Текст книги "The Affair"
Автор книги: Beth Kery
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“I can say it because I know. There’s nothing to fear, Cristina.”
For a few seconds Cristina just stared at her in openmouthed awe. Emma saw the doubt slink back into her expression.
“Look at me,” Cristina demanded bitterly, glancing at her frail body beneath the sheets. “I’m skin and bones and seeping sores. My insides are being eaten away by cancer. How can you say death isn’t twisted and awful?”
“It is awful at times. Painful. Scary. But one never sees life more clearly than when death approaches. And maybe that’s the biggest gift of death—life’s final gift—if we can accept it.”
A shudder went through Cristina. “You say you’re not religious, but you certainly sound like you want me to repent of my sins before I go.”
Emma smiled. “I don’t know if I’d call them sins, necessarily, but if you have something you want to talk about, I’ll listen.”
“And not judge?” Cristina wondered skeptically.
“And not judge,” Emma repeated calmly. “You brought this up, Cristina. There must be something you want to get off your chest.”
Cristina stared at the closed curtains across the room, a faraway look in her eyes. “There are so many things,” she whispered, sounding uncharacteristically sad. Wistful. After a moment, she focused on Emma again. She looked very tired. “But I still don’t think it’s right.”
“What?” Emma asked, confused.
“For a young girl like you, so full of life, to surround herself with death. Maybe you’re the one who is afraid.”
“What do you mean?” Emma asked.
“Maybe you’re such an expert on death because you’re afraid to live,” Cristina said in a thready whisper. Her eyelids closed. She didn’t speak again for several seconds. Emma thought she slept, and grew lost in reflecting on Cristina’s words.
“You really do believe it, don’t you?” Cristina asked in a quavering voice after a minute. She opened her eyes. “That dying isn’t frightening?”
“No,” Emma said quietly. “I know it.”
Cristina studied her searchingly for several seconds, and then closed her eyes again. Emma watched over her as she sunk into a comfortable sleep.
Was there any truth to what she’d said about her being afraid of life? Her relationship with Colin for the past two years had kept her comfortable. Safe. That seemed glaringly obvious now. She’d clung to the familiarity. She’d needed security after the death of her mother. Maybe Colin was tired of being her security blanket and longed for something more risky. More passionate.
Who could blame him?
“Emma.”
She started from her thoughts and turned in her chair, surprised to be interrupted. Margie was already gone for the day. She and Cristina were usually alone on this floor of the house at night, and her patient was fast asleep. Mrs. Shaw stood just inside the threshold to the bedroom, perhaps rightfully aware she wouldn’t be welcome by Cristina.
“I’ve come with a message,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Mr. Montand says you forgot to leave your keys in your car, and so he can’t service it. He asked if I could collect them from you now.”
Emma stared, heat rushing into her cheeks. The decision of whether or not to leave her keys in her car this afternoon had taken on gargantuan significance in her head. She’d been a coward not to leave them. Wasn’t she a coward, period? Now it felt as if her vulnerability and confusion had been put on display for Mrs. Shaw, a very undesirable audience.
“I’ll get them,” Emma said breathlessly, hurrying to her purse. She handed her keys to the housekeeper a moment later. “Thank you for doing this.”
“He asked me to give you the entry code to the garage.” Mrs. Shaw said the five numbers like she was uttering a malediction at Emma, before she turned and glided out of the suite.
It’s not a big deal, Emma reminded herself later that night as she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Debbie was there for her shift and had been briefed. Emma was free to go. She was just going to the garage to pick up her car. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.
If you’re just going to claim your car and it’s not a big deal, how come you put on perfume and eyeliner? she asked herself snidely. She’d tried to put on some powder, too, to conceal the hated, light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but eventually washed it off. Amanda could make them disappear when she applied Emma’s makeup, but Emma herself always botched it.
Thinking of the familiar little makeup ritual with her sister made hurt and anger slice through her. She stifled it with effort.
Her brown eyes looked especially huge, whether from anxiety or the eyeliner or the contrast of her pale face and blond hair, she wasn’t sure.
You look like a deer in headlights.
That’s what she felt like, too.
Annoyed by her uncalled-for nervousness, she left the bathroom and said good night to Debbie. Cristina was still sleeping.
Unlike last night, she could see thousands of stars in the sky when she walked out the rear entrance. Her memory served her correctly. She easily found the hidden garage door behind the grove of trees and shrubs and used the passcode. Her footsteps sounded abnormally loud on the concrete floor of the mudroom. When she entered the huge space, she saw her car parked first in line on the row of vehicles on the right, along with a pair of long, coverall-covered legs and brown work boots sticking out from beneath it. Rock music was playing. Emma looked around for the source of the music but saw no radio. There must be built-in speakers somewhere.
“Hello?” she called out uncertainly.
Montand rolled out from beneath her car on a creeper, catching himself with practiced ease on the bumper with a gloved hand. Emma held her breath as she watched him sit up. He gripped a wrench in one hand. Unlike last night, he was clean-shaven. The goatee had disappeared, but he looked no less piratical. His hair was a mess of finger-combed, rich brown waves. There was a streak of oil on his jaw. His aquamarine-colored eyes lowered over her slowly.
“Hi,” she repeated stupidly. She’d been wrong again.
He was clearly a very big deal.
He sprung up from the creeper and set down the wrench on a trolley filled with tools.
“She’s all ready for you,” he said, walking toward her. Emma unfastened her gaze from the vision of him removing the work gloves from large, well-shaped, very . . . capable-looking hands.
“How bad was it?” she asked.
“Not bad at all. Just needed someone to give it a little attention.”
She grimaced. “That hasn’t been me, unfortunately. So many things have been breaking down recently. I haven’t had the energy to deal with something that wasn’t broken. Yet,” she added sheepishly.
“What else is broken?” he asked, studying her from beneath a lowered brow.
“What isn’t?” she asked with a laugh. “I’ve put in about a hundred requests with my apartment owner for maintenance to come fix my backed-up kitchen sink, the hot-water heater, the icemaker . . . the list goes on, but there doesn’t appear to be a lot of consequences for a landlord who just ignores a tenant’s requests.” She noticed his slanted brows and slight scowl and realized how whiny she probably sounded. “It’s not a big deal. I have a friend who has a dad that’s a cop in Cedar Bluff. He used to work for the Chicago Police Department. He said he’ll walk me through how to file a formal complaint with the housing commission against our apartment owner. Apparently, the owner isn’t the most upstanding citizen. Anyway, I can’t thank you enough for fixing the one thing I really couldn’t afford to have broken,” she said, waving at her car. “A hospice nurse spends a lot of time driving.”
“It’s a nice little car.”
Emma laughed. “Seriously? You were working way below your normal standards,” she said, nodding toward the other superexpensive, rare, and luxurious vehicles lined up in the garage. “Like having to eat cornflakes when you’re used to caviar.”
“I hate caviar.”
“Me, too.” She realized she was grinning at him idiotically and looked away. “Even though I only had it once.”
“You’re not missing much,” he said, flicking his gloves against the palm of his hand. Was he impatient to be gone?
“Well I can’t thank you enough, both for this and last night.” There didn’t seem to be a good place anywhere to rest her gaze.
“Do you want to see some of my cars?”
“Okay,” she said. Had he realized she was uncomfortable and tried to distract her from her embarrassment? That was nice, but somehow even more embarrassing. She fell into step beside him as he began to walk between the two rows of cars.
“You look pale,” he said bluntly. “Is everything okay?” He sounded stiff asking. With a flash of insight, she realized he wasn’t cold. Not really. He just wasn’t used to being solicitous.
He’d slowed down next to a gorgeous, shining ivory-colored vintage car.
“I . . . kind of had a rough night, that’s all,” she said shrugging, stopping because he’d stopped.
His blue-green eyes raked over her face. “Fight with your boyfriend?”
She exhaled in disgusted disbelief. She was either the most transparent person in the world, or those eyes of his really were X rays. “As it turns out, I don’t have a boyfriend anymore.”
“What?”
To her horror, she felt emotion tighten her throat. Had it lain in wait this whole time, ready to spring up on her at the moment she least wanted to feel it? She laughed to hide her sudden discomposure and looked away from his intent expression.
“I walked in on my boyfriend with . . . someone else last night.” She hadn’t breathed a word of the truth to anyone, why Michael Montand, of all people? “We’ve been together for two years,” she added lamely.
He muttered a muted, yet blistering curse.
“It’s okay,” she said, avoiding his stare. She feared she’d see pity on his bold features—or worse, impatience or bemusement at her personal admission to a near stranger. “I probably should have called things off between us a long time ago.”
“Why didn’t you?” Montand asked.
“Because he was a safety net? Because I’m a coward?” she asked, a bark of hysterical laughter popping out of her throat.
She couldn’t stop herself from meeting his stare.
“You are not a coward,” he said quietly. As in many things he said, it was a proclamation. He stepped toward her, and her heart leapt.
“Come here,” he murmured.
Her feet moved as if of their own volition. His arms surrounded her. Her cheek pressed against the thick fabric of the cotton coveralls and his hard chest beneath them. The thought struck her that the sensation of the cloth against her cheek was familiar—his scent was—but then the dreaded emotion rose higher in her throat, and she turned all her resources into tamping it down.
She made a strangled sound and shuddered in humiliation. His arms tightened around her, the sensation divine and awful at once. She contained her misery, but just barely. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t told him about what was really bothering her—about who she’d found her boyfriend with—that she managed to not break down. Or maybe it was that he felt so amazing next to her that was distracting her so much. He opened his hand at her back and made a soothing motion against her spine, his fingers curving around her waist. His body felt so solid . . . so good. She’d never been pressed against someone so hard. He seemed like the most solid of things in a world spinning off its axis. His hand cupped her hip. Her thoughts fractured and shot off in a million directions when she felt his body stir. Hers replied in kind.
“Emma?” he asked tensely.
She leaned her head back and met his stare. His hand rose to cup her face, his thumb feathering her jaw. He felt it, too. It was right there in his eyes. The shared knowledge of their mutual need seemed to throb in the air between them like some kind of naked, shared heart.
“Yes,” she whispered her answer, parting her lips.
And his mouth was covering hers.
Week
TWO
Chapter 6
He didn’t know why he’d done it. He’d ordered himself to steer clear of trouble. True, he’d been thinking about Emma Shore a lot. So much so, in fact, that he’d cautioned himself to stay away. She wasn’t for him—something so fresh and unexpected for something so jaded and tired?
He didn’t think so.
He wasn’t denying his lechery toward her; it wasn’t that. That was impossible to deny. His sleepless night had been haunted by her form. Her smile. Her eyes.
It was like being a teenager all over again, his mind obsessed with graphic, imagined sexual scenarios, his body burning like it hadn’t in a decade. He’d masturbated repeatedly like a teenager, that much was certain. As unpleasant as unrequited lust was, it strangely felt like he was coming to life again. His body was prickly with sensation, primed with need.
But it hadn’t been biting lust that had made him step forward and take Emma Shore into his arms. It had been instinct. Maybe it was the fact that her pale, delicate face and dark eyes held so much bewilderment and hurt. Or maybe it was seeing the way she fought like crazy to contain that pain. It’d wrecked him a little, that expression, like seeing the face of a good, strong child who had just been uncharacteristically backhanded by a loved one.
She didn’t feel like a child. She felt good against him, slender and svelte, firm and supple beneath his stroking hand. Her head cuddled against his chest, the gesture striking him as natural. Sweet. He glanced down and saw that small spray of freckles across the bridge of her adorable nose. Those freckles epitomized the paradox in her that he found compelling: freshness and raw sensuality. He could smell the light, fruity smell of her golden hair and wanted to touch the soft waves. A shudder went through her, and he stroked the length of her spine, wanting to give comfort but feeling woefully inadequate to the task. He sensed all the emotion trapped inside her. It seemed to resonate into his hands until he felt like he held it—her confusion, her pain. He didn’t like feeling it, but he hoped he lessened it for her by absorbing it, so he didn’t let go.
A tightness grew in his chest, but he couldn’t say why. It had something to do with how unexpected she was, or the sharp knowledge that a girl with a smile that could light up a room could ever be sad. Life really was a cruel, ruthless bitch if it could randomly lash out at someone like her, at something so fine and undeserving.
His fingers stretched, mapping the beautiful curves he’d admired in the past that led from her narrow waist to her hips. How incredible it would be to sink into the sweetness of her taut little body, to watch her troubled expression transformed by bliss.
His cock stiffened with unprecedented vigor.
Irritation spiked through him. How foul could he be to have the urge to fuck rise up in him like a striking snake in this situation? He despised the evidence that he was no better than his father, but didn’t darkness and selfishness beget the same?
He knew she’d felt his cock harden. It was hard to disguise the evidence, as close as they stood. She stiffened against him, but almost immediately softened, pressing tighter to him, her hips pressing closer, as if she wanted to feel the contours of his arousal.
“Emma?” he asked warily, not fully trusting his senses, all too aware of the lust boiling just beneath his surface, straining to erupt.
Her whispered “yes” was so sweet, he couldn’t resist leaning down to taste her acquiescence on his tongue.
It was like being abruptly plunged into a pool of boiling sensation. His mouth shaped her flesh to his, a firm, insistent master. His hands molded just as his lips did, pressing her flesh against his. He groaned and dipped his knees, aligning them. Emma cried out softly at the exquisite feeling of his groin fitting between the juncture of her thighs. As if he’d sensed the give in her flesh, he penetrated her mouth with his tongue at the same moment that he pressed his sex to hers. Emma flamed high at his stark possession. She grasped at his shoulders and strained closer, wanting more, tangling her tongue with his.
The sweet residue of a peppermint candy or gum lingered in his mouth, but beneath it, she tasted something else, something complex, intoxicating and new. He seemed just as fascinated by her taste. His sleek tongue explored her thoroughly, the primal edge to his hunger sending a thrill streaming through her veins. His hand opened at her middle back as he leaned down over her, his kiss seguing into a dark demand. She bowed her spine, answering his call, pressing her hips closer to his erection, circling slightly. His hand lowered to her ass, cupping her against him even more firmly. He groaned roughly, his teeth finding her lower lip and scraping it between them. A jolt of electrical arousal went through her at the evidence of his arousal. Somehow, his kiss was more exciting than any full-out sex she’d ever experienced.
His kiss. That’s all. It was all of that: hot, mind-blowing, addictive to a degree that it should be considered illegal . . . so good, that she gasped in acute displeasure when he abruptly tore his mouth from hers.
“You should go,” he said stiffly.
“I don’t want to go,” she replied breathlessly, staring at his mouth, her hunger awakened. Rabid.
“Only a selfish asshole would take advantage of you when you’re this upset. I am selfish. But I don’t want to be. Not with you,” he bit out viciously.
Her well-kissed mouth hung open. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I think I need this.”
“You’ll regret it later.”
“I’ll regret stopping,” she corrected without pause. She studied his rigid features. “Please don’t tell me what I want or need. I’ll decide for myself.” Even though he’d stopped kissing her, he still held her fast. His heavy erection throbbed into her, his strength.
His vulnerability.
She put her hand at the back of his head, her fingers delving into his hair. It felt even more arousing than she’d imagined, to touch the thick waves. She pulled him to her. He came reluctantly.
But he came.
She kissed his slight frown, coaxing him. Softening him. She glanced into his eyes cautiously as she nibbled at his firm mouth. His gaze blazed down at her. His utter stillness made her wary, but excited her as well. She ran her tongue delicately along the inner lining of his lower lip, and felt the shudder in his body.
“Fuck it,” he said, before he seized her mouth and sealed it to his.
His tongue plunged between her lips at the same moment that he turned her, urged her . . . taking control. Her ass and back thumped against the hard surface of a car. He pressed her to it tighter with his body. She burned for a moment between the two hard surfaces and beneath his voracious kiss. Distantly, she heard a metallic click. He lifted his head and stared down at her.
“Get in,” he said. She looked around dazedly and saw that he held open the door to the backseat of the beautiful luxury sedan. It was a challenge he’d growled so softly.
It was a challenge she was more than willing to meet.
Her heart slamming against her breastbone, she pried herself away from his pinning body and walked around him. The only movement he made was the slight give in his body as he released her. She looked at him before she sat in the car. He watched her by moving only his eyes, holding his head immobile, his facial features pulled tight. Once she was inside the car, she scooted over on the seat, glancing around anxiously.
It was some kind of vintage luxury vehicle, the likes of which she’d never before seen. The name Bentley had come to mind earlier, but she didn’t know if that was the correct name of the car or not. Her imagination supplied a vision of some 1950s, fur-draped movie star being driven by a chauffeur to a glamorous red-carpet event in a similar car. The seat was very long by today’s car standards, and was made of decadently soft, ivory-colored leather. The dashboard looked like it was made of tortoiseshell.
She fleetingly noticed these details before his body blocked the light from the garage in the open door, and he was sliding onto the seat next to her. The door shut. She’d thought the interior of the car unusually large until he was in it with her. His presence made her feel as if she was secreted in a small, dim place with him . . . trapped, but excitingly so.
“Come here,” he said grimly, reaching for her. She went into his arms, eager to be submerged in his heat again. He leaned down and met her kiss, immediately taking control of it. She whimpered softly into his mouth, melting. This is what he did, some befuddled part of her brain acknowledged. He turned women to goo. His seductions were as easy and practiced as his mechanical ability around cars. The realization didn’t bother her at that moment. His expertise was what she required. What she needed.
Even though his kiss was a firm, hot delight, he’d reined himself in during the interim when she’d gotten into the car. She loved his mouth’s making love to her with such consummate, toe-curling heat and skill, but she longed to feel the sharp edge of his desire again. She sealed their kiss and turned her head, brushing their mouths together experimentally, nibbling, learning his shape and texture. His scent penetrated her awareness—clean skin, a remnant of his spicy cologne, a hint of motor oil. Familiar. Thrilling. Wonderful.
She plucked at his lips with curious ardor, but he remained utterly still. Chained. Her fingers sunk into his hair—thick, gorgeous man-hair. Need clawed at her insides, lust like she’d never experienced it. Her fingernails scraped his scalp forcefully.
His low, guttural groan sent another sharp thrill through her. His hands bracketing her waist, he leaned down over her, his tongue piercing her mouth. He pulled her against him roughly. Her back arched, her breasts crushing against him, yet he wasn’t close enough. His tongue swept the depths of her mouth, as if claiming it as his territory. He applied a suction that she felt in the far reaches of her body—her nipples, her belly, the very core of her.
Fisting his thick hair, she pulled him closer with knuckles on his skull. He groaned in rough dissatisfaction, and she thought she knew why. They couldn’t get any closer in their sitting position.
He pushed and she yielded, lying back on the supple leather seat. She made a muffled sound of protest when he sealed their torrid kiss momentarily. Hands on her waist, he slid her farther along the seat so that her head rested near the far door. She saw the glint of his eyes in the shadowed interior. She gave a little squeak of surprise when he scooped up her legs behind the knees and threaded them around his still-partially-upright body, his actions quick and precise. He let go and her legs fell between his back and the back cushion. Then he was coming down over her reclining body, his weight on top of her feeling heaven-sent. He grasped the side of her head, his fingers threading into her hair, her skull fitting into his palm. A wild quiver of anticipation went through her when she saw his lust-tight features.
He captured her mouth with his own, and the kiss resumed, hot and wet and deep. Her hands moved over his back, desperate to outline his shape and texture. She wanted—no, she needed—to feel his arousal pressed against her flesh, craved the evidence of his reciprocal desire. But he was still in a partial sitting position, his hip on the seat, his booted feet on the floor. She could lie out flat on the long seat of the luxurious car, but he was much too tall. She transferred one hand to his belly, wild to absorb him one way or another, pressing against fabric to feel the taut wall of muscle beneath it. Her hand lowered below his waist, reaching. He lifted his head. Gritting his teeth, he slid his hand down her arm, grasping her wrist. He did the same to the other, and before Emma knew what was happening, he’d pressed both her hands above her head.
He stared down at her, nostrils flared slightly, his breath coming as choppily as hers.
“Don’t you dare tease me, Emma.”
She blinked at his harshness. He was holding her tight. She couldn’t move. Despite his biting words and the restraint that she sensed she couldn’t break if she tried, she wasn’t afraid of him. Her excitement only mounted. He closed his eyes briefly, and she sensed his regret.
“I’m not going to do this in the back of the car in a garage,” he said more evenly after a pause. “I’m not a teenager anymore.” His gaze lowered to her heaving chest. “Or an animal,” he added, this time less certainly.
Emma swallowed back a protest. For a few seconds, she just lay there, trying to gather herself. It was hard, with his upper body pressed against her and his head hovering so close, inhaling the scent that did something unprecedented to her brain. She’d never wanted a man more. She’d never wanted anything so sharply that it cut her to the quick. Still, she heard what he was saying.
“I understand.” She twisted slightly beneath him and pulled at her hands in his grip.
“No, you don’t,” he said with a flash of irritation, refusing to release her hands.
“What’s not to understand?” she asked, exasperation tingeing her tone. “I’m not going to beg you. If you don’t want to, fine.”
He abruptly caught her right wrist and drew it downward, taking her by surprise. He pressed her hand between his thighs. She gaped up at him. He felt huge throbbing next to her palm, furiously erect. It’d been the evidence she craved, but now it left her speechless.
“That’s how much I want to,” he grated out between a rigid jaw, pressing her hand tighter to his swollen cock for an electrical second. He seemed to notice her stunned expression. He jerked her hand away, grimacing. He lowered his head, obscuring his face. For a few seconds, he remained like that, his chest moving in and out in silent pants.
He glanced up after a moment, that marblelike surface she often saw on his features back in place. His hand skimmed down over her belly. Her stomach muscles jumped at the caress. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of her jeans. Her eyes widened.
He flipped his wrist in a precise, expert motion, and the top button of her jeans came unfastened.
“You’re confusing me,” she said, her heart thumping in anxious, wild anticipation.
Long fingers moved over her fly, methodically releasing button after button. She bit her lip, finding his touch so near her sex almost unbearably exciting. He stared down at her steadily. “I’m trying to convince myself that I’m being noble. You’ve had a really crappy twenty-four hours. You need some time to absorb what it all means to you without having some asshole humping you in the backseat of a car. Still. You deserve some pleasure. That’s what you’re telling me you want. To forget what happened last night, if only for a little while. I can do that for you.”
“Oh,” she mumbled. Is that what she’d been telling him, not only with her mouth but also her body? She increasingly didn’t care, as long as he kept touching her. With him touching her, all thoughts of Amanda’s shattered expression in that living room last night vacated her brain.
His fingers burrowed beneath her jeans, skimming her labia through her underwear. Rubbing. Pressing. The whole time, he watched her expression tightly. When he struck her bull’s-eye, she gasped at the ideal, direct pressure on her clit. Her core clenched tight. She grimaced at the sharp pinch of need and pressed her hips up against him and whimpered uncontrollably.
He really knew his way around a woman’s body.
Oh my God.
To say the least.
He lowered his head until his mouth was just a fraction of an inch from hers, his gaze holding hers fast the whole time.
“The thing of it is, though, I’m still just being selfish. I’m not going to rest until I feel you shake against me,” he said, his tone a strange mixture of thick arousal and anger.
His fingers found the edge of her panties and slid beneath them. She whimpered shakily as the ridge of his forefinger burrowed between her lips, gliding in the well-lubricated valley. He’d mapped her out well in his little expedition above her panties. She shook as he played her. He grunted roughly against her mouth.
“So what do you say? Do you think you can grant me rest tonight, Emma?” he murmured, rubbing her clit and plucking and biting at her upturned lips in a way that made her burn in places she didn’t realize she owned.
“Oh yes,” she whispered.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said hotly as both his finger and tongue plunged in unison.
