Anything for Her Marriage

Rod frowned. “I’ve seen that painting, Nancy.”

It took a moment. “Oh…yeah, well, to hear Stan tell it, my main allure was being free and available. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.” No. At the time, she was thrilled that someone of Stanley Metzger’s talent thought her interesting enough to paint. There’d been times when she wondered if he’d married her just so he wouldn’t have to pay a model. But since he’d only painted her once, and she had the painting…

She looked up at Rod, unprepared for the mixture of compassion and apprehension in his eyes, even less prepared to deal with either of them. The wine-induced buoyancy had fizzled out some time ago, she realized, rudely dumping her into a vat of self-pity. At the moment, every mistake she’d ever made seemed to be screaming, “Hey! Remember me?” Or maybe that was her mother’s voice.

Nancy faced her fogged kitchen window, absently stroking the ginger tom, and decided she was too tired and too fed up with life in general to worry about making an impression on this man. On any man. “Call me superficial, but until ten seconds ago, I didn’t know how much it mattered to have someone, anyone, consider me…attractive. To care enough about me to at least…lie…”

Out of nowhere, tears bit at her eyes. She took a deep breath, trying to control them, only to fall apart when Rod took her into his arms.

“I don’t lie,” he said quietly, and she let ’er rip.

She had no idea how long they stood there, how long she cried. But when she was done, rather than feeling better, she felt like an idiot. She pulled away, grabbing a paper towel from the rack to blow her nose and wipe her eyes.

“Just what you needed tonight, I bet,” she said between swipes. “Coffee with a maudlin drunk.”

He’d followed her, only to hesitate—she could see the questions in his eyes, wondering how much to do or say, how far to wade in—before lifting a hand to her face. Kindness winning out over caution, she thought. With one thumb, he wiped away a tear. “You’re not drunk,” he said gently. “And hardly maudlin. My guess is, someone’s been trying too hard. Trying to be what she thinks she’s supposed to be, not what she wants to be.”

Realization sliced through her, threatening new tears, even as she wondered how this man she barely knew could hone in on things she hadn’t even admitted to herself. “Maybe so,” was all she said, then sniffed.

“I know so. Better than you might imagine.” Her eyes shot to his, waiting for the explanation, but apparently none was forthcoming. Instead, he traced one escaped strand of hair with his fingertip, frowning. “Were you serious about no one ever telling you you’re pretty?”

A raw, wretched laugh stumbled from her throat. “Oh, yeah.”

“Not even your parents?”

“Now there’s a laugh.” She swiped at her nose with her hand. “You’re looking at someone who lived her childhood in a perpetually awkward stage. I was too skinny, too short, my hair was hopeless, and my teeth were in braces longer than any other kid I knew. There’s a video of me taken at my brother’s sixteenth birthday. I was twelve, and for some reason insisted on wearing this light green dress. I looked like a praying mantis in a fright wig. A male praying mantis, no less.”

His low chuckle made her shiver. “Trust me. I do not think of insects when I look at you. And unless your ex-husband embellished, the woman in that portrait has nothing to feel inferior about.”

That stopped her. “Really?” she said, realizing at that moment just how much she craved approval, real approval. Part of her was ticked as hell that she did want it, but the other part really didn’t give a damn anymore.

Again, she saw a qualm or two skip across his features, the indecision in his eyes. “Really,” he said, stepping closer. “Nancy, you’re lovely.” His fingertips grazed her temple as his eyes traveled slowly, luxuriously, over her features. “No, you’re not typical,” he said with a smile, which got a weak laugh, “but that’s why I can’t take my eyes off you. Not that I’d dream of embarrassing you by cataloguing your attributes…”

“No, no, please. I’ll take the risk.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and lovely and, in a way, loving. “Okay. You’ve got amazing eyes, first of all, the way they’re deep set like that, the way your brows and cheekbones set them off.” He knuckled her chin. “Great jawline, fantastic chin, a nose the gods would envy.”

She had to laugh. “Yeah, well, considering how much it cost, a little deity-envy is the least it should get. Go on.”

“We’ve already covered your mouth…” His eyes dropped to that particular feature, and she thought how much she’d like him to cover it once more. With his. Then his attention shifted again, this time to her hair. “And this—” he fingered one strand “—is magnificent.”

“You sure you don’t mean ‘wild’?”

“Wild is good,” he said, and smiled for her.

And suddenly she saw it. Her reflection in his eyes. Not of her face, but her need, glittering like molten gold. Still, from what little she knew of Rod, this wasn’t someone prone to acting on impulse, of giving in to something, just because. Sure he’d kissed her—and damn well, too—but he’d also made it pretty clear he was only expecting coffee. If she was smart, she’d take the hint.

If she was determined, she’d take advantage.

“You do want me, don’t you?”

He laughed, a little. “I guess…yeah.”

“You…guess?” Teasing.

After a heart-stopping moment, his lips met hers. Softly. Sweetly. But when he lifted them, he was frowning. “The guessing part isn’t about how much I want to take you to bed. It’s about whether or not it’s right.”

That made sense. Too much, unfortunately. Not that a little thing like scruples was going to stop her. She looped her hands around his neck, no easy feat since he was more than a foot taller than she. “And here I didn’t think you liked me.”

His smile was gentle. His hands skimmed her arms, raising a flock of goose bumps. “Let’s see…you were wearing a sweater that came down past your hips. Black, with huge red flowers embroidered all over it. A long black skirt. And these little flat shoes that made you look like a ballet dancer.” He touched her hair. “It was raining that day, and your hair was all fluffed out like chocolate cotton candy.” His gaze touched hers. “And you smelled like my grandmother’s bedroom, of sandalwood and roses.”

Her heart was hammering so hard she thought her ribs would crack. She remembered the day, and the rain, and her annoyance with her impossibly frizzed hair. “You remember what I was wearing the day we met?”

He nodded. “And each time we saw each other after that, believe it or not.” Once again, he touched her cheek, and sparks skittered all the way to her toes. “Believe me…I like you, Nancy. Always have. Always been attracted to you, too. Doesn’t mean I think we’re right for each other.”

Her insides had turned to water. She licked her lips. “You’re probably right. But that doesn’t necessarily preclude our going to bed with each other, either. Not if we both understand….”

His expression stopped her cold. A muscle ticked in his jaw, but neither smile nor frown crossed his features. Uh-oh. He was going to turn her down, then forever brand her as a brazen hussy too stupid to tell the difference between desire and intent. Okay, so he’d admitted wanting to go to bed with her, too. Didn’t mean he intended following through on it.

Then his hands slowly began making small, gentle circles on her back, as if afraid any sudden move might make her do something crazy. But she’d already done that, hadn’t she? Invited a man she’d never even dated into her bed?

She let out a soft yelp as, in a single swift and graceful movement, he framed her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze once again for the millisecond before he captured her mouth. A hard kiss, this time. Demanding. Testing. Guaranteed either to send her shrieking in the opposite direction or reduce her to a greedy, needy puddle at his feet.

Well, there was some definite whimpering going on here, but shrieking? Uh, no. Then she realized her breast had somehow found its way into his hand.

“Oh, mm…you found it,” she whispered between kisses.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much right where I expected it to be.”

“No, I mean…well, we’re not exactly talking Baywatch quality here.”

He backed away just enough to frown down at her, then slowly, deliciously, scraped his fingernails across the nipple, his face a study in concentration.

She shuddered, gasped, saw a star or two. He laughed, softly. “Give me a perfect half-carat diamond over a ten-carat Cubic Zirconia any day. Besides, you hear anyone complaining?”

She swallowed, shook her head.

“Good. Then no more of this I-hate-my-body business.” One hand still claiming her breast, his other one slipped beneath both leggings and panties to cup her bottom. “Got that?”

She murmured something unintelligible as her nipple strained toward his palm; he tightened his grasp, skimming his thumb over the hard peak. Need shot through her like a behind-schedule express train. Oh, man—she’d forgotten how good that felt. Her mouth fell open, her eyes closed.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice roughened. Soft.

She opened her eyes to look deep into his.

Oh.

Oh…mama.

“I don’t have anything with me—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted. “I can handle that part of things. And I’m…um…” “Yeah.” Was that a hint of desperation in his voice? “Me, too. Just had a complete physical a couple months ago.”

One of the cats meowed behind her, making them both jump. She tried to pull away, though she wasn’t sure why. But Rod held her fast, those strong hands warm, careful, on her…everything. However, in a brief but noteworthy moment, it occurred to her he could be a lousy lover, for all she knew. Or, well, he could think she was. Frankly, this could be one helluva disappointing experience.

And once they crossed the threshold to her bedroom, that would be it. So the question was—was it better to continue dwelling in What-if? Land, where she could continue to shape and prune her fantasies to her own, admittedly impossibly high standards, or forge ahead to reality, where she ran the risk of having her dreams shattered…and common sense restored?

His soft chuckle caught her attention. “For someone I’d pegged as impetuous to a fault, you seem to think enough for a hundred people.”

She smiled, a little, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He kissed her forehead.

“You can change your mind, honey. I’ll limp to the car, but I’ll survive.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I would.”

He snagged her chin in his hand, his touch sending shivers of anticipation streaking through her bloodstream. “This is a first for me, Nancy,” he said, his mouth a breath from hers. “I don’t do casual sex. Never have. But—”

“No!” she said, pressing her fingers to his mouth. “No buts.” She drew in a breath, let it out in shaky spurts. “I’m new to this, too,” she whispered, then let her forehead drop to his chest. He drew her close, his breath warm in her hair. “And I meant what I said, about this just being for…now. It’s only that—” she rubbed her face against the soft wool of his sweater, discovering that his own heartbeat was as rapid-fire as hers “—it might be nice to have someone make love to me again while I still remember how.”

She felt his chest expand, collapse, on a huge sigh, before he carried—yes, carried!—her into the bedroom, shutting the door on the cats.

Chapter 3

Something was batting his nose, soft but insistent, accompanied by a low rumbling and the distinctive aroma of cat breath, barely tempered by the smell of freshly brewed coffee sifting in through the open door. Rod peered out of one eye at the little calico, who grinned down, then slung her rump toward him, smacking him in the face.

He carefully, but quickly, removed her to the floor, then yanked the comforter and sheet back up over his bare shoulders, taking in the pristine simplicity of this room as compared with the living room. Ivory walls, nearly bare floors save for a couple of floral-patterned rugs, linen tab curtains over the wooden blinds. A couple of paintings, a hand-painted chest and a cheval mirror pretty much did it. The bed was the only really fancy thing in the room, its black wrought-iron headboard nearly matching the gate in the living room.

Memories of Nancy’s hands, clamped to that headboard, shot through him.

A shiver raced over his skin. Cripes, it was cold. And it did not escape his attention, morning-fogged though his brain might be, that the naked, sweetly scented woman with whom he’d shared this bed last night wasn’t nestled against his chest, all warm and soft. His body groused a little in regret. His brain, which was rapidly clearing, was extremely grateful.

He glanced at the clock by Nancy’s bed: 7:14. The light filtering through the open blinds was weak, pale, like someone recovering from a lengthy illness. He felt much the same way—wiped out, depleted, unsure of his footing.

Petrified. Sated, yes, but petrified.

She was something else. He blew a stiff whuh of air through his lips, remembering how a single well-placed caress had taken her over the edge before they’d even fully undressed. He’d never known a woman to be that responsive, could be that responsive. Had never known a woman’s cries of fulfillment could make his heart burst like that. The way she looked at him afterward….

“Bless you,” her smile had said.

Minutes later, she’d taken—no, welcomed—him inside her, trembling with eagerness, a fierce need to share…comfort…succor. She was an erotic combination of madonna-lover-friend-stranger who resurrected old, forgotten fantasies while forever obliterating them as well. And he’d been just as eager, just as fierce, plunging deeply, then deeper still, until she gasped again with expectant pleasure. Her fingers were soft and smooth against his face as she rose to meet him over and over and over until it was no longer the warmth of her body enveloping him, but her very soul. The explosive power of his own release shattered him, and he cried out, his eyes shut against a haze of crimson as her sweet, exquisite convulsions ferried him back to earth.

When he’d recovered enough to look at her face, she was beaming, inordinately pleased with herself.

And for him.

He hadn’t had the heart—or maybe it was the guts—to leave. Or the willpower to turn down an encore. Or three.

Now he groaned, sat up in the bed. Not that he was surprised, mind, but didn’t it figure that the woman with whom he’d just had the greatest sex in his life was the one woman he didn’t dare have it with again?

He wasn’t a complete fool. Nancy’s generosity came at a price: she fully expected to get as good as she gave. And she damn well deserved it, too. Just as he’d suspected, she withheld nothing. A fount of emotions, in all shapes, sizes and colors, she said whatever popped into her head, did whatever struck her at the moment, made love with an abandon and ingenuousness that took his breath away.

Oh, sure, she said this was just a one-time thing. But he saw that hope in her eyes. That need.

The sooner he stopped this, the better. This—she—would never do. Not even for a fling, contrary to his body’s imploring. The risk was far too great.

Nancy Shapiro represented everything he’d learned was foolhardy from the time he was a little boy. In a way, he almost envied her, but he could never be like her, letting his emotions run riot like that. Passion was an excess, a human weakness he had to strictly control. Love inevitably, inexorably, led to pain. And anger—the flip side of love—only led to acts or words almost invariably regretted, but rarely forgiven.

There was little to be gained by giving passion its head. Hadn’t he been able to hold on to his sanity through the divorce only by remaining calm and rational, by not reacting to Claire’s accusations and histrionic outbursts in his lawyer’s office? Had he opened the Pandora’s box of resentment and betrayal and pain that tried a hundred, a thousand, times to leech past his defenses, to remind him of things best forgotten, the already tense proceedings could have easily degenerated into a dogfight. For his children’s sake, he had refused to let that happen. It simply wouldn’t have been right.

So maybe his life wasn’t perfect. But whose was? Keeping things on an even keel was far preferable to a roller-coaster ride of emotional mayhem…and that’s what a relationship with Nancy Shapiro would be. He’d known it from the beginning, and last night had only reinforced his conviction.

Keeping her in his life would be like letting someone store a ticking bomb in his garage. Even though his last earthly thought would probably be of last night, never were two people less suited for each other.

The little calico had circumnavigated the bed, jumped back up on Nancy’s side, and was making sure strides back in Rod’s direction. Whoever coined the term “pussyfooting” had clearly not met this cat. Before she could stake her claim, however, Rod untangled himself from the creamy sheets and stood, immediately shivering in the still chilly room.

He made a quick trip into the adjoining bathroom, then dressed, furtively, aware of Nancy’s voice drifting in from another part of the house.

In a half hour, he told himself, it would be all over. But right now, he felt as if someone had taken a pumpkin scraper to his insides. He stepped from the room, dislodging Bruiser from the nest he’d made in the lining of his jacket before slipping it on, then followed the sound of Nancy’s voice to the kitchen.

She was on the phone, her back to him, the extra-long cord stretched to the max across the room. A Dr. Seuss nightmare of a cat with a mane and extravagant leggings, but otherwise shorn, sat on the counter, batting at the coiled cord, while two others were exchanging mild words over whose turn it was at the food dish.

Under other circumstances, he would have laughed. The gloriously sexy creature of a few hours ago now looked like a Muppet. Not only was she dressed in a scruffy, furry robe in an amazing shade of lurid pink, her feet encased in a pair of heavy white socks, but she’d done nothing with her hair, which stood out from her head like Medusa’s snakes. The fact that Rod found her disarray arousing only reinforced the treacherousness of the situation. He stood at the door, mildly aware he was eavesdropping.

“Ma… Ma!” One hand came down onto the counter, sending at least two cats fleeing for their lives. “That’s not true, and you know it!”

Uh-oh.

“I was going to call you, but you always beat me to it.” Normally, her New Jersey twang was soft-edged enough not to really notice it. This morning, however, it was out in full force. Frowning, she reached up to her windowsill, plucking off a dead leaf from an ivy plant. “I know it was New Year’s Eve. Which is why I wasn’t home? What? You expect me to call you from my cell phone in the middle of a party. Oh, please don’t start in again about this….”

Her head dropped back; he saw her take a deep breath, then sag against the counter. “How many times we gonna go over the same ground? I moved here totally of my own free will.” She covered her mouth with her hand, then let it drop. “What’s in Jersey for me, Ma?… Well, I’m sorry, but I think I’m a little old to be living with my parents—”

Rod sneezed—there was enough cat fur floating in the air to make coats for a small country—and Nancy spun around. The frown on her face vanished, replaced by that incandescent smile.

Damn.

“Okay, okay…” She raised her hand, her mouth open, trying to get a word in edgewise. “Ma—I gotta go… Okay, okay, I promise, I’ll call you later… No, I don’t know when… No one’s asking you to stay by the phone, Ma. Look, I really have to go…yes, I promise… Yeah, Ma. I love you and Daddy, too.”

She hung up the wall phone, but didn’t let go right away. Her forehead braced on her arm, she seemed to be working on getting her respiration back to normal. Funny. Rod and his father had never had fights. Not like that.

“I take it you and your mother aren’t on the best of terms?”

Her laugh into her sleeve was harsh. “Let’s just say her concept of maternal devotion includes the terms manipulative and suffocating.” She turned to Rod. “My ex may have had little to recommend him, but he at least got me out of Jersey and away from Belle the Wonder Maven.”

She’d started to smile again, but apparently something in his expression—stark terror, perhaps—cut it off at the pass. Her arms tucked themselves against her ribs as she jerked back to look out the window, began the nervous chatter of the night before. “I told you the snow wouldn’t amount to anything. I don’t think we even got an inch of fresh last night—”

“Nancy.”

She bent her head slightly, the wild curls slipping forward as if to offer her comfort. “Last night was really good,” she said, one hand knotting, then unknotting, on the counter. “Actually, last night was indescribable. And to think I’d been afraid—” She cut herself off, faced him again. A shaky smile warmed her lips even as confusion simmered in her eyes. “Let’s not screw it up by talking, okay?” She pushed herself away from the counter, walked over to the refrigerator. “I have eggs, at least,” she said, opening the door. “How do you like them? Or there’s frozen waffles, I think.” A cloud of frost tumbled from the freezer when she opened it and started poking among all those green boxes.

Now Rod knew why one-night stands weren’t his thing. Torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to bolt, he said, “I’m not hungry. I’m also not leaving this house until you hear what I have to say.”

The door slowly swung closed. Her fingers still clamped around the handle, she said, “Isn’t this backward? I mean, isn’t it usually the woman who wants to talk?”

“Isn’t it a little late for us to be thinking in terms of convention?”

She huffed a sigh. “Good point.” Then turned. “So talk already.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looked out the window for a second, then back at her, avoiding those eyes, already littered with fragments of hope. “Okay, look—originality’s not my strong suit, especially before 8:00 a.m. So—cliché number twenty-seven. Last night was very special.” He stepped close enough to brush a corkscrew curl away from her face; it sproinged right back. “Like you.”

The ginger tabby jumped up on the counter, brr-upping at her. She picked it up, cuddling it against her chest. “But?”

“But…nothing’s changed. This isn’t going to develop into a relationship.”

Her calmness scared him, because it seemed so against her nature. She rubbed the side of her nose, not looking at him, then retucked her arm against her middle.

“It’s not that I didn’t know this, going in,” she said, almost to herself. “Even had a list of reasons why you and I would never work.” Now she tilted her head. “Unfortunately, three-quarters of those reasons no longer seem to make sense this morning. So, just because that’s the kind of gal I am, I have to ask, why?”

He wished he was dead. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But you can’t change the rules after you’ve played the game.” Man. Talk about sounding lame. “You even said as much, that you just wanted the one night.”

“And you said you didn’t do casual sex.”

“I don’t. And it wasn’t.” Her brows rose. “Just because it was an isolated incident doesn’t mean I considered it casual.”

“I see. So, I’ll ask again, since you still haven’t answered the question—why, exactly, is this a one-time thing? I mean, we’re both single, and I assume you found me at least attractive enough to do it with once. No, wait—it was four times, wasn’t it?”

“Nancy, for God’s sake, don’t do this to yourself. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Funny. I could have sworn I was in the bed, too.”

He plowed one hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration he generally never allowed himself. By the time he was six, his grandparents had drummed into his head that people of their station were expected to do the right thing, to take the high road. And, thus far, despite a few personal casualties along the way, he’d succeeded in meeting those standards. Now, however, he found himself in the unenviable position of realizing that no matter what decision he made, it wasn’t going to be right. That someone was going to be hurt. The stunner, though, was that he might be the someone, as well as Nancy.