Loving Jessie (24 page)

“I know.” Her mouth curved in a pleased little smile as she curved her body into his hold. “It was incredible.”

Incredible?
He’d dragged her to the floor and taken her like an animal and she said it was
incredible?
Matt stared down at her, caught between illogical irritation, reluctant amusement and a twinge of satisfaction that he tried hard to suppress.

“Jessie, I tore your clothes off.”

“Yes. I’ve read about people doing that, but I never imagined I’d get to experience it. It was amazing.” She cuddled closer, one hand stroking up and down his arm. “But the floor is starting to get a little hard. Do you think we could—”

Matt was up and had her cradled against his chest before she could finish the sentence. She looped her arms around his neck, letting her head rest on his shoulder as he carried her the few feet to the bed and set her down on the cool sheets. Before he could step back, she caught his hand, tugging until he sat on the bed next to her. She lay back against the pillows, her hair spilling around her face in a tangle of dark gold curls. Her mouth was softly swollen, her eyes warm and languid. She made no effort to cover herself, just lay there, watching him, offering herself to him.

Despite himself, he felt new arousal stir. He lifted one hand to trace an imaginary line from the hollow at the base of her throat down between her breasts, finally coming to rest low on her belly. He spread his hand out just above the tangle of damp curls, finger to thumb spanning her from hipbone to hipbone.

She wasn’t very big, he thought. He forgot that sometimes. She was so alive, so…sturdy, somehow, that it was easy to forget that she was so much smaller than he was, so much more delicate. There were marks on her hips where he’d gripped her, marks that would be bruises tomorrow, and the undersides of her breasts bore the faint redness of whisker burn. He’d never taken a woman with less care. Never wanted a woman so desperately that taking care had been an impossibility.

It wasn’t the taking that bothered him, he admitted, stroking his thumb across the shallow indentation of her belly button and seeing her stomach jerk in response. It
was the reason behind it. He hadn’t just wanted her, he’d wanted to mark her, to brand her as his. He’d been jealous. Jealous that she was thinking about Reilly. Jealous of her concern for the other man.

He thought he’d come to terms with whatever it was Jessie felt for Reilly. He’d accepted it. Okay, so he’d basically wadded the idea up into a sweaty little ball and shoved it to the back of a mental closet. That was okay. That worked. He didn’t dwell on it, didn’t worry about it, rarely even thought about it. He didn’t object when Reilly got all touchy-feely with her. Reilly was a touchy-feely kind of guy, always had been. It didn’t mean a thing.

But then he’d been standing behind her, touching her, wanting her,
needing
her, dammit. In his mind, he’d pictured unbuttoning the little pearl buttons on her nightgown, kissing the soft flesh revealed after each one. After two months as her lover, he knew just how to touch her so that she would melt in his arms, knew every little sigh and murmur, the way she arched to meet his touch. Just the thought of it had him hard and aching.

Then she’d opened her mouth and mentioned Reilly, and something had snapped inside him. Without even thinking about it, he’d set out to make sure she could think of nothing and no one but him. It wasn’t so much his actions that bothered him but his motivations.

Still, it was hard to hold on to his guilt when she looked so damned…replete, but he gave it one more try.

“Jessie, I—”

She silenced him by pressing her fingers to his mouth. “Matt, do you know how it makes me feel to know you wanted me that much? That you just ripped my nightgown off so you could get your hands on me?”

He took her hand in his, wrapping his fingers around
it, struck by how small it looked in his, by how fragile she was compared to him. “I could have hurt you.”

“No, you couldn’t.” She shook her head when he started to speak. “Matt, you could never hurt me.”

She sounded so sure, as if she knew him better than he knew himself. Maybe she did, he thought, letting the last little trace of guilt fade away beneath the warmth in her eyes. Maybe she did.

He leaned down to press his mouth to hers. Gently, so gently. Asking where he’d demanded. Coaxing where he’d taken. Jessie’s breath slid from her on a sigh, her arms coming up to circle his neck and pull him down onto the bed. Her body lay warm and pliant against his, her skin rose-petal soft under his hands.

This time, he made it slow and gentle. Quiet whispers and butterfly kisses. Warm and soft and all the time in the world to savor the taste and smell and warmth that was Jessie. He made it last, dragging out every touch, every sensation, until she was writhing against the sheets, skin damp and breath coming in ragged little moans as she begged him to end it, to take her. And even that was achingly slow. Slick heat and pressure. Slim body arching to take him deep, so deep. Need and hunger building slowly, so slowly. The climax rolled over them, a long, slow wave of pleasure that lifted them together, tumbled them deep, and left them both panting and breathless on the tangled sheets.

For a long time it was all he could do just to lie there, half sprawled over Jessie, bodies still joined, his face buried in the fragrant tumble of her hair, his heart pounding like a wild thing in his chest. Her fingers drifted up and down his sweat-dampened back, shoulder to hip and back again in slow, soothing strokes. She turned her face to
rest her cheek against his, releasing her breath in a warm sigh that stirred the hair above his ear.

“Do you think we can make this a Thanksgiving tradition?” she murmured, her voice slurring into sleep. ‘’S important to have traditions, you know.”

The last thing he’d expected was to find himself grinning like a loon into the silky softness of her hair. Only Jessie could possibly make him want to laugh at a time like this. The last hour had been an emotional roller coaster. Lust, jealousy, regret, guilt, passion—enough angst to fuel his own personal soap opera. And now laughter. God, he loved this woman.

He closed his eyes, his smile fading as the knowledge washed over him. Wasn’t that a hell of a thing? He loved her. He’d managed to go half a lifetime without falling in love, and when he finally took the plunge it was with his own wife. That was the good news. The bad news was that she was probably in love with his best friend. Shit, he really was living in a soap opera.

He fell asleep on the thought, waking in the dark hours before dawn, shaking and sweating with the sound of gunfire and his own screams ringing in his ears.

C
hristmas was in the air. It wasn’t the frost on the windows, have-a-cup-of-buttered-rum sort of Christmas that Norman Rockwell had painted, but even with the palm trees and blue skies and weather that barely qualified for the term nippy, the air still held a subtle holiday vibration.

Jessie shut the door of the Mustang and stepped up on the sidewalk, digging in her purse for change for the meter. Feeling a mixture of guilt and defiance, she fed quarters into the slot. As near as she could tell, Matt thought parking meters were an invention of the devil or maybe part of some plot by alien agents to take over the planet. He would rather park two blocks from his destination than sacrifice a dime to pay for parking.

She found the irrational little quirk perversely satisfying. He was usually so rational, so logical. It was nice to know that he could be just as nuts as the rest of the world. Not that he saw it as nuts, but any man who could do a five-minute riff on the economic evils of parking meters was definitely a few bubbles off of full plumb.

Turning away from the meter, she slid her hands in the
pockets of her bright red swing coat and drew a deep breath. Caramel corn and candy canes. If she’d been plunked down here blindfolded, she would have known exactly where she was, just by the smells.

Mrs. McCurdy’s Candy Shop was a popular spot for the couples who stayed at the Willow Inn. Tucked in between a card shop and a florist, the front entry was decorated with red-and-white-striped awnings and curlicue script. In the summer, wrought-iron tables sat on the sidewalk, inviting patrons to sit and enjoy an ice-cold drink and a sweet treat. The red-and-white theme was continued inside, punctuated by a carefully polished antique oak bar, where patrons could sit and watch fudge being stirred or penuche being poured onto wax paper– lined trays. Matt referred to the decor as Early American Tourist Trap, but Jessie thought it had a certain self-conscious charm, almost like you were invited to share the joke, to laugh at the too-cute decor. And not even the most determined cynic could argue with the quality of the candy, which was the reason Mrs. McCurdy did a fine business with the locals, too.

The first Christmas after Jessie had come to live with her grandfather, he’d brought her to Mrs. McCurdy’s and bought her a big bag of caramel corn and a dozen fat, glossy candy canes—the real thing, he’d told her firmly, not the red-and-gold sugar sticks masquerading as peppermint. He’d lifted her up onto one of the wrought-iron stools so she could watch the candy-making process, and, to an eight-year-old, that had been magic enough to help her forget, for just a little while, that her parents were gone forever.

Since then, she’d made it a point to come here with her grandfather every December. He’d been too ill to make the trip last year, so she’d brought home bags of
caramel corn, and candy canes to decorate the tree and use to stir the eggnog. Though they hadn’t spoken of it, they’d both known it would be their last Christmas together, and the knowledge had put a bittersweet edge on the holiday. She’d expected to spend this Christmas alone, and had even thought that maybe she would take a trip, maybe spend the whole month in New York or even Paris, hide away from the memories.

Life was full of surprises. Jessie’s mouth curved as she contemplated how different things were from the way she’d expected them to be. Instead of a lonely hotel room in Paris, she was spending her first Christmas with Matt, shopping for presents and a tree, buying ornaments and decorating. All those traditional family things.

And next year… Jessie’s smile widened. Still standing by the parking meter, she rocked back and forth on the heels of her sneakers, barely resisting the urge to laugh out loud. Next year they were going to have a family to go with the tree and the ornaments.

A baby. She was going to have a baby.

It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms wide and shouting the news to the world. She, Jessica Lenore Sinclair Latimer, was going to have a baby. She pressed her hand to her stomach, wondering if it was just her imagination or maybe there was a teeny tiny, infinitesimal bulge there? Okay, so maybe it wasn’t likely that she was showing at three weeks, but it wasn’t impossible, was it?

At the first sign of a bulge, she was going to go out and buy herself the most pregnant-looking maternity dress she could find. Eat your heart out, Pammie Sue, she thought. We high-powered career women slash part-time chefs can have babies, too.

She hadn’t told Matt yet, but she knew he would be
pleased. The baby thing might have been her idea, but she knew he was looking forward to it, too. It was funny. A couple of months ago, she’d thought that having a baby was what she needed to make her life complete. Now it was icing on the cake. A wonderful, amazing, fantastic bonus to a life that already felt pretty darned complete. Maybe she would tell Matt that tonight.

Maybe she would tell him after the special you’re-going-to-be-a-daddy meal she had planned, after they were settled on the living-room sofa, Matt’s long legs stretched out along the cushions, his head in her lap, her fingers sifting through his dark hair. It had become one of their favorite ways to spend an evening. Sometimes they watched a video, but, more often, Matt would start a fire and they would just watch the flames dance against the bricks.

“Jessie?”

The sound of her name brought her out of her daydream, and she turned, smiling automatically when she saw Dana approaching. The smile took on a rueful edge. Just when she started to think she could actually come to like the other woman, she showed up looking as if she’d just stepped off the cover of
Vogue
. The heather-gray ribbed-knit dress was a simple column from cowl neck to midcalf, broken only by the wide black belt that was cinched loosely around Dana’s narrow waist. Black boots, a lightweight black jacket and a chunky gold and silver necklace completed the outfit. Her pale blond hair was pulled back into a French braid, and the clear winter sunlight was ridiculously flattering to her exquisite features.

“I was ordering some flowers for the holiday,” Dana said, nodding toward the florist shop. “I wasn’t sure it was you until I saw the car.”

“I guess if I want to go incognito, I should drive a Toyota.”

“Or choose a less eye-catching color,” Dana said, a smile warming her eyes.

“Cherry red isn’t exactly subtle.” Jessie shifted to the side to clear a path for a pair of young boys on skateboards. “I never could get the hang of that,” she commented, looking after the pair. “Matt and Reilly both tried to teach me, but all I managed to do was end up with permanent friction burns on my palms.”

“When I was eight, I spent three weeks at camp, and one of the counselors taught me how to ride a skateboard,” Dana said, turning to watch the boys weave their way around the sidewalk’s other occupants. “It was the most amazing feeling. Like flying.”

“So if I decide to add skateboard junkie to my list of accomplishments, I should talk to you?”

“No.” Dana seemed to shake herself a little before turning to look at Jessie. “I haven’t been on a skateboard since then. My mother was furious that they’d let me do something so dangerous.”

“Skateboarding?” Jessie’s brows rose. “I know you can get hurt, but I don’t think I’d put it up there with bungee jumping off bridges or running with the bulls at Pamplona.”

“No, but scraped elbows and bandages on your knees are not the way to a judge’s heart,” Dana said dryly.

Jessie remembered the other woman saying something similar on Thanksgiving Day, when they’d been talking about family. Dana had mentioned that she wasn’t close to her brother and sister, in part because she’d had to be careful. Looking at her, Jessie suddenly thought of Matt’s comment that he didn’t think Dana was cold, he thought she was lonely, and how she’d dismissed the idea with
some flippant remark about him not seeing beyond the surface beauty. But it was becoming pretty clear that she was the one who hadn’t seen beyond the surface. Jealousy was not a pretty emotion.

Guilt added warmth to her invitation. “Do you have time for lunch?”

Ernie’s was doing a booming lunchtime business, but they lucked out and arrived just as a booth was being vacated. Lurene waved at them but didn’t come out from behind the counter. Buddy Holly was declaring his love for Peggy Sue, and the scent of onion rings, beef and chili floated on the air. Jessie glanced around, waved to her high-school math teacher and noted, with considerable satisfaction, that the glass-domed cake trays that held the desserts she’d brought in the day before were almost empty.

She slid into the booth opposite Dana and reached for one of the menus tucked between the chrome napkin dispenser and the wall. She’d been surprised when Dana suggested Ernie’s. Somehow Dana McKinnon, former almost-Miss-America, didn’t seem like an Ernie’s kind of girl, but she settled back against the turquoise cushion of the booth and opened the shiny red menu as if she was perfectly at home here. And when the waitress showed up to take their order, Dana surprised her again by ordering a cheeseburger with the works, rather than the salad with no dressing Jessie had expected.

“If you tell me that you’re one of those people who never have to watch what they eat, I’m going to have to hurt you,” Jessie commented after the waitress walked away.

Dana looked startled and then smiled, her blue eyes holding an unexpected glint of mischief. “StairMaster,”
she said, reaching for one of the twisty bread sticks the waitress had brought them. “I’m a slave to the Stair-Master. I’ll pay for this lunch with an extra twenty minutes of torture every day for the next week.”

“That’s good, because I’d hate to have to commit violence in front of all these witnesses.”

Suggesting lunch had been an impulse, and Jessie had immediately wondered if she would regret it. Though she’d known Dana for five years, they’d never really spent any time together, not just the two of them. Wouldn’t it be ironic if, just as she was starting to think she’d let jealousy blind her to the other woman’s good qualities, she discovered that she really
didn’t
like her?

But that wasn’t the case. Dana turned out to be surprisingly easy to talk to. They shared a love of old movies. Dana didn’t share Jessie’s fondness for Bogart films, but you couldn’t have everything, and she
did
like Preston Sturges films and musicals. They laughed over scenes they’d both enjoyed, and Dana proved to have an amazing memory for lyrics. When the lunch-hour frenzy began to taper off, Lurene wandered over and leaned against the end of the booth, and the conversation switched to the possibility of an outlet mall being built just outside the city limits and what it might mean to the local businesses.

Lunch out with the girls, Jessie found herself thinking at one point. Lunch out with friends. Lurene was already a good friend, and, though the idea still amazed her, she was starting to think that she and Dana might get there. Had she really been so shallow that she’d let jealousy completely blind her to the kind of person Dana really was? She almost wanted to apologize to the other woman, but what could she say?
Gee, sorry I thought you were a
shallow ice princess?
Not exactly the way to further a new friendship. Best to just move on from here.

They’d finished their hamburgers and were waiting for the check when Jessie’s attention was caught by the couple sitting at a table near the front window. They looked to be in their twenties, both wearing blue jeans and heavy sweaters that looked enough alike to make her wonder if they’d been chosen deliberately to emphasize their couple-ness. But the majority of her attention was for the infant sitting in a high chair pulled up to the table, clutching a spoon in one tiny fist, waving it aimlessly in the air.

Looking at that bright, smiling little face, Jessie felt her heart melting in her chest. Next year she would be the one trying to juggle feeding herself and a baby at the same time. She wouldn’t be able to leave the house without loading herself down with diaper bags and car seats—all the paraphernalia that came with having a child.

“Cute kid,” Dana commented, following the direction of her gaze.

“Adorable.” Jessie struggled to keep her smile from turning goofy. Maybe she wasn’t entirely successful.

“Are you and Matt thinking about having a family?” Dana asked casually.

Jessie dragged her attention away from the family. For just a moment she was tempted to blurt out that they’d made it past the thinking stage, but she wanted to share the news with Matt first.
Then
she would take out a full-page ad in the newspaper. She nodded.

“We’re planning on it.”

“That’s nice.” Dana’s smile took on a wistful edge. “I used to think I’d like to have children, but it didn’t work out that way.”

“You’re not too old to start now,” Jessie said, startled to realize that she felt comfortable enough to say anything
at all. “There’s a lot of time left on your biological clock. And Reilly would make a wonderful father.”

My God, I’m actually
urging
her to have Reilly’s baby
. Jessie looked away, a little shaken by the realization that the idea didn’t bother her.
So I’m bothered by the fact
that I’m not bothered. What’s wrong with this picture?

“You and Reilly should…um…talk about it,” she muttered uncomfortably and could have fallen on the waitress’s neck with relief when she arrived with the check.

Jessie slid the pie out of the oven and carried it over to the cast-iron trivet waiting on the counter. She stepped back and smiled. Perfect. The meringue towered over the chocolate filling, graceful dips and swirls tinted a delicate tan from the oven’s heat. Chocolate meringue was one of Matt’s favorites. She had a brisket cooking at a low temperature in the second oven, smothered with mushrooms and thinly sliced onions, and two potatoes scrubbed and ready to go into the oven the pie had just come out of. Some broccoli, steamed and then stir-fried with a little olive oil and a lot of garlic, and they would have what she thought of as a classic “guy” meal.