Sarah's Child

Sarah felt suffocated, suspended in time by his hard grip on her arms, his hot breath on her cheek, and his enraged face so close to hers. She wrenched away from him, her hands tightened into fists. She couldn’t hear about his intimacies with another woman, with any number of other women. She gave Rome a wild, desperate look, but he didn’t notice. With a groan, he sank to his knees on the floor, burying his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.

There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room; she gasped at it, feeling her restricted lungs strain in an effort to drag enough air into her body. Her senses whirled, as if she might faint, but she didn’t. Somehow she found herself on her knees beside him, and she put her arms around him as she had longed to do so many times. Instantly his strong arms locked around her, holding her in a grip that threatened to crack all of her ribs. He buried his face against her soft breasts and cried, harsh sobs that tore out of his body in great shudders. Sarah held him, stroking his hair, letting him cry; he was entitled to it, and he’d gone for too long without letting someone else share in his grief. Her own face was wet, but she didn’t notice the hot tears that blurred her vision. All that mattered was him, and she rocked him gently back and forth, with no words, but only her presence to shield him from the bitter loneliness that had turned his heart into a winter land of desolation.

Gradually he quieted, and he moved closer to her, his hands moving up her back. She felt the deep breaths he was taking as they expanded his chest, then the warmth of the expelled air on her breasts. Her nipples tightened in automatic, shameful response, hidden beneath her silk shirt and lacy bra, and she clenched her fingers in his hair in a movement that was beyond her control.

He lifted his head, his eyes still damp, and the darkness of his pupils had become so total that there was no brown in them at all. He stared at her, then reached out and tenderly wiped the moisture from her cheeks with his thumb. “Sarah,” he said on a whispering sigh, and touched his mouth to hers.

She went still, all breath suspended in her body, as thousands of her prayers were answered in that light touch of his lips. Her hands moved to his shoulders, the nails digging into the layers of muscle that corded his frame. It was just a simple kiss of thanks, but the bottom dropped out of her stomach and the blood rushed from her head, so intense was the pleasure that assailed her. She sank against him, her soft body melding to his from shoulder to thigh, as they knelt there on the floor. Automatically he supported her, his hard arms around the female curves of her body, holding her to him.

He drew back and looked at her again, and now the expression in his eyes had sharpened to a look of glittering awareness. He was too much of a man not to recognize her feminine response. His gaze dropped to her tremulous, generous mouth, her lips softly parted, and instinct drove him to dip his head to drink from her sweetness again. This time there was nothing light about the touch of his lips; it was a kiss that was man-hungry and fiercely demanding. She gasped, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth with masculine need and command, an intimate kiss that almost shattered her with delight, and she whimpered softly into his mouth. His arms cradled her to him, his body controlling hers as he took her down to the floor.

Her senses reeled; it was so like the few forbidden dreams she’d had that she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the man who leaned over her, his mouth hot and tasting of passion. Her digging nails telegraphed her response to him, her body warming and arching to his, seeking the intoxicating heaviness of his weight.

There was no sense of time or location, nothing but the spiraling physical need that had flamed between them, unexpected and out of control. She felt his hands on her body, touching her breasts, dipping down beneath her skirt to rub her thighs and stroke intimately between them, wringing a wordless cry of need from her lips. No word of protest surfaced in her mind. She let him do as he wanted, mindless of everything but the delight his knowledgeable hands were bringing to her. He knew women, and his expertise made her wild. She offered her slim body for his delectation with no conscious thought of anything except how sweetly, hotly satisfying it was to be in his arms, to know his kisses and his caresses.

He surged to his feet, lifting her in his arms, her slight weight no trouble at all for his powerful muscles. In a few swift steps he was at the bed, lowering her onto it, coming down to join her with a low growl on his lips as he pulled her under him, spreading her legs with his and settling himself against her in a movement as natural and as basic as breathing.

Sarah clung to him, dizzy with the need he was arousing in her, her mouth tender and fervent under his. She’d loved him for so long, and at the moment she felt as if all of her wishes on falling stars were coming true. She was willing to let him do anything with her, and she knew what he wanted. She could feel the virile hardness of his body as he pressed against her. The layers of clothing between them were too much, unbearable barriers that kept their fevered flesh apart.

Then suddenly heaven ended. He stiffened on top of her, then rolled away and sat up on the edge of the bed, bending over to drop his head in his hands. “Damn you,” he said thickly, his voice full of disgust. “You’re supposed to be her friend, but you’re rolling with her husband, in her bed.”

Dazed, Sarah sat up and straightened her clothing, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She heard the accusation in his voice and found that she couldn’t get angry with him; she understood how guilty he was feeling, and how emotionally vulnerable he was after the emotional storm he’d just experienced. “I was her best friend,” she said shakily.

“You’re not acting like it!”

She slid off the bed, standing on wobbly legs. “We’re both upset,” she said to his bent head, and her voice was wobbly too. “We both went a little out of control. I loved Diane like a sister, and I miss her too.” She began to retreat, unable to stand there any longer, feeling as if she’d borne all she could for one night, and her tongue was out of control, babbling without her choosing the words she’d say. “There’s no need to feel guilty about it; there wasn’t anything really sexual about it. It was just that we were both so upset—”

He shot off the bed, his face wrathful. “Nothing sexual, hell! I was between your legs! Another minute, and we’d have been having sex! What would you have called it then? Would we have been `comforting’ each other? My God, you wouldn’t know sex if it bit you on the leg! You’re too much of an iceberg to know anything about men, or what they want!”

Sarah spun around, her face white, her green eyes stricken. Her generous mouth trembled. “I don’t deserve that,” she whispered, and bolted for the door, flying down the stairs before he realized that she was leaving. With a roar, he started after her.

“Sarah!” he yelled furiously, reaching the front door just as she turned the ignition key and started her little red fireball of a car, jerking it into gear and reversing out of the drive with the squeal of rubber on pavement. He stood in the doorway, watching the red glow of the taillights until they disappeared around the corner; then he slammed the door shut and cursed violently for several minutes. He noticed that she’d left the jacket to her suit, and he picked it up. Damn! How could he have said that to her? She was right; she hadn’t deserved it. He’d lashed out at her because of his own guilt, not just over what had happened that night, but over the years he’d spent looking at her and wanting to take her to bed, even though she was Diane’s best friend.

Rome stared at the linen jacket in his hands, and his mouth tightened. Didn’t Sarah realize what a challenge she was to men? She was so cool and pale and distant, so complete unto herself. She was devoted to her career, and she made it pretty plain that she didn’t need a man for anything beyond casual companionship. It had been rumored for years that she’d been the mistress of the chairman of the board, but Diane hadn’t thought so, and he trusted Diane’s judgment. Instead Diane thought that Sarah must have had a love affair that had gone sour, but as she’d said more than once, Sarah was deep and kept a lot of things to herself.

He remembered the first time he’d wanted Sarah; it had been at his own wedding. He’d been impatient to leave with Diane, and then he’d seen Sarah, standing a little alone as she so often seemed to be, her white-blonde hair twisted up on top of her head, her pale face wearing a polite mask. Was she never hot or mussed, he had wondered. Never fidgety? He’d thought of how she’d look if he’d had her in bed with him, that pale hair tangled by the wildness of their passion, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses, her slim body dewy with perspiration. His own body had suddenly become taut, swollen with need, and he’d had to turn away to disguise his condition. How he’d resented her, because even at his wedding to Diane, he’d been lusting after Sarah.

The years hadn’t changed the situation. She was always aloof, cool to him, and she never stayed around if he came home while she was visiting Diane. He loved Diane and was faithful to her, totally satisfied with her in bed, but there always remained, in the back of his mind, the knowledge that he wanted Sarah. If she’d given him the come-on, would he have remained faithful to Diane? He wanted to think so, but he couldn’t be certain; look what had happened the first time he’d kissed Sarah! He’d been ready to take her right then, on the floor, but he’d had a moment’s concern for her soft skin and he’d lifted her to the bed, a break in his concentration that had eventually stopped him. But she hadn’t been cool and reserved in his arms; she’d been warm and responsive, and her legs had parted for him without hesitation. Her cheeks had been flushed, and a few fine tendrils of hair had escaped their confinement to curl enticingly around her temples.

That was how he wanted her: with that neat, aloof image of hers shattered. He’d come home early from a trip once, and she’d been in the pool with Diane and the boys. She’d been laughing and frolicking like a child herself, her long hair loosened for once and floating around her like a fairy cloud. He’d changed into his own swimsuit and gone out to join them, and as soon as he’d appeared, Sarah had stopped laughing. She’d been very casual about it, but she’d made her excuses to Diane, hauling herself out of the water, and swiftly dried off before pulling on a ragged pair of denim shorts that only accentuated her long lovely legs. The sight of her in a pale yellow bikini had so aroused him that he’d had to take a fast dive into the water, and when he surfaced, she was already walking swiftly away.

A man couldn’t have asked for a better wife than Diane, or a more loving one. But as much as he loved her, as much as he still ached for her, he still wanted Sarah. It wasn’t a question of love at all; the finer emotions didn’t enter into it. His attraction to her was purely physical. He’d lashed out at her because, with her, sex would be more of a betrayal than it had been with those other nameless, faceless women. They’d been only bodies, without personality. But he knew Sarah, and he couldn’t wipe her identity out of his mind. He wanted sex with her; he wanted to watch her when she went wild beneath him, he wanted to hear her call his name during the throes of passion. And she was Diane’s best friend.

Hours later Sarah curled numbly in bed, her tears finally exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. She felt battered, her insides torn apart with hurt. When the phone rang, she was tempted to ignore it, because no matter who it was, she didn’t feel like talking to them. But any call at two o’clock in the morning could be an emergency, and finally she reached over to lift the receiver. When she said hello, she winced at the sound of her own voice, which was still thick with the tears she’d shed.

“Sarah, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she interrupted, the sound of that deep voice shredding the fragile control she’d gained over her emotions, and she began to weep again. The soft sobs were evident in her voice despite her efforts to hide them. “I may not know anything about men, but you don’t know anything about me! I don’t want to talk to you anymore, do you hear?”

“God, you’re crying.” He groaned softly, a harsh, masculine sound that filled her with equal portions of pain and longing.

“I said I don’t want to talk to you!”

He somehow divined her intentions and said “Don’t hang up on me!” in sudden wrath, but she did anyway, then buried her face in the pillow and cried until her eyes were dry and burning.

“You don’t know anything at all about me,” she said aloud into the darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a good thing the next day was Saturday, because after a horrible night spent alternately crying and staring at the ceiling, Sarah slept late and rose still feeling tired, her eyes heavy-lidded, her movements slow. She forced herself to do her routine chores, then that afternoon flopped down on the sofa, too tired and uninterested to tackle anything else. She needed to shop for groceries, but simply couldn’t face the hassle. A quick mental inventory of her cabinets reassured her that she wouldn’t starve, at least not for a couple of days.

The doorbell rang, and she got up, answering the summons without thinking. As soon as she opened the door and looked up into Rome’s dark face, a feeling of despair settled on her shoulders. Why couldn’t he have waited until Monday? She’d have recovered by then and wouldn’t be at such a terrible disadvantage. She didn’t even have the comfort of being properly dressed. Her long hair was loose and hanging down her back; her jeans were old, tight, and faded; and the oversize jersey she wore probably revealed the fact that she was braless. She fought the urge to cross her arms protectively over her chest, even when his eyes dropped to survey her from her feet, clad in blue socks, all the way up to her face, which was bare of even a trace of makeup.

“Ask me in,” he commanded, his voice even deeper than usual.

She didn’t extend a verbal invitation; she couldn’t. Instead she stepped back and opened the door, and he moved past her into the room. He was dressed casually, in well-cut tan slacks and a blue pullover shirt, but he still made her feel like something found in the city dump. “Have a seat,” she invited, finally controlling her voice enough to speak. He sat down on the sofa, and she seated herself across from him in an oversize armchair, unable to make polite chitchat, just waiting for him to break the tension by speaking.

Rome wasn’t aware of any tension; he had been taken too much by surprise by her appearance, and he was having difficulty dealing with this startling new aspect of her character. He’d expected her to be dressed in heels, sleek black pants, and a silk blouse, her coldness firmly in place as a barrier between them. Instead she looked very young, very relaxed, and very sexy in those comfortable old clothes. She had the sleek, aristocratic grace of form and carriage that made it possible for her to wear anything, even an old football jersey, with casual elegance. He knew that she and Diane had been the same age, so that made her thirty-three, but there was a freshness about her bare face that took at least ten years off her age. This was how he’d often imagined seeing her, or at least a variation on the theme. The remote poise he’d expected was gone, and he realized that he had her at a disadvantage. With relish, he looked her over again, his eyes lingering on the obvious freedom of her breasts beneath the jersey, and to his surprise and intensified desire, a warm blush heated her cheeks.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said abruptly. “At least, about what I said. I’m not sorry I kissed you, or that I almost went to bed with you.”

Sarah looked away, unable to meet his intense gaze. “I understand. We were both—”

“Upset. I know.” He gave her a crooked little smile as he interrupted her. “But upset or not, I kissed you the second time because I wanted to kiss you. I’d like to see you, take you out to dinner, if you can forgive me for what I said.”

Sarah wet her lips. Part of her wanted to jump at the opportunity, any opportunity, to spend time with him, but the other part of her was cautious, afraid of being hurt. “I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she finally said, choking the words out of her dry throat. “Diane…Diane would always be in my mind.”

His eyes went black as pain assailed him. “And in mine. But I can’t lie down and die with her; I have to keep living. I’m attracted to you, and I’ll tell you up front that I always have been.” He ran an agitated hand through his dark hair, disturbing the lock that usually fell over his forehead. “Hell, I don’t know,” he burst out in confusion, “but last night, for the first time, I could talk about them. You knew them, and you understand. It’s all been dammed up inside me, and I can talk about it with you. Please, Sarah, you were Diane’s friend. Now be my friend.”

She sucked in her breath, staring painfully at him. What irony, that the man she’d loved for years should come to her begging for her friendship, because he felt he could talk to her about his dead wife. For the first time she resented Diane, resented the hold Diane had on Rome that hadn’t loosened even in death. But how could she say no to him, when he was staring at her with desperation tightening his features? How could she say no to him regardless of what he asked her? It was the raw truth that she couldn’t deny him anything.

“All right,” she whispered.

He sat there for a moment; then her words sank in and he closed his eyes in relief. What if she’d refused? In a way he couldn’t understand, it had become vital to him that she not freeze him out. She was his last link to Diane, and more than that, the night before he’d finally broken the ice that surrounded her and found that she wasn’t cold at all. He wanted to do that again. The thought of bringing her to passion interfered with his breathing and made his loins grow heavy.

To take his mind off his growing desire, he looked around the condo and was again surprised. There was no glass or chrome, only comfortable textures and soothing colors. Her furniture was all sturdy and overstuffed, inviting to a tired body. He wanted to stretch out on her sofa, which was long enough to accommodate his long legs, and watch a baseball game on television while idly munching on freshly popped, salty popcorn, with a can of frosty beer in his hand. The room was that soothing, that comfortable. This was where she let her hair down, literally, he thought, surveying with pleasure the pale tumble of her hair. When she pulled it back into the tight, severe twist she wore at work, she subdued all hint of curl, but now he could see that her hair wasn’t weed-straight. The weight of it pulled most of the curl out, but the ends had a tendency to form frothy, bouncy curls. She was so blonde, it was startling.

“I like this room,” he said, his eyes on her.

Sarah looked nervously around, aware of how much of herself was revealed in the atmosphere she’d created for her private lair. Here she’d made a home that gave her the warmth and security she craved and had lacked all her life. She’d grown up in a home that had provided physical comfort, but left her out in the cold when it came to love. The house had been immaculate, and “done” to perfection by a hideously expensive interior decorator, but the coldness of it had made Sarah shiver, and she’d invented excuses, even as a child, to escape it. The coldness had reflected the hostility of the man and woman who lived there, each of them so bitter at being trapped in a loveless marriage that there had been no warmth or laughter for the child who, though innocent, had been the chain that held them together. When they finally divorced, only a few weeks after Sarah had entered college, it had been a relief for all three of them. Never close to her parents, since then Sarah had drifted even farther from them. Her mother had remarried and lived in Bermuda; her father had also remarried, moved to Seattle, and was now, at fifty-seven, the doting father of a six-year-old son.

The only example of warm home-life Sarah had known was that provided by Diane, first with Diane’s parents, then with the home she’d made with Rome. Diane had had the gift of love, a warm outpouring of affection that had drawn people to her. With Diane, Sarah had laughed and teased, and done all of the normal things that a teenage girl did. But now Diane was gone. At least, Sarah thought painfully, Diane had died without ever knowing that her best friend was in love with her husband.

Suddenly she collected her manners and scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry. Would you like something to drink?”

A cold beer, he thought. And salty popcorn. He’d bet anything he had that Sarah wasn’t a beer drinker, but he could picture her curled by his side, sipping on a soft drink and delving her hand into the bowl for popcorn. She wouldn’t talk during the game either, but during the commercials he’d tip her head back and kiss her slowly, tasting the salt on her lips. By the time the game ended, he’d be so wild for her, he’d take her there on the sofa, or maybe on the carpet in front of the television.

Sarah shifted uneasily, wondering why he was watching her so intently. She put a hand to her cheek, thinking that she could dash into her bedroom and do a fast cosmetic job on her face. Anything would be an improvement over nothing.

“I don’t suppose you have beer?” he asked softly, not taking his eyes from her.

Despite herself, she chuckled at the question. She’d never bought beer in her life; all she knew about it was the catchy jingles on television. “No, you’re out of luck. Your choice is limited to a soft drink, water, tea or milk.”

His eyebrows rose at that. “No spirits?”

“I’m not much of a drinker. My metabolism can’t handle it. I found out in college that I’m the world’s cheapest drunk.”

When she smiled, her face took on an animation that made him catch his breath. He shifted uncomfortably. Damn! Everything she did made him think of sex.

“I think I’ll pass on a drink, unless you’re inviting me to dinner?” His eyebrows rose in question.

Sarah sank back into her chair, unnerved by the speed with which he presumed on their newly formed friendship. How could she invite him to dinner? It was already late in the afternoon, and she hadn’t bought groceries. The most nutritious meal she could offer him would be peanut butter sandwiches, and Rome didn’t look like a peanut butter man. What did he like to eat? Frantically she tried to call to mind the type of meals Diane had prepared, but Diane had been such a total disaster as a cook that her efforts had been limited to the simple things she could prepare without too much risk, and which reflected necessity rather than anyone’s preference. Sarah was an excellent cook, but there was a limit to what could be done with a partial loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter.

Finally she turned up her palms helplessly. “My cupboards aren’t bare, but they’re the next thing to it. I can invite you to dinner, but it will be a late one, because I’ll have to go shopping first.”

Her candor delighted him, and he laughed, a genuine laugh that made his dark eyes dance with light. Sarah caught her breath. He certainly wasn’t handsome, but when he laughed, Rome Matthews could charm the birds out of the trees. That dark velvet laugh made her spine tingle, and she thought of lying in bed with him in the darkness, after making love. They’d talk, and his voice would wash over her, the rumbling tones making her feel secure and protected.

“Why don’t I take you out to dinner instead?” he offered, and suddenly Sarah knew that he’d planned that all along, but had decided to tease her first.

“All right,” she accepted softly. “What do you have in mind?”