped easily from her shoulders.
He draped it over the top of the banister.

"I'm not perfect," she said, backing toward her bedroom
door, wondering briefly if it was too late to call the whole thing off.

"I'm not either."

"I mean… I have scars."

"I know," he said, his fingers skimming over the thin red
lines on her right cheek, his other hand cupping the left side of her
face as he kissed them.

"I have other scars," she said, panic tearing at the edges
of her voice. "Bigger ones. Uglier ones."

"Show me," he murmured close to her mouth, locking his
gaze with hers, as if bravely challenging her to a
gross-me-out-if-you-can contest.

She stood petrified with fear, her palms flat against the
door and the hall wall. What if her body was so disgusting, he couldn't
touch her? She'd seen him with a half-born calf on his lap, but what if
her body was worse? What if it repulsed him? What if he turned his face
away? What if… ?

He took her hands in his and turned her slowly into the
room. Her bare feet seemed to stick to the floor as he led her to the
bed. He situated her with her back to the window, facing the light, and
then he sat down on the bed in front of her.

"Show me," he said again.

She swallowed and glanced at the burning lamp. She
recalled the day she'd changed the bulb so she could read in bed and
regretted it.

"Where are they?" he asked, reclaiming her attention. She
parted her lips, ready to speak, but couldn't utter a word. "They did
surgery on your leg, didn't they?" She inclined her head, her eyes
never leaving his. "I want to see it."

She neither gave her permission nor withheld it. She
closed her eyes and left it up to him. When she felt his hands at her
waist, on the elastic of the pajama bottoms, she pulled in a deep
breath and looked straight ahead at the wall across from her. She felt
them slip over her hips and put her mind into the details of the ornate
framework encasing some Averback ancestor with eyes that looked
remarkably like Fletcher's.

When toe satin pooled at her feet, she knew it was too
late. He could see the red jagged scar on her left thigh. It was too
late to hide it from him.

A silent sob escaped her when she felt his lips on her
thigh. She looked down at his dark head, endured the tiny kisses he
placed slowly and carefully along the suture line, and blinked back
tears.

In his heart, he wanted to laugh. Dorie's legs were as
long and shapely as the pillars of heaven, soft and smooth and pale.
The triangle of coarse dark hair between them was the devil of a
temptation. And the scar? The scar was as wide as a pencil, dark pink, about six
inches long, and the last damned thing he had noticed.

"You said your spleen was ruptured, so there's one here
too," he said, looking up, his fingers moving to the bottom button on
the pajama top. "Let me look at you."

She didn't stop him when he freed the second button, but
she wanted to caution him that of all her scars, the one that traversed
her abdomen was the ugliest. It wasn't as wide as the one on her leg,
in fact it wasn't as wide as the lead of a pencil, but it was longer
and purplish-pink and puckered a little on one end with little staple
dots of discoloration on either side. It stood out against her pale
skin as a symbol of hatred and brutality. She could hardly look at it
without feeling black and grotesque inside; without feeling malice;
without feeling the scars on her heart open and ooze forth a purulence
of anger and bitterness.

He reached high to push the green satin off her shoulders.
It slid down her arms to the floor. Only then did his eyes leave her
face to let his gaze caress her full breasts, nipples hard and pink;
her ribs, the bones scarcely delineated below delicate-looking skin;
her waist, hips gently rounded and soft. He drew a raggedy breath for
control and deliberately focused on the scar running diagonally along
the upper left quadrant of her soft, flat belly.

It was nasty looking all right, but only in that it
represented a pain she had suffered.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked, tracing it gingerly with
his index finger.

"No."

He forced himself to look at it a little longer, wondering
how he could tell her that her body was so luscious and feminine that
the scars were hardly visible. In fact, they gave corporeality to a
body that was statue perfect.

"I wish it were a zipper," he said, thinking aloud. "I'd
open you up and crawl inside."

"Sometimes it's not so pretty in there either."

He looked back at her face and got slowly to his feet.

"If you're even half as beautiful on the inside as you are
on the outside, I'd never want to come out. I wouldn't ever leave you."

Oh Lord. There had to be some sharp, pithy response to
that, but for the life of her she couldn't think of it. Her smart mouth
went suddenly dumb. She let her eyes tell him how cruel it would be to
lie to her. She let him see how much she hoped he was being sincere.

The only proof he could offer was to kiss her as if she
were the most awesomely beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. No
pretense was necessary.

He kissed her over and over, enthralled by the heat
mounting in her golden-brown eyes, turning them molten with passion.
She touched him, and he thought he might fall to his knees. Slim, firm
body parts warmed the palms of his hands. Soft and supple. He reveled
in her scent, in her shape, in the sensations she aroused. He grew
greedy for the pleasured sounds in her throat.

His hungry mouth excited her. His tongue stroked at a
forgotten power deep inside her. She felt her body quicken with its
rebirth. Her skin tingled with its energy. Her breasts became engorged
with its delight in life.

She tugged at his shirttail, yearning to press against his
heat and his strength, longing to feel his responses, obsessed with her
growing capacity to make his muscles taut with eagerness and
impatience; to urge his hands into a frenzied motion of search and
discovery; to force pleased and desperate sounds from deep in his chest.

He could have taken her hard and quick. He wanted to. But
somehow it was just as thrilling, just as satisfying to torment her
with pleasure, to play with her body. It was like holding lightning in
his hands. Quick. Electric. Alive. His to use. His to control. His to
enjoy!… And to protect. And to cherish.

He unearthed her treasures of self-awareness and
femininity, personal power and liberty, and offered them to her as
gifts. Awesome and overwhelming, her soul cried out for the courage to
once again place them among the other riches in her life. She had
missed them, and for their revival she rewarded him with a piece of her
heart. Somewhere between rapture and delirium, he took her, holding her
close, murmuring her name. He took her beyond darkness and light,
beyond feeling and thought, to pure bliss and contentment.

They laid loose and unthinking in each other's arms, the
world crouched at their feet but not daring to disturb them. It was
enough to let their hearts beat as one; to feel safe; to close their
eyes and sleep without dreams.

The warmth slipped away from her. She felt it escaping
from between her fingers. She reached out and felt it in the sheets,
chilling quickly in the air.

"Where are you going?" she asked sleepily, her eyelids
dropping closed as she tried to watch him dress.

"Home."

"What time is it?"

"About five-thirty. I should be there when the boys get
up."

"What about Matthew?"

"What about him?"

"When does he get up?"

"Probably already is," he said casually, buttoning up his
denims as he looked down at her. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that
she was all woman, but cuddled in the blankets and groggy with sleep
there was something entirely sweet and virtuous about
her—adorable and too tempting at the same time.

"Oh dear. Well, what's he going to think?"

"About what?" he asked, looking for his boots, knowing
full well what she was asking.

"About us? About you coming home at the crack of dawn with
that stupid smile on your face?"

"He'll be green with envy."

"I'm serious." She came up on one elbow.

"So am I," he said, sitting on the bed with his
still-shirtless back to her. "Matthew decided I was a man a long time
ago. I don't need his permission to stay out at night. And I don't care
if he knows what I'm doing. Do you?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"No," she admitted with a shrug. "Not really. Not if you
don't." She smiled. "I think he was expecting this anyway."

He nodded and grinned.

"What about the boys? Are they going to know?"

"That's up to you. If it makes you
uncomfortable…"

"No. It's just, well, I think Fletcher suspects something."

"You noticed that, did you?"

"He's not very subtle," she said, smiling. "For a teenager
he's very… candid."

"A know-it-all pain in the butt, you mean," he said
fondly, bending to tie up his boots.

"A young man who's been encouraged to express himself and
had someone listening to him and caring about him, is more like it. The
pain-in-the-butt part comes with his age, not with his personality."