To Have and to Hold (8 page)

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Instead of taking her home, he pulled into his own driveway.

"Come on in," he said, opening the door for her. "I'll give you a non-alcoholic nightcap, and you can talk over old times with Suleiman."

She laughed. "I don't really feel like a swim tonight."

"If he pushes you into anything wet, I'll skin him and you can watch. Deal?"

"Deal."

The dog met them at the door with a ferocious bark that turned almost immediately to a low murmur of pleasure.

"Hello, Puppy," Madeline cooed, stroking his sleek black fur, "hello, boy."

He lapped up the affection like a sponge sitting with his eyes closed and his tongue out while she petted him.

Cal poured himself a glass of what looked like whiskey and soda and fixed Madeline a tall glass of ginger ale. He handed it to her and paused to shed his jacket, tie and shoes. He stretched out on the sofa with a long, heartfelt sigh, eyeing her where she knelt on the thick beige carpet with the big dog.

"Your drink's getting warm," he remarked, sipping at his.

"Only you could call ginger ale a drink," she teased. She rose and retrieved the glass from the coffee table by his side, just as he caught her wrist an d eased her gently down to sit beside him on the sofa. She could feel the heat from his big, warm body against her hip and thigh where they touched. Looking down into that wide, swarthy face with his dark eyes boring into hers seemed to take her breath. He was vibrantly masculine in that white, loosened shirt, the dark curling hairs visible on his bronzed chest in the wide opening. His eyes went to the hand curled around his glass, the dark, beautifully masculine hand with its square-tipped fingers and immaculate nails. Absently, she wondered what its touch would be like....

He reached out and caught her free hand in his, bringing it to his bare chest in what seemed like an idle, lazy move. He spread her fingers, laying her hand flat against him so that the curling hairs tickled her palm. The warmth of his chest scorched her fingers.

"Your hands are cold," he said gently.

"F—from the glass," she replied, sipping nervously at the ginger ale.

He took another swallow of his drink and put it back on the table. He took hers out of her nerveless hand and put it away, too. His big hands caught her upper arms, drawing her down against his chest, gently, until her cheeks was resting on his broad shoulder, her chest resting fully on his.

"Now, relax," he said over her head, his hands caressing her back. "Kick your shoes off and put your feet up."

She obeyed him without thinking, drugged by the closeness of his body, the tangy fragrance of his cologne.

Suleiman came up between the sofa and coffee table and nuzzled at Cal's arm until he was banished with a sharp command.

"Jealous beast," Cal chuckled, tightening his arms. "If he weren't such a bargain of a guard dog...."

"Cal, why do you keep a guard dog?" she asked.

His chest rose and fell heavily against her. "I've needed one a time or two in my life, little girl. He's handier than a gun, and there's no way he can be used against me. Stop talking. You ask to many questions."

She snuggled closer as he reached up and flicked on the radio, flooding the room with soft music.

"Is this how you treated that brunette?" she murmured against his shirt.

"Jealous, baby?"

"We're friends," she reminded him. "Friends aren't supposed to be jealous of each other."

"So they say." He moved, shifting so that she was lying full length on the wide sofa and he was leaning over her, propped on one elbow. His finger traced the soft curve of her mouth slowly, sensuously.

"Have you ever been on a fishing trip?" he asked suddenly.

"Not in years. My uncle and I used to go, though." She smiled impishly. "I'm very good at drowning worms."

"I've got some friends who live on a dairy farm near Columbus. I'm going down for the weekend. Want to come?"

She gazed up at him solemnly. "To fish?"

"If I wanted you," he said bluntly, "I could have had you twenty times by now. There's been plenty of opportunity. We both know that. I'm offering you a vacation, chaperoned, with a room of your own, good company, and good food. Take it or leave it."

She flushed painfully and dropped her eyes to the massive dark chest above her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound...I'd like very much to go if you still want to take me with you."

His fingers moved gently into the soft hair at her temple, coaxing her eyes up to his. "We'll keep it platonic, if that's what you want," he growled. "God knows it's true that I'm too damned old to set my sights on a child like you!"

"You're not to old, Cal," she whispered, stung by the tone. Involuntarily, her hand reached up to touch his face and froze as her mind registered the intimacy of such an action.

"What's the matter?" he asked, capturing the small hand to lay it gently against his hard, warm cheek. "Are you afraid to touch me?"

She cringed mentally at the tone. "It's not that. I...I don't know you very well...."

"Not in a physical sense, you mean." He searched her eyes deeply, quietly, until the intensity of his gaze made her blood surge like a riptide. "That can be remedied very easily. Put your hands on me, little one. Like this." He drew her slender hands up and placed them against his hard chest, moving them over the bronzed muscles sensuously.

He bent, and she felt his mouth touch her forehead, her closed eyelids, her cheek, the corner of her soft mouth. His hands went under her back to press gently against her shoulder blades, lifting her body up against his.

He felt the involuntary rigidity of her slender body, and nuzzled his face into her throat. "Just relax, don't stiffen up on me, little innocent.," he murmured sensously. "This is just an apertif, not a five-course-meal. I know precisely how far I can go without hurting either one of us."

The feel of him against her was like a narcotic, she wanted more and more, she wanted to be closer. Her cheek moved restlessly against his temple, his cool, dark hair.

His mouth moved against her throat, up to her jaw, her chin, and finally, to brush against her mouth in a slow, whispery tasting that seemed to start a fire burning.

"Cal..." she whispered unsteadily, being slowly driven mad by persistent, lingering touch of his mouth that was relentlessly causing her's to part in anticipation. The hunger she was feeling was new and strange and shocking. She didn't want to give in to it, but she couldn't help herself.

"I won't rush you, not in any way," he murmured against her lips. "Easy, now, don't fight me...."

Her cold fingers touched his cheek, and her eyes closed again. "Cal, I wanted this..." she admitted on a sob.

"So did I, from the very beginning, but you weren't ready then."

"Kiss me," she whispered brokenly, clinging to him unashamedly, "really kiss me...!"

His mouth went down against hers with a pressure that made her yield instinctively to an ardor like nothing she'd ever experienced. She let him fold her closer, pressing her slender body against the length of his, so close that she could feel the heavy slam of his heart as if it were beating in her own chest. The kiss burned into her blood, her soul, a tasting that brought a delight bordering on madness. Her fingers tangled in his thick, dark hair, and not once did she think, could she think, of the differences between them.

His big hand ran over the soft curves of her body, lingering against her hip, to turn and move softly, excitingly, back up to her shoulder. She trembled at the mastery in that caress, and he drew back, his eyes dark with triumph, and something less definable.

"Was it like this with him, Burgundy?" he whispered, his teeth nipping gently at her lip,

"Did you burn for him the way you're burning for me?"

He brought the memories back, hazy and far away, and she tried to remember how it had been when Phillip kissed her, but her mind, like her body, was in flames. "I don't remember," she whispered shakily.

He laughed softly, dangerously, as he bent his head. "Never mind, honey. Don't think," he bit off against her mouth, "just feel...!"

He took her mouth again, harder this time, rougher, as if the yielding young body in his arms was making shreds of his will power. "Kiss me back," he whispered huskily, "like this, Burgundy, like this...!"

She obeyed him weakly, following his lead, learning the first lessons of passion, feeling the instant response in the big, warm body her arms were wrapped around, dazed at the power she suddenly found in her trust.

With a hard groan, he drew back a breath. "Woman, I want you like hell on fire, and I'm not used to stopping. I think you'd better sit up an d sip your ginger ale before I yield to my baser instincts."

Her eyes closed on a tremor, and she took a deep, slow breath. "Help me up," she whispered.

He turned, easing her into a sitting position, his lips brushing her closed eyelids briefly, tenderly. "You go to my head, love," he whispered. "I can't trust either one of us right now. Here," he handed her the ginger ale.

She took a swallow of her drink and almost choked. Her face was red and her breathing quick and erratic. She felt cold and empty and lost without the comfort of his arms to warm her.

He finished his own drink in two large swallows and stood up. "Come on, honey, I'll walk you over."

She put the glass down on the table, trying to keep her eyes away as he tucked his shirt back into his trousers. She picked her shawl up off the carpet where his restless hands had tossed it.

She held the flimsy covering tight around her during the short walk in the nippy night air. Cal walked apart from her, not touching her, and she began to feel a twinge of guilt, of shame, at the way she'd responded to him. She was only one in a crowd, a faceless crowd of woman, and the knowledge stung.

"About...about this weekend..." she began quietly.

He turned to her under the carport light and pressed a long finger against her swollen lips. "Come with me. I won't touch you again if you don't want me to."

She dropped her eyes. "It isn't that. I just feel...."

He leaned forward, and she felt his lips press slowly, warmly, fiercely against her forehead, his hands coming forward to hold her shoulders in a vicelike grip. "Did I go too far with you tonight, is that it? Or did I make you wake up and see that your great love affair was as lukewarm as a baby's milk?" he growled.

"That's unfair!"

"No, it isn't." He held her away and looked down into her mutinous eyes. "Or don't you remember who called the screeching halt when we were on the couch?"

Her lower lip trembled. "You brute!"

"I'm that, all right. My God, I must have been out of my mind tonight," he breathed roughly. "I never stooped to cradle robbing before."

"I'm not a child!" All the anger went out of her, all the love she was trying so hard to submerge came back with killing force. She reached up and touched his dark hair which in the moonlight seemed to have more silver than usual. And you're not an old man, for all that you're doing your best to convince me your are. Shall I make you a glass of warm milk, Mr. Forrest?" she teased.

At the sound of his name, something flashed in his eyes for an instant, flinched in a muscle in his firm jaw. He sighed deeply.

"One day, soon," he said quietly, "we're going to have a long talk."

"About what?"

He smiled gently. "Warm milk, maybe." He brushed a careless kiss across her forehead. "Sleep well. We'll leave for the airport about six A.M. tomorrow. Too early for you?"

She shook her head with a smile. She'd have thought nothing about getting up two a.m., if it had meant spending time with him. "Casual clothes this time?"

"Jeans and tops and at least one long-sleeved blouse and sneakers. I'm taking you to a place where only fish live," he said menacingly, "and sandflies."

"Sandflies bite," she recalled.

"Like hell. Inside. I need my beauty sleep."

"Is that what it is?" she asked from the doorway. "Doesn't help you much, does it?"

She closed the door on his violent reply.

It was dark when they got into the Mercedes with their luggage and started for the airport.

"It's only going to be overnight, isn't it?" Madeline asked, feeling comfortable in her jeans and navy blue blouse. "I left plenty of water and food down for Cabbage, but only for a day and a night. She's such a glutton, she eats it all in the beginning."

"Just like my dog," he chuckled. "They'll be all right. Do you have a fishing license?"

"Nope. See how efficient I am? See why old McCallum loves me so?" she teased.

"If the truth were known," he told her, "I'll bet old McCallum loves you like hell."

"Worships me from afar, you mean?" she laughed, enjoying the early morning, the ride, his company. In his own jeans and a worn knit shirt, he looked every inch a fisherman, and she wondered absently why he insisted on pretending he had money. It didn't matter to her one way or the other. It was the man she loved. Loved. She leaned her head against the seat with a sigh.

"McCallum worships the corporation, honey," he said gruffly. "Didn't you know? It's his life."

She cut her eyes to the distant Atlanta skyline, brilliant lights over the sleepy little outsprung communities. "That crash must have been terrible for him," she said quietly. "And the little boy...."

He switched on the radio, tuning it to a station with soothing music. "We'll make it to Columbus in about thirty minutes, with luck. I hope you filled your stomach up before we left," he added.

"I did. And I brought some seasick tablets along, too," she said smugly. Where he couldn't see, she crossed her fingers with a silent prayer. If she got airsick this time, it was going to be a very long flight.