Kisses From Heaven (14 page)

“Sure. What did I do so wrong so fast?”

He let out a relieved sigh and let go of her; she started to tread water, while he swam over to claim the boat. “We just discovered,” he called back disgustedly, “that you can’t take a great deal of credit in the way of ballast. As in that coffee your parents fed you as a child—”

“I was reliably fed milk. It’s not my fault your parents bottled up joy juice for you—”

They were laughing as they got back on the boat. Over and over, they raced the length of the lake, each time faster. Loren had the incredible feeling they were soaring at a thousand miles an hour, and she could not get enough of it. Part of that was just watching Buck. For her, the only challenge was in holding on, which on occasion was no small thing. But for him…she watched the satisfaction on his face when he’d conquered a speed that left her breathless or managed a tricky maneuver that left her heart dizzily in her throat. It was a sport of skill, not for the fainthearted. The rougher the obstacle, the more he liked it, and she loved that glimpse of the private man, of the challenge he had to take on, the joy he took in success.

“Had enough?” he asked her finally.

“No way!”

He flashed her a look of approval that made her heart sing. Another two hours passed before they finally secured the boat to the dock. Buck was breathing heavily, his wet suit half-unzipped from the sheer warmth of exertion, but the grin he shot Loren was expressive. “You’ve passed the last test. You may be spoon-size, lady, but no one would ever call you a sissy.”

“Thank you, sir.” She vaulted up on the dock ahead of him, her bright eyes a denial that she’d just discovered every muscle in her body could ache simultaneously. She gathered up her clothes and then his.

“So. What are we going to do next weekend? Go hang-gliding or get married?”

Her hesitation was only momentary, but she could feel his eyes on her back. “Hang-gliding.” She added lightly, “At least
next
weekend.” And then added again, “As long as you’ve got the money for these crazy hobbies—”

His arm suddenly laced around her shoulder, drawing her up to him in a massive hug. “That’s the first time you’ve joked about it. About money, Loren.”

She looked up at him, pushing back the hair from her eyes, her smile suddenly wavering. “I’m trying, Buck.” She took a breath and grinned scoldingly. “Listen, are you going to feed me or just stand around talking while I starve to death?”

Yet they didn’t make it far. They stepped off the dock onto warm, dry sand and collapsed in mutual exhaustion. The rubbery wet suit was beginning to feel uncomfortably clammy and heavy on her bare skin; her muscles hurt; her stomach was grumbling; her hair felt like a wet mop. For a moment, it didn’t matter. Buck pulled her up to cradle her against his shoulder, and they simply lay together, exhausted, totally spent, letting the spring breeze rush over them and the sunlight filter down on the warm sands.

Loren was in Buck’s bathroom at the cottage, staring at herself with dissatisfaction in the tiny circular mirror. The lake water had softened her hair to the point of total unmanageability; her nose was pink; and the white jeans and long-sleeved emerald top might show off her diminutive figure well enough, but the look was really not restaurant material. Buck was proving obstinate. And her purse had yielded only lipstick, perfume and mascara.

“Listen,” she said determinedly, as she came back out to find Buck pacing the small kitchen like a starving giant. “Maybe I haven’t told you recently that I’m a fantastic cook. I could make you steak, filet mignon, frog legs, Chinese, Italian…”

Those hungry eyes suddenly fastened on her and then turned lazy, slowly taking in her huge gray eyes and the sun-kissed glow of her complexion, the way her russet hair lay thick and shining around her chin. He leaned back against the door, pulling her with him, snatching up her hands to hook them behind his head. “You did say I could have anything I wanted today, didn’t you?”

“Which is why…” But she couldn’t hold the thought. In sneakers, she felt tiny next to him, surrounded, outflanked. She could feel the warmth of his body through his clothes, and the sun had given his skin a burnished glow; He smelled just like fresh air and…Buck. His eyes caressed her until she felt dangerously disarmed; she felt like getting out a dozen white flags to celebrate surrender, and there hadn’t even been a battle!

He stopped once to kiss her pink nose on the way down to her lips. “I do hate to take you out,” he murmured. “There are times when I feel like closing you up where no other man can see you. You don’t realize, Loren, how beautiful you are. Your hair feels like silk; your skin smells all fresh and soft…”

His mouth covered hers, his lips warm and smooth, tasting like the mint he’d just eaten. The kiss was a slow, gentle exchange that gradually altered to a more evocative caress. All those tense muscles from the day of exercise suddenly untensed for him, and she felt like sheer fluid inside, her body molding to fit around his harder contours, desire pulsing through her in a long, sweet rush. His hands skimmed from her hair to her shoulders and spine, and lingered, as they always seemed to linger, on the curve of her buttocks. Fleetingly, she thought that he favored that part of her anatomy. And fleetingly, she felt the richest sensation of being cherished, as she was surrounded by that web of strength and man.

The pressure of his mouth lightened, and then his lips left hers, but his eyes continued that conversation a moment longer, just as his hands came up to thread in her hair again as if he could not get enough of the touch of it. They were silent, just standing in the doorway, for hours. Years. He was like a Christmas present, all wrapped up and not opened yet. Fabric covered his shoulders, but she could anticipate the feel of his bare skin. He was standing, but she knew the weight of him covering her. And his eyes held promises of tenderness and passion, promises she knew he would keep.

“Ask me, Loren,” he whispered vibrantly.

“Love me,” she said simply.

“I do.”

Her heart stilled for an instant. His hand brushed against her cheek again, and then he turned to lock the door; a moment later he was ushering her to the car. Silently, she sat on the seat beside him, knowing he’d wanted to make love to her, knowing she’d wanted him equally—and he hadn’t. She stole a glance at him as he drove, having the strange feeling that he wanted something more from her this day, at this specific moment than a simple acknowledgment of love and desire.

The engine purred over the smooth roads to town. Silence rested easily between them; they were both tired physically, both rather somnolent as the sun settled down in the west, adding a pinkish glow to the concrete and cloverleafs of Detroit’s inner city. He took her to Joe Muer’s, a marvelous restaurant in one of the most dreadful areas of the city. Inside were spotless white tablecloths, tables crowded together, and uniformed waiters always in a rush. There was no season that the restaurant was uncrowded; the food was too good.

They were wedged in a table in the back; Buck ordered wine and food at the same time. They were both too hungry to wait. Loren was slightly uncomfortable with her casual clothes until the dinner arrived. Frog legs dipped in hot sweet butter weren’t meant to be devoured in satin; cotton served very well. Buck had a blend of lobster and crab, and their eyes danced across the table. He gravely swiped a spot of butter from her chin; she watched his big hands trying to steal the last tidbit of lobster from its recalcitrant shell. Beneath the long tablecloth, her bare toes rested on his stockinged ones; they had both removed their shoes, which were well hidden under the table. If there were a hundred other people jammed into that restaurant, Loren saw none of them…until they were served coffee and a dark brunette suddenly appeared at the table, dressed in cool blue silk.

“I thought I recognized you!” She laughed to Buck and bent down to give him a hug and a kiss. Bending back up, she glanced at Loren with bright brown eyes. “I’m Susan Harper—I…we knew each other a long time ago…”

“And this is Loren Shephard.” Buck rose politely, but the brunette declined to sit.

“I just wanted to say hello. Really. And wish you well.”

She left, and Buck’s eyes bored into Loren’s, his smile quiet.

She picked up her wineglass in an effort to pretend every muscle hadn’t suddenly gone tense. She looked at the table, floor, silverware and centerpiece before she finally met his eyes. “Was it serious?” she dredged up finally.

“For two years it was—but a very long time ago.” He finished the last of his wine and looked at her. “She’s a fine lady. And I wish her well.”

They both stood up, ready to go. Loren’s thoughts were filled with the brunette as they wended their way between the crowded tables. She loved Buck yet one notch more for the simple respect he’d conveyed toward the other woman. He’d started and finished the subject; she knew she’d never hear another detail. And she didn’t want to know, but she suddenly felt the strangest restlessness. If the two of
them
ever ended their relationship, she’d like to believe Buck would still feel that kind of honest respect…but she knew she would never feel that friendliness, never be capable of the honest and easy greeting the brunette had offered to Buck so easily. There was nothing casual in her feelings for Buck. She felt too possessive, too private, too vulnerable…
Did you even know you were in that far over your head?
she asked herself wryly.

Night had fallen like a sudden silence in the streets. A light fog billowed around the streetlights as they waited for a parking attendant to bring Buck’s car. From behind her, he turned up the collar of her jacket and pressed his lips to her ear. “Ask me,” he said quietly.

She turned to face him. Moonlight splayed strange colors on his rough-hewn features, emphasizing a severity in line and bone out of keeping with the soft, dark eyes on hers. His words were an echo of the words in the cottage, and his look echoed that look.

“Tell me what you want, Buck,” she said softly, troubled that she didn’t understand. “I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t give you…”

“And you do, Loren,” he whispered vibrantly. “You’re so willing to give that I feel richer just being around you. All I want is to give that back…”

The car arrived. Downtown Detroit was lit up; the spires of the Penobscot Building and then the General Motors Building impressive landmarks in the heart of town. “Your plant’s near here, isn’t it?” she asked him suddenly. “Would you take me to see it?”

“There’s nothing to see at night.” But he made the appropriate turnoff. After a few minutes, he stopped the car at a watchman’s station to be ushered through a gated fence, locked for the night. The main building was brick and two-storied; beyond was a huge asphalt lot and a warehouse that was three times the size of the office building. High-lows stood idle next to truck and trailer beds; barrels were stacked neatly…her own plant wasn’t nearly as clean or well maintained. It was only a whim, her asking to see it, yet that whim took substance. She wanted to understand Buck, and she wanted to know every aspect of his life.

“That’s all,” he said shortly.

“Wait a minute,” she protested as he drove around and headed toward the guard shack again. “I haven’t seen anything.”

“The offices are just offices, Loren. If you had some background in die cast, I’d be glad to show you around, but I’m afraid you’d just be bored.”

“So bore me.”

She saw it all. At first, Buck trailed behind her in the silent dark office building, amused at her intense curiosity and perhaps a little annoyed to be wasting too much of what little free time they had together. He answered her first round of questions in monosyllables, until they reached his tool and die department in the shop. The shell burst then, and for an hour she listened to an incomprehensible technical monologue that had no meaning whatsoever for her…yet she gained a new measure of the man.

He loved what he did. He loved pressure, and he loved the challenge of being the best in his field; he loved beating out a competitor, and he even loved the economy for putting obstacles in his way to challenge his ingenuity. His workforce, the core of which had been with him since his uncle retired, was strong and stable. The only unstable element was his secretaries, and he admitted not particularly proudly that he seemed to go through two a year.

A perfectionist without patience, she labeled him silently. He
would
be impossible to work for. Janey had accused her of exactly those same qualities a dozen times…

“I didn’t mean to get into all this,” Buck apologized suddenly.

“I know that.”

The drive to his house was strange. Loren had the curious feeling that some secret had been unfolding all day, yet she was finally too tired, too sated, to keep searching for it. Buck—she had learned so much of him this day. He had a thousand facets, very few of which she really knew, some of which it might just take a hundred years to know. Yet what she had learned of him had answered no questions. She knew only exactly what she had known before; that she craved being with him, that she felt caught in a spider’s web of attraction she could not seem to free herself from, and that love kept growing helplessly, no matter what objections she came up with when they weren’t together.

She stepped out of the car at his place. His arm folded around her shoulder, and she grinned up at him as they walked to the house. “You’ve totally worn me out,” she complained.

“A little sore from all the exercise?”

“You’re the one who did all the work on the boat.”

“That’s no answer,” he chided as he fit the key in the lock.

“A little sore, then.” She’d braced her legs for those hours on the boat; her thighs weren’t used to that kind of punishment. And her arms ached a little for the same reason, but she had no real complaint.

Buck turned a switch as she absently walked down to the navy-and-white living room. Recessed lighting suddenly picked up the color scheme, and yet echoed the night’s softness. She slipped off her shoes and collapsed on the navy velvet couch with an enthusiastic sigh, instantly cocooned in the luxurious depths of cushions.

“Would you like something to drink?”

She shook her head. “Not really. You go ahead.”

He disappeared. She thought he was getting a drink. Instead, he returned a few minutes later with his shirt off, a quilted blanket in his hands and a bottle on top of that. Her eyebrows raised in question.

“It’s still cool enough for a small fire. Want one?”

The white marble hearth was fed cherry and beach logs, until there was enough of that flickering orange brightness for him to turn off the artificial lights. He spread the blanket close to the fire and then came to Loren on the couch, bending to kiss her—but it was not an impassioned kiss. More a communication of warmth, of…easiness between them. Gently, the green shirt was pulled over her head, the jeans tugged over her thighs. The bra was unsnapped. She looked at him. “Buck…”

One of his arms slid beneath her knees, the other behind her back. As he picked her up, she kissed his bare throat. His pulse there went frantic, yet he laid her down on the cover and skimmed off her panties, his hands almost impersonal. “On your stomach,” he murmured.

She turned, facing away from the fire. On the opposite wall she could see his huge shadow kneeling over her, and she heard something, a popping sound. His shoulders in shadow took up that entire wall; she watched as he poured something into his hands.

Then she helplessly closed her eyes, feeling heated oil soothed into her skin under his palms. She heard a garbled sound of shocked pleasure emerge from her throat; she heard his answering chuckle. Suddenly, there were no sounds from either of them. His hands first slowly stroked out muscle aches and then kneaded in the slippery soothing heat of the oil. Her flesh felt like warm silk, and his hands were loving the fabric he had created, her shoulders, her back, her bottom, down over her thighs and calves; he missed nothing, even rubbing the oil into the balls of her feet, between her toes.

“Buck…”

Slowly, he turned her over, then reached for the bottle of warmed oil again. Silvery eyes met emerald ones. Her arms were lifted, massaged, laid back. He took a year to glide the oil over breasts, kneading warmth into one silken orb at a time. The fire crackled next to them, creating a very small world of light and shadow where no one else existed but the two of them. His face reflected intense concentration, his eyes still holding hers as the oil was soothed onto her stomach, then down to the most sensitive flesh. Her fingers curled at her side; her toes curled, and still she could not look away from his eyes.

His eyes were dark and grave, watching her. The sweet-scented oil and the touch of his hands had aroused the most sensitive and powerful sexual vibrations she had ever conceived of. She wanted him with a primal need; her desire was mindless and fierce and helpless. She read the same desire in his eyes.
Mine,
she read,
mine, Loren.
Fingertips knees, thighs, breasts…