Housebound (9 page)

“Then what's this?” He reached out one blunt fingertip and brushed away an escaping, self-indulgent tear. “You don't usually cry, my Annie. You're made of braver stuff than that.”

She sighed, keeping the smile tightly affixed to her lips. “This mess is enough to send anyone weeping and wailing,” she replied firmly.

He stared at her for a moment longer. “You want me to keep him out on the hill until the last moment?”

They had always understood each other very well, Anne thought with a rush of affection. “That would be very helpful,” she said, her voice slightly husky.

“I'll do my best, darling,” he promised, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Love is hell, isn't it?”

She didn't even bother to deny it, as she knew she should. “Yes,” she said grimly. “It is.”

 

I
T TOOK HER MORE THAN
two hours to clean the kitchen, and by the time she was finished there wasn't a speck of dirt anywhere in sight. Anne stared about her, hot and sweaty and still incredibly frustrated. All that energy expended and she still felt like screaming from the rooftops. And at that point she had absolutely nothing to do. If she took one more look at the Chinese manuscript, she would really scream. The rest of the house was relatively neat, and she could hardly tear into the guest rooms before their occupants had formally departed. There was even a dearth of old movies on the Sunday afternoon television schedule. A long hot shower seemed the only alternative, and if the thought of Noah Grant intruded she could turn the cold water on full blast. A little shock treatment might prove effective.

The hot water was amazingly reviving. As Anne stood in the shower and let the steaming water pour over her upturned face she felt at ease for the first time since Friday night, and her natural optimism began to reassert itself. It looked as if she might recover after all. When it came right down to it, what did she have to recover from? A few stolen kisses, an alarmingly attractive man smiling at her with a certain light in his eyes. Enticing as it was, it hardly constituted love forever after. It simply needed to be put in the proper perspective. And even if those kisses rated quite high on her own personal Richter scale, he certainly couldn't be the only man in the world to affect her that way, could he? Probably with a little training Wilson could perform just as effectively. And the moon was made of green cheese.

It wasn't a bad body, she thought, surveying herself in the steam-covered mirror as she towel-dried her thick black hair, trying to see it from Noah's point of view. The legs were nice and long, the hips overfull but not badly so. The waist was small, the breasts full and high, and the arms slender and lightly muscled. Deceptively so—she had beat Wilson at arm-wrestling a few weeks ago. It had given her great pleasure to do so—perhaps too much, she remembered with some regret. Wilson's considerable dignity had been affronted, even though he had done his best to hide it. Would Noah Grant mind if she beat him at arm-wrestling? Not that she could even come close—she had felt the strength in those wiry arms.

“Stop it,” she ordered herself, shaking out her still-damp hair and turning to reach for her bathrobe. She stared at the empty hook in horror, then at the laundry chute that had heretofore been so convenient. All her clothes had slid down that chute into the basement, and there was nothing, absolutely
nothing in the huge old bathroom for her to put on that was larger than the bath mat.

The word that came from her mouth at that point would have deeply offended the proper Wilson, though Noah would have probably laughed, Anne thought ruefully. What the hell was she going to do? The longer she hesitated, the worse trouble she was going to be in. She had spent a long time under the shower—the others would be arriving back at any moment. The sooner she moved, the better. But where in heaven's name could she move to?

Of course she never had any choice. The bathroom was directly across the hallway from her bedroom. In that bedroom, along with Noah Grant's paraphernalia, were her clothes. She could either dash across the hall to her room, praying to an impassive God to keep Noah Grant out on the hillside at Robinson's Point, or she could race through the entire house in a mad dash for the studio two flights below. The choice was obvious.

Opening the door a tiny crack, she listened for a moment. Not a sound in the old house—everything was a deep, heavy silence. Holding her breath, she flung open the door and ran across the hallway to her bedroom, the threadbare towel wrapped inefficiently around her tall body, her bare feet making wet footprints on the faded Oriental runner. She resisted the impulse to slam the door behind her, closing it instead with a silent click. She leaned against it, dizzy with relief, her heart racing, her breath coming in shallow pants. So intent had she been on escape that she failed to notice the tall, silent figure at the top of the stairs, the deep-blue eyes that had watched her mad dash with mingled surprise and amusement.

He stood there for a long moment, leaning against the wall.
He should go back downstairs, he told himself, and leave her strictly alone. He wanted her, but he was also adult enough to be able to leave her alone when he knew it would only be disaster for both of them. Wasn't he?

She was standing just inside her closet door when she heard him outside. Instinct swamped rational thought, and she jumped inside, pulling the door closed behind her. Grabbing the first thing her hands could reach, she pulled the threadbare chenille robe around her trembling body. The tie was long gone, and all she could do was hold it tightly around her, praying that he'd go away without looking in the closet.

There was absolutely no sound from the bedroom. Pressing her ear against the closet door, Anne concentrated fiercely, but there was nothing but silence. Had she imagined the sound of footsteps, the turn of the doorknob? It was more than possible—she had been so concerned with getting caught she could have conjured him up. She waited another minute, her heart pounding, her palms damp as they reached for the doorknob. Slowly, silently she turned it. Still no sound from the bedroom. She pushed it open a crack, then a tiny bit more, peering into the darkened room. There was no sign of him. Surely he would have turned on a light against the gathering gloom. Suddenly brave, Anne pushed the door the rest of the way open. And came face to face with Noah Grant.

He was standing in the middle of the room, completely relaxed and unsurprised. She clutched her robe closer around her body, shocked into temporary silence as she felt those Gypsy blue eyes travel slowly over her. “Not that this isn't a charming surprise,” he murmured, “but I thought we decided to keep away from provocative situations.”

“This is an accident,” she said. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and wet hands gripped the robe more tightly.

“I'm not going to tear it off you, Annie,” he said mildly enough, his eyes not missing any of her movements. “You're just as safe with me as you want to be.”

“I never doubted it,” she said, a trace of regret in her voice. “I hadn't expected you all back so soon. I didn't mean to invade your privacy; it's just that I forgot to bring my robe when I took a shower, and—”

“We all are not back.” He cut in to her stammered explanations.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I came back early, despite your siblings' best efforts. I got soaked during the sledding and I didn't really fancy the idea of driving back to New York in wet jeans. A hot shower and a cup of coffee seemed very appealing.” His eyes were still unreadable in the twilight.

“There's still plenty of hot water,” Anne said nervously, edging away from him. “And I'll be glad to make you some coffee. Why don't you go on ahead and I'll just—”

“Annie love, you're babbling,” he said gently.

She forced herself to relax. “I am, aren't I?” she admitted with a rueful smile. “I'm not used to this, I'm afraid. I'm completely unsophisticated. It's a good thing you decided I'm not your type—you would have been bored to death in a matter of hours.”

“I didn't say you weren't my type,” he corrected her patiently. “I decided it would be wiser to leave you alone. There's a difference. And I don't think you could ever bore me.”

“That's because I'm a mysterious older woman,” she said with a trace of her old impishness. “I'll go make the coffee.”

She was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her. “Wait a minute, old lady,” he said, the deep, warm voice having its usual mesmerizing effect on her. She turned to look at him questioningly, and he crossed the room in two long strides. His hands reached up and cradled her face, his thumbs gently outlining her lips. “I've changed my mind.” And his mouth caught hers, his warm lips brushing hers.

Desperately she sought control, holding herself rigid in his arms, her lips closed as he teased against their stiff contours. He moved his mouth a fraction of an inch away, his eyes burning down into hers with warmth, tenderness and desire. “Don't be afraid of me, Annie, love,” he whispered, his breath hot and sweet on her upturned face. “Open your mouth.” And when his lips met hers again she gave up her last attempt at withstanding him. She let go of the death-grip on the frayed bathrobe and slid her arms up his body and around his neck, opening her mouth beneath his and giving entrance to his questing tongue.

“That's it,” he whispered against her teeth, his tongue tracing the trembling outline of her lips. “I won't hurt you. I was always taught to respect my elders.” There was a breathy note of laughter in his voice as his hands moved around her waist and pulled her closer against him. She could feel the damp jeans against her ankles, feel the tangible evidence of how much he wanted her against her hips. And then as her tongue met his the last vestige of mental acuity vanished, and she felt herself drowning in sensation.

The cool air as it hit her body wasn't even enough to bring sanity back. The robe slipped from her shoulders and landed in a pool at their feet, and Anne paid it no mind as she felt her body scooped up effortlessly into his strong arms. A moment
later she was lying on the bed, her bed, where she had spent so many solitary nights. But this time she wasn't alone. His mouth left hers, to travel along her petal-smooth skin, down to capture one rosy-tipped breast. Her body stiffened in reaction, and her fingers dug into his shoulders convulsively, before moving to his thick curly hair, to cradle his head against her breast. The roughness of his clothes against her naked body was both frustrating and incredibly erotic, and she moaned, deep in her throat, as his hands gently, carefully traced random patterns of desire over her skin. And then he moved up to claim her mouth again, almost as if he couldn't get enough of the taste of her.

“I must be out of my mind,” he whispered against her lips as her hands reached up to fight their way through the buttons of his rough corduroy shirt.

“Me, too,” she murmured. His skin was heated against her fingers, the chest smooth and muscled with that tantalizing dusting of hair. Wilson was covered with a thick mat of hair, she remembered dazedly. You could barely feel his skin. The touch of Noah's silky-smooth flesh beneath her fingers melted the last ounce of her resistance. Her hands moved down to his belt buckle with a boldness that should have shocked her.

Noah murmured his approval as his hand sought the delicate skin of her inner thighs. His lips were trailing light, nibbling kisses across her face, distracting her from the inexorable destination of that questing hand. Until he found her, the soft damp center of her desire, with a touch sure and knowledgeable.

She arched against him, a low moan in the back of her throat. “That's it, Annie love,” he whispered gently. “I thought you'd like that.” His hands left her reluctantly as he rose up
above her, his figure dark in the twilit room. His hands went to his belt to help her, and she closed her eyes as she heard the chink of the belt buckle, the sound of leather being slid through his belt loops. And then another sound intruded, the sound of voices and her eyes flew open.

“Oh, no!” she moaned, her eyes dark with despair.

Noah swore, short and sharp, and pulled her trembling body into his arms, cradling her protectively against his bare chest as he lay on the bed beside her. “You don't have a lock on this damned door, do you?” he whispered, and in mute misery she shook her head.

He kissed her then, long and hard and deep, and once more her body responded, racked with tremors of long-dormant desire. When he moved away she looked up at him beseechingly, her lips trembling, her dark-green eyes filled with unshed tears.

“Damn,” he said again. And pulling her tightly against him, he moved his hand down between her legs again, his touch sure and practiced. She stiffened in protest, but he ignored her, pressing her face against his shoulder, as he quickly, carefully, brought her to the edge of fulfillment. And then beyond, as her body exploded in a daze of ecstasy. He pressed her face against his shoulder to muffle her involuntary cry, and as wave after wave of mindless pleasure swept over her she wept into his shoulder.

Slowly she drifted back to earth, back to her bed and the man whose arms she was lying in. As he felt her body relax he loosened his grip on her, letting her head fall back into the cradle of his arms. His eyes were warm and tender as they looked down at her, and his lips were curved in a gentle smile before they reached down and brushed hers.