Blue Waltz (26 page)

He slipped his fingers inside her body, slowly, again and again. Belle cried out her pleasure, and she was hardly aware when he nudged her legs further apart with his knees.

His fingers went deeper, brushing against a terribly sensitive spot that she thought would make her go mad. Her body started to move again of its own volition. Her hips immodestly sought his touch.

"Yes, Belle," he whispered, the words a caress against her ear, before he plundered her mouth once again.

With a clearly knowledgeable touch, his fingers continued to move, sliding against the slick walls of her womanhood. The intensity of feeling rose quickly this time, not building slowly, but starting at a level that left her breathless. She lost herself to the feeling, her hips moving

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to a rhythm he prescribed, until wave after wave of soul-shattering intensity washed over her and she cried out.

"Stephen," she breathed, wondrous, her body tingling as they lay together, bodies entwined.

She felt him tense, and after a moment he grasped her arms and gently forced their bodies apart. He took in the sight of her creamy breasts, revealed from beneath the bodice of her gown, and her hips, glowing white above thick black stockings. She didn't bother about her leg—didn't think about her leg. She only knew that she had just experienced something that she didn't know was possible.

She saw the awe return to his eyes along with the desire, and just when she thought he would pull her close again, she watched, helplessly, as he drew a deep, ragged breath, the muscles in his jaw working.

It seemed that his hands were trembling when he reached down and lowered her skirt, then slowly pulled her gown together and began to button the long line of fastenings. "I'm sorry, Belle," he said, the words strained. "I don't usually have so little control."

"Don't be sorry, Stephen." She halted the progress of his hands with her own. "I don't want you to stop."

His head came up and their eyes met.

"Yes, I want you to hold me, I want you to kiss me."

"Belle," he said, his tone warning.

The shadow of a smile lurked on her lips. If possible, Stephen's dark countenance grew even darker.

"Just once more," she said.

"Belle, no. Not yet."

Her head tilted to the side and her smile grew more bold. "When? Do I have to put on another picnic or tear down another wall?"

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He looked at her for a long moment. "No, Belle. When we're married."

If he had said she should run for President, she couldn't have been more shocked.

"Damn," he muttered. "This was not how this was supposed to be."

"How what was supposed to be?"

"My proposal." Stephen took a deep breath. "I want you to be my wife, Belle."

With mouth agape, Belle stared at him, having no idea what to say. Marriage. Good God, no. Never again.

She moved away with a jerk and walked to the bureau, her hands smoothing a doily though her mind was not aware, her gaze distant.

Stephen followed. "Belle, look at me, please."

When she didn't, he gently turned her to face him. "Belle, don't you see? I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

She could see he was serious. He truly did want her to be his wife. Though why, she couldn't fathom. Good heavens, they hardly got on together. They could conceivable kill one another within a year of marriage with the way they got along. But then the all too recent memory of their kiss and the soul-shattering event she had just experienced came to mind. Her body still trembled and was weak in the aftermath. And that made her smile. If they could just kiss and not talk, they might have a chance; she nearly said so out loud, but kept the words to herself, since she doubted Stephen would appreciate her humor.

With a sigh, she reached out and took one of his strong hands between her own. "Dear, dear Stephen. How kind you are."

Stephen's brow furrowed.

"I can't tell you how flattered I am by your proposal

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of marriage. It is so sweet, but totally unnecessary. As I've said, I've already been married and have no interest in marrying again."

Stephen could hardly believe he had heard her correctly. Sweet. She had called his offer sweet?! he thought, his mind circling with disbelief. But more than having his pride wounded over having his offer of marriage tossed back in his face, he felt a pang in his chest over the fact that he was afraid that she was serious. And that was unacceptable.

His mind shifted through his thoughts, trying to make sense of the situation, trying to determine why she wouldn't marry him. Clearly, she was a complicated woman, but she enjoyed his company, sought him out, in fact. Something, however, made her hold back. But what? he wondered. Though of course he knew, or at least suspected. In some measure it had to be due to whatever had happened to her leg. And that was just it. What had happened to her leg? Would he ever be able to find out in order to help her deal with it, allowing her to move forward with her life and into his?

A stab of conscience halted his thoughts. Suddenly he felt selfish. He wanted Belle, and he was thinking only of himself. But then, he rationalized, he was also thinking of her. She needed him, he thought with an arrogance typical of a man who had gone through life having to force his way to success. He knew no other way. He could help her, and he would. If only he could convince her to marry him. But how?

He strode to the window. As he passed a small table, his eyes lighted upon a sketch pad which laid open. Amazingly, the drawing was good—very good, in fact. For a moment he wondered if she had found another artist. But then he saw the drawing pencils to the side and he

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realized with a start that Belle must have done the work herself.

"What's this?" he asked, all thoughts of marriage put aside as he stared at the drawing.

Drawn on the single sheet of heavy white paper was a man. He was big and burly. Rugged.

When Belle looked back and found the drawing, Stephen saw the surprise that sprang to life in her face as if she had never seen the picture before. She sucked in her breath, and red stained her milk-white cheeks. For a moment he wondered if he had been wrong, if someone else had made the sketch.

"What is it, Belle?" he asked, his words laced with concern.

"It's him," she breathed.

"Who?" By now he was truly confused.

She seemed oblivious to Stephen, only stared at the drawing. "I did it," she whispered, sounding amazed. "I can't believe I did it."

"Did what, Belle?" Stephen glanced back and forth between Belle and the drawing, unease beginning to filter through his mind.

"The sketch. It's him." She took a step closer. "When I was drawing, I just kept drawing and drawing, thinking I had failed until I couldn't stand it anymore. Late last night I tossed it aside." She brought her hands up to her cheeks. "I nearly threw it in the fire."

"What are you talking about Belle? Who is this in the drawing?" he demanded.

She looked back at him like a startled doe. Minutes ticked by, then she lowered her hands and a slow smile began to spread across her face. "It's my father."

He should have known. This father, who overshad-

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owed everything Belle seemed to do, was the man staring back at him with harsh charcoal eyes.

"This is wonderful!" she chimed. "Such a good sign that I remembered."

"What did you remember, Belle?"

"I told you I couldn't remember what he looked like. And last night when I was drawing I was so intent that I couldn't see clearly. But now, looking at it unexpectedly, I see that it's him. I remembered what he looked like!"

She came over "and picked up the drawing and held it at arm's length. After a while, she dropped her hands, the sketch held in one. "You didn't understand why I wouldn't marry you. And up until this second I thought that perhaps I had been wrong. But now I know I was right. He will come. And I can't marry you because my father is coming for me." She flung her head back and tried to twirl. "First we'll go to London, then Paris, and Geneva, Vienna. He's coming. I can feel it."

The muscles in Stephen's jaw tightened. "You've been saying that practically since the day I met you. And up until this drawing, I haven't seen hide nor hair of the man. What makes you think that just because you drew a picture of him means that he will return?"

Her head snapped forward, her porcelain features growing harsh with anger.

Stephen, however, couldn't let it go. "I don't know what your life was like before you came to Boston, but I do know that since you arrived, you have been telling me that your father is coming." He hesitated at the look that was rapidly filling her eyes. But he had come too far to turn back. "What if he doesn't arrive?"

Her reaction was swift and furious. "Don't say that! It's not true!" She threw the sketch aside, the sheaf of paper tumbling in the air before it settled among the motes of dust and seesawed back and forth until it fell to the floor. "You are a hateful man, Stephen St. James! You are hateful and jealous. You are jealous of my father just as you are jealous of Adam. But you're wrong about both of them. Adam is my friend, only my friend . . ." She looked at him with scathing eyes. "And my father will come for me."

She turned away abruptly, uncertainly, Stephen thought, making him feel that even she didn't quite believe her words. He started to go to her, but the sound of her voice, now void of anger, only soft and yearning, stopped him.

"He has to come. For our dance. In the grandest of ballrooms."

Though her back was to him, he could see that she had covered her eyes with her fingers. He felt as if his heart would breaking into a million tiny pieces. But still he didn't know what to say, or how to help.

"He will come for me," she stated emphatically, though her shoulders were rounded, seemingly with defeat.

CHAPTER 18

"If he's alive, get him here. If he's dead, get me proof."

"Yes, Mr. St. James," Nathan said, scribbling quickly on a pad of paper. "What did you say his name was?"

"Holly, from Wrenville. Browning Holly, I believe she told me once. Surely there can't be too many."

"Yes, sir."

Stephen stood before his office window, his hands thrust into his pockets, his brow furrowed in concentration. "And her husband. Find out everything you can about the man she was married to. Someone named Braxton in Wrenville, as well."

"Yes, sir. Is there anyone else you want me to inquire after?"

"No," Stephen replied after a moment. "There's no one else."

"Very good, sir. I'll get on it right away."

Nathan quit the room, leaving Stephen alone with his thoughts. In the distant harbor, visible from his office, boats pulled against their moorings, just as Stephen's mind pulled against the possibility that he couldn't make Belle his own. He had never failed at anything in his life. He found it unacceptable that he would fail at this.

What had transpired between them yesterday had done two things. It had made him want her more than ever after having experienced the full force of the passion that lay dormant, waiting to be awakened. Which in turn

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made him wonder why a widowed woman didn't know the first thing about making love.

When she had said she had never been kissed, then explained she hadn't been kissed like that, at first he had doubted, then grown into acceptance. He had no reason not to believe she had been married. But now? He had to wonder.

He sat down in his chair and rubbed his temples. He had known Belle for nearly three months now, had known he wanted to marry her for a month. Closing his eyes, he pressed back against the chair.

As much as he hated to admit it, as much as he hated to admit defeat, there was nothing in any of his dealings with Belle that could possibly lead a rational man to believe she would marry him. Hell, he sighed silently, she had told him so herself. And if there was one thing Stephen knew about himself, it was that he was a rational man. Or at least he had been until he met Belle Braxton.

Belle.

The word wrapped around him, soothing at first, until the hold tightened, squeezing him until he couldn't breathe. He felt as if he were on one of the roller coasters that had become so popular in the last few years. One minute up, the next plunging to the earth, his heart lodged in his throat.

As hard as he tried, he could determine no way to break through the barriers that she had erected around herself. And all because of this father of hers, perhaps even this husband who she said had worshipped the ground she walked on. How was he supposed to compete with a father, who was more than likely dead, and a husband, who by all accounts was? Yes, her husband. More questions. Always more questions than answers.

What kind of a man had she been married to that she

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had never experienced passion? One who loved her dearly? He doubted that.

Soon, however, Nathan would find the answers. But what then? Stephen wondered. Would he confront Belle? Force her to admit the truth? That her father didn't exist and her husband hadn't loved her?

He closed his eyes and sighed. Of course he wouldn't. And as the sun drifted through the sky, then began to sink on the horizon, Stephen realized he was foolish to think that he would ever be able to convince Belle to marry him. He should simply sign the house back over to her. He should leave her alone, and then maybe, with time, he could get her out of his mind.

The thought left him empty with loss. Cold and bereft. But it was for the best, he reasoned. This relationship they shared was obviously no good for either one of them. Perhaps the sooner he accepted that fact, the better. For both of their sakes.

Tired beyond his years, Stephen pushed out of the chair, his body stiff from sitting for so long. Without straightening his desk or looking at his schedule for the next day, he strode from his office and made his way toward home.