Teardrop Lane (13 page)

“That’s lovely,” Rose said.

“It’s from an Emily Dickinson poem, and it’s a pain in the ass.”

He told her about how he’d come to be entered in a
significant arts competition, and the challenge of the final round. “So far, a concept has eluded me.”

“What an exciting opportunity for you. I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything about it. I’d expect something like this to be the talk of the town.”

“I asked Gabi and Flynn to keep the news to themselves. People are curious enough as it is about what’s happening in the studio, and right now the last thing I need is for random people to stop by and grill me on a competition piece that doesn’t exist. If creativity is a lush rain forest, then these days my brain is a barren desert.”

He said it so glumly that she couldn’t help but smile. “Surely it’s not that bad.”

“Honestly, it’s never been worse. I’ve had a creative rough spot or two in the past, but I’ve never known anything like this.”

“That’s why you’ve been spending so much time in the library. Looking for inspiration?”

“You know about that?”

“Our library is gossip central in the winter. And since we’re on the subject, why the reading-and-running?”

“Endorphins. My most creative moments come in the midst of vigorous exercise.”

He reached for her hand and brought it up to his mouth for a kiss, followed up by a gentle nibble, then a suggestive lick of his tongue. His gaze steamier than the vapor rising from the water and with a panther-on-the-prowl tone, he purred, “Want to help inspire me?”

Instinctively, she snatched back her hand. Then embarrassed by her reaction, she scoffed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do you use that line often, Cicero?”

Now he flashed a tiger’s grin.

“Is it really considered a line if it’s the truth? Don’t you find great sex to be inspirational, Doctor Anderson?”

The sound of the S-word on his tongue made her ache. Yearning washed through her. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had great sex, so she couldn’t really say, but she wasn’t about to admit to that. Especially not to him. Dodging the question, she said, “
Great
, hmm? That’s a bold adjective you threw down there.”

“Grammar smack. I love it.” He laughed. “But then, I am sharing a spa with a writer, aren’t I? I have to tell you, I find adjectives incredibly sexy. Maybe not as sexy as adverbs, but then I’ve always been different.”

“You’re looking for inspiration. I suspect you’d find gerunds sexy.”

“Probably. If I remembered what a gerund was.”

Playfully, he pulled her to him and settled her on his lap. His thighs were rock hard, his thick arousal unmistakable. His dark, magnetic gaze focused hotly on her mouth. He reached up and brushed a thumb across her lower lip. “Define it for me,
Sirena Bellissima
.”

Rose’s body went deliciously liquid. She wanted to wiggle her bottom, to shift her position that inch to the right where she needed to be. She wanted to tease him and watch the heat burning in his eyes flame hotter.

She knew she was playing with fire—with a man who played with fire for a living. Already, she burned. Was she ready for this? For him? An affair? Maybe even simply a one-night stand?

Live a little, Rose. While you still can
.

You spend way too much time dying
.

“Do it,” he repeated, sliding his thumb across the line of her jaw then trailing it down the length of her throat.

Beneath his touch, her pulse pounded. She drew a deep breath, then moistened her lips with a slow circle of her tongue. “A gerund is a verb that functions as a noun and ends in I-N-G.”

He nipped softly at her lower lip. “Like kiss
ing
?”

“Like kissing.” She leaped from the frying pan. “And touching. And, lovemaking.”

His eyes flashed with victory and perhaps a bit of relief. His fingers tightened on her skin. Then his mouth swooped down upon hers.

And Rose Anderson fell into Hunt Cicero’s fire.

They called it the art of seduction for a reason.

Cicero knew that proper seduction required patience, consideration, attention to detail, and the investment of time. Some had called him a master of the art; he considered himself a well-practiced student. No one would argue that he qualified as experienced.

So why in the world he totally lost control with Rose Anderson he couldn’t begin to guess.

Sure, he’d felt that little zing of arousal during the meals they’d shared at Murphy’s. Yes, she’d occupied his dreams more than a time or two on long, cold February nights and starred in his daytime fantasies more times than that. But Cicero wasn’t a green boy sharing his first hot tub with a beauty. He knew his way around the jets.

He enjoyed the challenge of the chase. He liked to indulge in long, slow, wet kisses. He pleasured his partners with new sensations, aroused them with the leisurely explorations of his eyes, his hands, his mouth. He’d never been a skip-straight-to-the-good-stuff type of guy.

Until tonight.

Rose’s kiss set him ablaze, and all thought of leisurely seduction and practiced finesse went up in smoke. With the first touch of his mouth against hers, he went primal.
Instinct directed his actions. Conscious thought disappeared.

As did their swimwear.

He wanted to believe that he held on to his sanity enough to heed any sign of resistance on her part, but thank God, it wasn’t an issue. The woman gave as good as she got, matching every stroke of his hand, flick of his tongue, and nip of his teeth with one of her own. When she dropped her head back and arched her back, offering herself to him with total abandon, colors flashed in his mind’s eye.

Then he realized she’d activated the spa’s specialty lighting system, and he laughed aloud.

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked dazed.

“What? You make me see stars.”

“It’s a special talent of mine.”

He took a reverent moment to feast on the sight of her full, coral-tipped breasts as they bobbed above the bubbling water. “Are we going to finish this,
Sirena Bellissima
?”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

“In that case—” Bracing himself against the winter’s chill, Cicero swiftly stood. He kept Rose cradled tightly against his chest.

She let out a little shriek. “What are you doing?”

“Hot tubs are nice, but I do my best work in a bed.”

Thankfully, he reached the toasty warm indoors in only a few long strides. He kissed her as he set her on her feet in front of the fireplace, reached out to throw the switch on the gas logs, and snagged the towels that good planning on his part had left within reach.

He took his time and considerable care while drying her off, the cold night air having banked the fire inside him. However, once Rose took a towel and began to return the favor, she soon had him teetering right back on the edge of his control. When she leaned in and gently
kissed the old cigarette burn scars on his chest that he’d carried since his months in the foster home from hell, a huge well of emotion rose within him.

She wasn’t the first woman to make that gesture. It had proven to be something that many felt compelled to do. But Rose’s tender ministrations felt different. They reached into a hidden place inside him to which he seldom allowed access—even to himself.

Cicero reacted to the swell of emotion the way of most men. He ran from it.

He ran from it by leaping headlong into sex.

He swept her up and carried her to the bedroom where he deposited her in the middle of the big bed, climbed over her, then unleashed the sexual demon inside him.

Soon his hands and mouth had her shuddering and whimpering. Judging her ready, he sheathed himself inside her tight, wet heat and relentlessly demanded more until she rewarded him with moans, groans, and gasps. Only after he made her scream out her climax did he allow himself to follow her, pounding into her until he erupted, intense physical pleasure scorching along his nerve endings.

When he heard her cry out a second time, he allowed himself a moment of personal satisfaction. Guess he shouldn’t feel badly about skimping on slow seduction this time. Sometimes, like that old saying goes, art was in the eyes of the beholder.

He lay down beside her, tucked her next to him, and murmured, “Sleep for a little while?”

She replied in a soft, sated tone. “Perfect.”

“Yes, it was. You are.”

Then Cicero drifted off, his body sated and relaxed, his mind a clean slate ready to receive the flash of feather-and-hope creativity he needed.

Dozing with a deliciously warm body cuddled against him was a pleasure he’d missed during his nights in the
mountains, so Cicero slept more soundly than he’d anticipated. He awoke some time later, not to an Albritton-worthy image floating in his mind’s eye, but to whimpers of pain coming from the woman in bed beside him.

Oh, hell. Was this a case of morning-after regrets? He’d dealt with those a time or two—and it was never pleasant. It could seriously complicate life in a small town, too. Still, the dismay curling in his stomach caught him off guard.

He swallowed a sigh, then rolled up on his elbow. Firelight and the muted glow of lamplight from the front room illuminated her face, and Cicero saw that she was still asleep. Crying in her sleep.

Not regrets, then. Dreams? She’d mentioned Afghanistan earlier. Had that stirred up haunting memories?

Another little mewl escaped her lips and broke his heart.

So he leaned down and brushed a featherlight kiss against her lips.

“
Bellissima
, wake up.”

She didn’t stir, so he kissed her again, a little harder this time. Her eyelashes fluttered. She gazed up at him without really seeing him, he could tell, her eyes twin forest-green pools of pain. “Bad dreams?”

She blinked. Her eyes widened with awareness of her surroundings. Fresh tears filled her eyes and she nodded.

“Afghanistan?” he guessed.

She remained silent and he could see the inner battle reflected upon her face. It was obvious that she didn’t want to tell him, and he’d almost given up when she murmured a name.

“Elizabeth.”

He waited a beat, then asked, “Who is Elizabeth?”

She closed her eyes, and teardrops spilled, trailing across her temples.

“My daughter.”

Oh. Cicero took a moment to absorb that. She’d never mentioned a daughter to him. He’d never heard any gossip about a daughter, either. He did know about an ex-fiancé, but he didn’t remember kids. There was obviously a story here. A sad one. He was curious, but should he push it? He wanted to know because it was her story, but he didn’t want to hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly before he made up his mind. “This isn’t like me at all. I guess your mention of backpacking in Europe jogged the memories. That, or the mind-blowing sex.”

He wiped away the tears with the pad of his thumb. “Mind-blowing, hmm? You have a way with your words, Dr. Anderson.”

“You have a way with your mouth.”

The wry note in her voice had the corners of his mouth lifting. He gave her another soft kiss, then asked, “Want to tell me about her? About Elizabeth?”

A long moment of silence followed. Finally, she said, “I never talk about what happened. Dad was stationed in Germany at the time, and the subject was verboten. I don’t even talk about her with Sage.”

“So, is that an answer to my question?”

“No, actually, I think I
would
like to talk about her. Don’t look at me, though. It’ll just make me nervous.” He rolled his eyes, but did as she asked, going down onto his back with one arm propped behind his head. He wrapped the other around her and pulled her close so that she rested her head on his chest. “So, you still lived at home?”

“I was sixteen. Have you ever been in Germany for the Christmas market season?”

“I have. I sold sketches in a booth one year.”

“Your own sketches?” He nodded, and she continued, “He sold his photographs and bought me my first German mulled wine. And my second. And my third.”

He sensed where this was going. Poor Rose. “
Glühwein
is potent.”

She sighed heavily. “So was he. He was nineteen and had long blond hair and blue eyes and an Australian accent. He was passing through Germany on a backpacking tour around Europe. His name was Will and I said yes and six weeks later, he was long gone and I realized I was pregnant. Being pregnant was scary, being the colonel’s pregnant daughter was terrifying.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too. I’d never seen my father so angry. I looked up to him. He was my hero. He was never a warm man, but after I told him what had happened, he went arctic on me. Totally froze me out. He told me if I chose adoption or abortion he’d support me. If I decided to keep the baby, I was on my own.”

“Cold,” Cicero muttered.

“Tough love. He did what he believed was best for me. As a widower with two young daughters, he learned firsthand the challenges of single parenthood. Honestly, he was right. I chose adoption, he sent me home to the States to have her, and a private agency placed Elizabeth with an infertile couple desperate for a child to love who could give her all the advantages I couldn’t. I met them one time. They really were good people. I liked them.”