Solomon's Decision (2 page)

He was beautiful, never mind that the word was not conventionally applied to
men. Erik Solomon was beautiful. Sun-streaked hair curled rakishly around his ears and
tumbled across his high, tanned forehead. His eyes were dark, darker than Jesse's had been,
and just as startling in so blond a man.

Sleepiness deserted her as she watched him, wondering what those lean fingers
would feel like, drifting across her cheek. Would his beard be scratchy, or soft, erotic,
against her bare breasts. Like Jesse's.

Oh, God! Jesse. What was she doing? How could she compare anyone with
Jesse--her first, her only, love? Madeline closed her eyes and called up Jesse's image. Without
success. The blackness of her inner eyelids remained blank, empty.

Desperately she tried to recall the individual parts of him--light sandy hair, cut
short except in late summer when the demands of the ranch kept him from the barber shop;
brown eyes lit by a teasing spark; wide, mobile mouth, always on the verge of a grin; pug
nose like a kid's, incongruous on a man otherwise so totally masculine. As she put the
pieces together, they took shape in her mind, but the vision that resulted was not Jesse. The
hair was longer, more golden, and the nose was aristocratic. She opened her eyes to see her
vision still seated at the head table, now staring straight at her.

She stared back, peripherally aware that the tables had been cleared, the
after-dinner speaker introduced, the keynote speech delivered. At least an hour had passed since
she first locked her gaze on Erik Solomon--had she actually stared at him the whole time,
or had she, as she desperately needed to, slept?

Her boss's grin answered her unspoken question. "Did you have a nice nap?"

Feeling the blush lighting her cheeks, Madeline returned the grin. "Lovely, but not
nearly long enough. I think I'll pass on the rest of the evening and head back to the
hotel."

"Jeez, Madeline, it's only nine-thirty!"

"Don't be a drag!"

The others, all planners from small towns in Idaho, Oregon, and Washington,
agreed. This would be their only chance to talk shop in the relaxed atmosphere of a quiet
bar, since most were leaving as soon as the conference ended tomorrow.

Madeline regretted her exhaustion, but she shook her head. "I'd be no fun, people.
All I'd do is sleep in a quiet corner. I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?"

Amidst more argument, she picked up her raincoat and stuffed the program into
her purse, checking to make sure of the name of her hotel. Given her state of fatigue, she
was liable to do all sorts of dumb things.

The touch on her arm and the low, rumbly voice in her ear startled her.

"Leaving so soon?"

Tired or not, her body went on alert. It was the same inexplicable reaction she'd
felt this afternoon, an intense awareness. Almost a yearning.

She jerked her arm away from Erik Solomon's light touch. "No! I mean, yes."
Wake up Madeline!
"Yes. I'm leaving. I'm tired. It's late. I...."

"Me too," he said, his hand lightly cupping her elbow. "Let's see if I can find us a
cab."

Before she knew it, he was bundling her into a cab. "Which hotel?" he asked.

She told him.

"Just down the street from mine." He relayed the information to the driver, leaned
back as the cab accelerated into the heavy early evening traffic with a slight screech of
tires.

Madeline relaxed back into the seat, wishing she were already in her hotel room.
She appreciated his taking care of her, but now she just wanted him to go away and let her
alone. She was so terribly, terribly tired. She let her eyes close, her spine relax.

Erik couldn't decide whether he was insulted or complimented by the complete
trust she showed by falling asleep. He knew he sometimes bored his dates, sometimes
forgot that everyone didn't share his enthusiasm for wetlands preservation. But he couldn't
remember ever having put a woman to sleep before. He slipped his arm around her, tipped
her head to rest against his shoulder. It felt right. She fit.

He closed his own eyes, aware of being more than just tired. His mind refused to
relax, kept worrying at problems facing him back in Washington, D.C., anticipating
questions from tomorrow's seminar attendees, wondering why the woman's name seemed
familiar.

Madeline Pierson. He must have met someone by that name and it stuck in his
mind. He knew he'd never met this particular woman before. He wouldn't have forgotten
her.

When the cab pulled up to her hotel, he couldn't wake her. If he hadn't been
feeling like some kind of ghoul for his body's reaction to her warm breath on his neck, he
might have been more patient. "Damn it, lady, wake up," he growled. The driver waited,
watching him in the rear view mirror. Finally Erik gave up and reached for his wallet.
"Keep the change," he told the now-snickering cabby as he pulled her awkwardly out of
the back seat.

He had to lean her limp body against the building while he dug in her purse. He
could just imagine the desk clerk's reaction when he carried a comatose woman in and
asked what her room number was. The plastic key card was tucked into an outside pocket,
but of course it told him nothing. Her wallet was buried at the very bottom of the confusion
of keys, notebooks, conference program, cosmetics, pens, a stamped but unmailed phone
bill, disposable flashlight, and a fat Swiss Army knife. She started to slide to the sidewalk
while he was unzipping her wallet, forcing him to pull her firmly into his embrace.

His body reacted predictably. Damn it! Ever since he'd seen her at the conference
this afternoon, he'd been randy as a teenager at a girls' camp. He grimaced. It had been a
long time since he'd suffered instant lust. Too many dangers, both medical and emotional,
prompted his scientist's mind to rule his all too human libido.

He was finally able to steady her drooping body and peer over her shoulder at the
receipt tucked between two credit cards. As he did so, a photo in a plastic sleeve caught his
eye. It looked like...

God, it was! Jesse Zenger. That was why her name was so familiar.

Stuffing her wallet back into her purse, he swung her into his arms and climbed
the seven stone steps to the small lobby. "Ms. Pierson was taken ill at the banquet," he told
the suspicious desk clerk. But he had to produce identification--hers and his--before the
woman allowed him near the elevator.

God! What if he hadn't lied? Was she ill? He'd never seen anyone sleep so
soundly. Erik struggled to get them both inside her room and gently placed her on the
double bed. Laying the back of his hand against her cheek, he was relieved to find it cool.
He left her alone while he closed the door and switched on a lamp on the dresser.

Bonelessly she sprawled along the bed, in exactly the same position he'd put her.
He should leave, but he didn't want to. What if there was something wrong with her that
didn't cause a fever? "Madeline!" He spoke harshly, demandingly. "Madeline, wake
up!"

"Hmmmm?"

"Wake up, Madeline. You need to get into your nightgown, to brush your teeth."
He could see her trying to force her eyelids open. When she finally did, he saw that her
eyes were a deep, clear, vacant green.

"Jesse? Oh, Jesse, I had the most awful nightmare." She clutched his wrist and
pulled. Pulled hard, so he either had to go to his knees beside the bed or pull her upright.
He knelt.

"Hold me, Jesse. Please. I dreamed you were dead." The tears welling from her
eyes streaked across cheeks so pale they might have been carved from the purest ivory.
The pain behind them wrenched at his heart, for he didn't want to tell her it wasn't a
nightmare, but reality. Jesse was dead.

Without reservation Erik lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms. Her
sobs continued for several minutes, as if they'd been contained for a long time. She clung
to him, even when her breathing quieted and she slipped again into sleep.

For a long time he stared at the ceiling in the dimly lit room, wondering at the
deep feeling of rightness he experienced, just from holding a sleeping stranger. Yet she
was no stranger, for Jesse's infrequent letters had been filled with stories of his wonderful,
beautiful Linnie.

Madeline woke in Jesse's arms. The room was pitch black, with a strange smell
and small, strange sounds. She had no idea of the time, or even how she had gotten
here--wherever here was. All she knew was that her nightmare was over.

She nuzzled against Jesse's neck, smelling his clean, soapy odor, feeling the slight,
soft prickle of his whiskers. His arm tightened around her. "Love me," she whispered,
stroking her hand down his lean chest, across his tight abdomen, teasing him into readiness
through the soft wool of his trousers. "Oh, sweetheart, love me, please." She needed
reassurance. It had been so cold, so lonely in her dream.

He responded by tightening his hold on her, by seeking and finding her mouth. His
kiss was gentle, yet insistent. She ran her fingers through his hair--he needed a haircut as
he always did in the summertime--holding him close while he gave meticulous attention to
her cheeks, her eyelids, her mouth.

She felt herself climbing perilously close to the edge, as if it had been forever
since he'd kissed her. "Now," she urged, impatient, needing him inside her, filling her. She
fumbled at the fly of his trousers, frantic to free him. "Please, Jesse."

And he pushed her away!

Roughly he grabbed her wrists, forced her to release him. Before she could react,
he was off the bed, away from her.

A click and light flared. Madeline blinked, seeing a hotel room that was at once
foreign and strangely familiar. "Jesse," she cried, "what's wrong?" She reached toward
him, where he stood by the dresser, his back to her. A tall man, with wide shoulders
hunched, as if in pain. Then he turned.

"Jess...
you!"
The recent past came flooding back, with all its pain. Tears
welled up and flowed, burning tracks down her cheeks.

"I'm not your Jesse, Madeline, and I'm sorry."

His voice was deep, gentle, full of sympathy, the mellow, convincing baritone
she'd listened to just...today? Yes, today.

He sat beside her on the bed, tipping her face up with one hand while he pulled
tissues from the box on the bedside stand with the other. "Here," he said, holding one to
her nose. "Blow."

She tried to smile. Taking the tissue, she wiped her eyes and, holding it to her
nose, sniffed. "I'm mortified," she whispered, trying not to notice that he was still mildly
aroused. As she looked everywhere but into his face, she saw that she was completely
dressed, even to pantyhose. Well, almost completely.

His smile was crooked. "Lady, you really know how to wake a guy up."

Madeline burned. Not just her face, which she knew was glowing bright enough
that the lamp was unnecessary, but her hands, from the remembered feel of him. "I'm
sorry."

"So am I. If I'd thought you knew what you were doing, I'd have cooperated with
enthusiasm." His finger touched her cheek.

And now the burning threatened to become a wildfire. The wanting had been born
when she first saw him, had grown since then, until it was consuming her. Jesse was gone,
gone forever. No one would ever again cherish her, defend her, love her as he had. And she
was so desperately lonely, so incredibly empty. "Make love to me," she said, not looking at
him. "Please, just for tonight?"

The silence stretched until she wanted to break it with a scream. "I wanted you the
instant I saw you," he said, his voice hoarse. He didn't move from where he sat, as far away
on the edge of the bed as he could get.

"I've never felt like that before," she admitted. "As if I'd perish if I didn't have
you." She traced a meaningless pattern on the sheet. "I still feel that way," she whispered,
knowing what she was doing was wrong, but needing him. Needing to be held, to be
kissed, to be loved.

"I was going to leave after I tucked you in," he said. "But I couldn't. I knew
nothing would--could happen, but I needed to hold you just a little while longer. I couldn't
resist lying down beside you, for just a few minutes before I left."

His sheepish smile told her he really hadn't intended to fall asleep. She took a deep
breath. "Will you?" She looked at him, her eyes asking the rest of the question that she
hadn't courage to put into words a second time.

"Are you sure?"

Madeline nodded. Just to be held once more, even for a few moments, and she'd
be able to face the lonely years ahead.

He leaned forward, his fingers touching her face again. Heat spread from the point
of contact, flooding her body. "I've never wanted anyone as I do you."

She touched a questing finger with her tongue. "Can you protect me?" she asked,
with the one last vestige of common sense remaining to her.

"Yes," he said, his eyes holding hers. " But I don't usually..."

She could see the effort he was having, to hold himself in check. "Neither do I,"
she agreed. Licking dry lips with a tongue devoid of moisture, she said, "but this
time...."

He lunged across the intervening space, pulling her close. With hot mouth and
hard, desperate hands, he caressed her, kissed her, while she clawed at his shirt, pulling it
free of his trousers.

"Wait--" Catching her wrists, he held her seeking fingers away from his belt. "We
have all night, Madeline."

Her breath caught. "Sorry. I just--"

"Yeah. Me, too." His whole body was tight, trembling.

Eric had the strangest sensation that he'd done this a hundred...a thousand times
before. There was no clumsiness, no hesitation. He knew where the lightest touch would
drive her yet higher toward that ineffable peak. His tongue found her pulse points, her
warm crevices and hollows, her delicious curves, to lave and tickle, to taste and tease.

She knew where to stroke him into helpless moaning, how to clasp him intimately
until he cried out, "No more! Please!"