Meet Me in Manhattan (True Vows) (29 page)

She hadn't come home. But she'd kept the drawing, and treasured it. In fact . . . "Come here," she said, taking his hand and
ushering him away from the drawing to the wall unit. She opened
a bottom drawer, dug beneath her neatly organized files of bills and receipts, and pulled out a portfolio. She unlaced it, flipped it
open, and displayed it for him.

The frown came back, a frown not of annoyance but of sheer
bewilderment. Inside the portfolio was every letter he'd ever sent
her, every note, every drawing. Even a business card he'd mailed
her from Tempe, when he'd had a job as a car salesman.

"You saved everything."

"There were times I wondered why," she admitted. "I was
moving around so much, doing the transatlantic sail, living in
New York, heading out west for graduate school, back here again
... I was always clearing things out, giving stuff away, donating
things to Goodwill so I wouldn't have to move them. But I never
got rid of this."

He leafed gingerly through the letters, pausing to skim a few.
"Did you ever go back and reread these letters? Was it a thing, like,
once a year-time to haul out the crap Ted sent me and remember what an asshole he was?"

She jabbed him playfully in the ribs. "You weren't an asshole.
And no, I didn't reread them. But . . ." Her playfulness fled,
replaced by anguished honesty. "I had to keep them. I could never
throw them out. You were the first boy I ever loved. The first boy
who ever loved me. I never wanted to forget that love."

"There were times I wanted to forget that love," he said quietly.
"I tried to forget it. But I couldn't."

"It made us who we are, Ted. It's a part of us."

"Yeah." He folded the portfolio shut and placed it carefully
next to her computer. His smile was wistful, a poignant expression of both pain and joy as he took her in his arms and kissed
her.

They stood beside that pile of letters and drawings, kissing for
what felt like an eternity. Ted tangled his hands into Erika's hair, using his thumbs to tilt her chin, sliding his tongue deep into her
mouth. He grazed the nape of her neck with his fingertips,
warmed her shoulders with his palms, drew his hands forward to
the front of her blouse. Kissed her. Fiddled with the blouse's buttons. Kissed her again.

She let his kisses melt her, heat her, flood her with pleasure. She
was wistful, too, aware of everything she'd lost when she'd walked
away from the first boy she'd ever loved, the first boy who had
ever loved her. She'd gained so much by declaring her freedom,
learned so much, grown so much-but she'd also lost so much.
She'd lost him.

Now she had him back.

As turned on as she was by the brush of his fingers against her
skin as he opened one button and then another down the front of
her blouse, she was even more turned on by the way he looked at
her. She had always believed his eyes had a special power, not just
the power to mesmerize her with their beauty but the power to
see more than normal people saw. He was an artist; he noticed the
lines and shapes of things, the hues and shadings, with a discernment most people didn't possess.

But he also saw her. When he looked at her the way he was looking at her right now, she was certain he saw her yearnings, her
fears, her soul. When they were young, he had seen in her the person he'd wanted her to be. Now he saw the person she truly was.

She worked her way down the front of his shirt, lingering at
each button, teasing him with gentle taps and twists of her fingers
against the chest she was baring. Long before she'd really understood her own responses, she'd been transfixed by the sight of
him in his wrestling singlet, that clinging Lycra uniform that had
exposed so much of his lanky, boyish body.

His body was no longer boyish. His torso was warm and solid, thick with muscle. When his shirt was fully open, she flattened
her hands against the surface of his chest, needing to confirm by
touch what she could see: that he was a man, strong and sturdy
and wanting her. She caressed the firm contours of his shoulders,
felt the wild beat of his heart, noted the flexing of his abs as she
skimmed her hands down to the waistband of his slacks. When
her hands alighted on the button of his fly, he let out a sound that
was half a sigh and half a groan.

He kissed her again, a hungry, greedy kiss that swamped her
with sensation. How could she open his fly when he was kissing
her like this? How could she get him naked-which at that
moment was her one and only goal in life? How could she think
when his tongue was seducing hers, luring it, subduing it?

She was scarcely aware of the faint chill on her shoulders as he
pushed her blouse down her arms and off her. Scarcely aware of
the tickle at the center of her back as he flicked open her bra. All
too aware of the heat in his hands as he brought them forward to
her breasts, cupped beneath them, splayed his fingers over them.

"Fred," he murmured. "Erika."

"Yes." It was all she had to say. All she could say.

She was glad her apartment was so small. They had to take
only a couple of steps to reach the bed. They tumbled onto it, and
it occurred to her that they had never before made love on a bed.

They had never before made love, she thought. They'd had sex.
And yes, she'd loved Ted, and he'd sworn he loved her. But they'd
been too young to comprehend what love meant. It had been an
ideal, an abstract concept.

Now it was real. It was destiny.

He kissed her, kissed her, intoxicated her with his kisses. He
finished undressing her and helped her finish undressing him.
They lay together, bodies pressing close and then moving apart to give their hands room to claim, to touch, to take. Every part of
him-shoulders, back, butt, thighs, calves-was as warm and
hard as his chest had been. Every part except his erection, which
was much, much warmer, much, much harder.

She ran her fingers the length of him. "Do you like this?" she
whispered. Back when they'd been teenagers, she had never asked
him what he liked. She'd been too shy.

A soft, helpless laugh escaped him. "Even if I were dead, I'd like
that," he said. He shifted on the mattress and lowered his mouth
to her breast. Twinges of heat shot through her as he nuzzled one
breast and then the other. She combed her hands through his
hair, holding his head to her, thinking, Yeah, I like that. Anything
he did to her, everything he did to her ... yeah, she liked it.

He lifted his head and gazed down at her. "Do you have any
idea how beautiful you are?" he asked.

It was a question she couldn't possibly answer. Yes would make
her sound arrogant; no would make her sound coy. She liked to
look nice, but she wasn't obsessed with her appearance. Yet when
she peered up into his eyes, she saw her beauty there. She was
beautiful because Ted thought she was beautiful. She was beautiful because he desired her.

"Love me," she murmured.

"I think I can do that," he said, trailing his hand down her
body. "Maybe a little better than last time."

Last time. Sixteen years ago. The night before she left for
Colorado. That time had been so precious in its own way, so bittersweet. Good-bye had shimmered through them that time. It
had hovered in the air. It had whispered itself in every kiss.

She prayed that this time would have no good-bye in it.
Running her hands down his back, gripping his hips, lifting herself off the pillows to nip the hollow of his throat, she prayed that this would be the start of something, not its conclusion.

This time she understood love. She believed in it. She lived it.

This time, he knew what he was doing. They both did.

He played his fingers over her until she moaned with need, her
hips twitching, her hands groping, clinging. Then-at last-he
joined himself to her, and for a blissful instant her world fell still
and silent. Everything was in balance, everything was as it should
be. Her and Ted, united.

They moved together, strove together. They sensed each
other's needs, adjusted their weight, their rhythm, their breathing
until they were one single entity gliding, soaring.

Sensation tore through her, deep, wrenching pulses of pleasure
that left her gasping and trembling and blessedly spent. Above
her, Ted moaned, lost in his own ecstasy. She held him close, letting him sink into her embrace. His breath was raw against her
shoulder. His back was filmed with perspiration.

I love you, Ted Skala.

She didn't dare to speak the words. She was afraid he might
not believe her. She had thought she loved him once, and then
she'd gone away. Would he trust her if she professed love this
time? Better for her to wait, to prove her love to him. Then he
would believe her when she spoke the words.

After his respiration returned to normal, he eased off her and
flopped down on his back beside her on the bed. "Definitely better than last time," she said.

He laughed and drew her against him, planting a slow, weary
kiss on her lips. "I think we're beginning to get the hang of it."

Lying on her side, she traced a wandering line on his chest
with her index finger. "I wasn't sure what the plan was for this
evening.. .

"I don't know what your plan was. This was my plan," he
declared.

It had been her plan, too, but she let him assume this had been
all his doing. "Anyway, I put together a bite to eat, if you're hungry. Just some snacks, and some wine."

"Sounds good." He released her and raised himself to sit,
propping pillows behind his back.

She crossed to the kitchen to get the plate she'd been preparing when he'd arrived. "Guess what I bought, just for you?"

"What?"

She lifted the plate so he could see it. "Pitted black olives."

She'd thought he would smile, but his expression was more
meditative than happy. "You bought those for me?"

Had she made a mistake? "You said you liked them."

"Erika." At last the smile came, a slow, deep smile. "You were
thinking about me when you bought the olives?"

"Of course."

"Do you think about me a lot?"

"All the time." She admitted it without embarrassment. "It's
crazy," she said as she placed the wine bottle, two glasses, and the
food on a tray and carried them over to the bed. "All day, all
night. You're like something out of a cheesy sci-fi movie. You've
taken over my brain."

That made him laugh. He grew solemn again as she joined him
on the bed and set the tray down between them. "Do you think
about us?" he asked.

She could see why he wasn't laughing anymore. This was serious. "Yes," she answered honestly. "I think about us a lot."

She reached for the bottle, but he intercepted her and gathered
her hand in his. "Are you in love with me?" he asked.

If he hadn't been ready to hear it, he wouldn't have asked. She curled her fingers tightly around his and said, "Yes, Ted. I am in
love with you."

He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, just as
he had the evening before she'd left for Sun Valley. "I've been in
love with you for sixteen years," he said. "It's about time you figured this thing out."

When he'd been making love with her, she'd been positive
nothing could ever make her feel better than to have him deep
inside her, bound to her. But she'd been wrong.

Hearing Ted tell her he loved her was better.

THE LAST TIME he'd been in the Denver airport with Erika had
been one of the worst days of his life. He'd stood there with a
teddy bear in his hand and his heart on his sleeve, and an entirely
new version of Erika had appeared with her entirely new friends.
He'd left the airport knowing, even though he hadn't wanted to
admit it, that their relationship was dead. He'd tried reviving it,
performed romantic CPR on it, pressed the paddles to it, and
attempted to shock it back to life. But nothing had worked. The
love had been gone.

He probably shouldn't be thinking about that now. But just as
he'd sensed ghosts in his childhood home, he sensed the ghost of
that ghastly day hovering around him as he and Erika strolled
through the concourse in search of a place that might offer palatable food while they waited for their flight back to New York.