The Passion Play (9 page)

She looked him over, her eyes narrowed, thinking he was here, and making
himself available, and she found him attractive and he was not too pushy about it, and he might have embarrassed and then offended her but he had not done it deliberately and maybe this was a wasted opportunity. Though it was hard to concentrate when she was so strangely excited to be standing there with him so near to her, with potential charging the air between them.

"I do have a problem," she said. He raised his eyebrows in expectation. "You see," she went on slowly, throat tight at the immensity of her own daring, "I'm looking for a certain sort of . . . experience. A few weeks ago I thought I'd found it but for various reasons that
didn't really work out. Now I wonder if it was maybe a fluke. Or a figment of my imagination. You know how it is?"

His eyes glittered. "I can imagine.
Very frustrating."

"It is.
Very frustrating. Yes." She waited, hoping she did not have to actually issue an invitation, since she did not know the words to use.

"Is it possible you're," he paused and his lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, "looking for a solution right about now?"

"Vaguely possible." It was beyond her to speak frankly, especially when she was unclear what she even wanted. Only his touch on her cold skin; her unwarmed lips. Only the heat of it, the pressure, vital and alive. The thrill of youth, of life itself.

He eased a step closer to her, nodding with sage wisdom. "I could give you that."

"I've been informed you're a man with solutions."

"It's been said of me." He even made it amusing, despite the tension arcing between them.

"I don't suppose you could provide references?" she joined in, and he now he did smile and took another step.

"That's not the way it works. It's an individualized service."

"On a case by case basis?"

"Yes."

"So I'll have to make up my own mind?" Her chest was rising and falling swiftly, so she thought maybe she was hyperventilating.

"You will."

"And if I find the solution doesn't quite work for my situation?"

"Customer feedback is highly valued. Adjustments can always be made." He stood much closer now, less than a foot away.

She reached out and grasped the edge of his jacket, the heat of her own courage warming her, thrilling her. "Ah. Responsive. Always a bonus." With a tug she pulled him the last little distance, amazed and delighted at herself.

He caught his weight on his hands, palms laid flat on the car on either side of her, so she felt the contact but not the weight of him. He was a solid plane of heat and muscle, lightly pressing her into the cool metal and glass at her back, a contrast that made her shudder.

The fire was instant, licking tongues of flame curling up inside her body from each point where it touched his. His kiss came more slowly, a gradual lowering of his head that gave her an infinity of time to take the escape she did not want. When his lips finally touched hers the contact made her suck in a sharp breath, to push up against him, her back arched like a drawn bow.

This,
this
was what she had wanted. This flash burn, this suction, a seduction of mouth and tongue sliding over hers in subtle strokes. The hunger of it, the desire, the excitement of being so alive, so charged with feminine vitality. She felt the swift rise of his erection against her abdomen and it was a triumph to her that she could move him so much, make him think of sex and want it and her so badly, so swiftly.  It healed the small hurt of his rejection which had piled on top of what had come before – a year of disinterest.

She
was
alive and she
was
desirable and she was free to use her own body the way she wanted to, to lift and strain against him until he wrapped his arms around her and hitched her a foot high off the ground, between him and the car, and stood between her slightly parted legs.

It caught her by surprise, and for a moment she did not like the helplessness of it, to be out of touch with the solid concrete, but then she discovered she could put her arms around his neck, one hand on the
back of his head, burrow her fingers through the silk of his hair, could lean forward and intensify the kiss, push back against him and take what she wanted.

He made an approving sound as she grasped on him, sucked him in, not trying to hide her enjoyment of this feast. She wanted more, wanted to crawl inside his clothes and discover him. It was so good to be wrapped in him, the scent of clean skin and line-dried cotton and soap, his ready strength focused on her.

They kissed for a long, long minute, ignoring footsteps coming and going on the footpath, the warmth between them fighting the chill of the evening.

When she finally pulled away he sighed quietly, raised a hand to cup her face, his thumb resting on her cheekbone. His eyes were close, staring into hers. Too close to read. She hesitated, still quivering with sensation, wanting to stay in this communion where it did not matter what had gone before, it was just the two of them and how good it felt to touch and be touched.

This was what she wanted, simple and good and uncomplicated, just her body and his and more of that relentless groundswell of lust. No more than that. Affirmation, catharsis and release. But how could she tell him that? How could she just come out and say it? She had never done this before, with someone she knew not-at-all. What were the rules?

The silence, the moment of looking straight into his hazel eyes, had drawn out too long and taken on an intimacy of its own. It was too much. She laid her hands on his chest and pushed gently, and he lowered her back to the ground. Her feet had gone a little numb and it was hard to stand steady. He did not quite let her go, just gazed down at her, stroked the fine strands of her hair back from her face,
tucked them behind her ear with big, gentle fingers.

"What now?" she asked, thinking aloud.

"What do you want?"

She paused, thinking she wanted to take him home with her, to dive deep in sensation with him and not surface for a long time, to find out the mystery in those depths, of why and how he could make her feel this way, and where it led.

Yet when it came down to it she just could not say the words. They froze inside her, so foreign to her mind, her mouth, her sense of self. She did not know the right way to extend the invitation, to ask, and it seemed too sudden and spontaneous when just two hours ago she had been glaring at him across the club, resenting his presence.

Not sensible. Not logical. Not something she was allowed: to change her mind so much, to be ruled by desire.

So she shrugged, hoping he would offer to come home with her, to drive himself to her door and let himself in and just join her in her bed so she did not have to say it herself.

"Would you like to have dinner this week?"

She shook her head sharply. No. Not dinner. Not a date. Nothing romantic. She did not want
that
with him. No.

"Dancing? Would you like to go dancing together? Next Friday?"

It was a long time to wait. She would rather go dancing tomorrow. She
would
go dancing tomorrow. But he would not be there of course. He would be getting his proper night of sleep before the game on Sunday. Waiting a week took the shine from the apple, the dangerous tang dissipating.

"Friday," she conceded, dissatisfied, and she pulled away from him and walked around to the driver's door, putting the distance of the car between them. "Goodnight." Her skin prickled with agitation, and she wanted to scream wildly or hit something. Carefully she opened the door, deliberate and slow.

He came after her, surprised her by reaching for her again, taking hold of her with a tug that was not so polite, so her body came up hard against his. He bent to her and this kiss was brief, firm, a thread of possession in it that made her cling to him, unthinking, wanting to surrender.

But he let her go and stepped away, his eyes fierce as he nodded and said: "Dancing.
Friday. I'll pick you up at nine."

Her swollen lips still parted, she watched him go, his powerful stride carrying him swiftly away, and she was thrilled and angry and confused, but Friday seemed now to hold more promise.

CHAPTER TEN

Her Saturday evening at the club was a disappointment
, as if she was forcing it, trying to find an elusive enjoyment. It was difficult to stay in the moment. She kept forgetting and looking for Luke at the bar, and that made her edgy and bad-tempered.

She did not want to want him, only him. She did not want to miss him,
nor to think of him like there was anything special about him. He was just another jock; sexy enough, nice enough for a fun time. That was as much as she wanted or was ready for. Casual was the name of the game.

So she pushed herself into trying to enjoy the night, the music, the atmosphere of the club, but it did not work. She barely saw the men there, even the two she danced with. No one stood out. In the end she went home early, washed off her makeup, showered and went to bed to lie staring at the ceiling for far too long.

Was going out like this at night still achieving what she wanted to achieve? She was trying to be open to new possibilities, to understand herself better, to be more confident and relaxed about men. She wanted to feel young and adventurous and alive, as if there were no boundaries.

She just . . . she felt restless.

On Monday she spontaneously walked into the office of a local travel agent, collected brochures and took them home with her, using them as the starting point for browsing the internet. The whole world was open to her. She could take the time off work, and go anywhere.

When she felt the familiar hesitation, the objections crowd around her –
I’ve never travelled alone before, something might happen to me, I might get lonely, I might want to be pregnant by then
– she recognized the excuses for the fear they masked and decided she would go to Europe in three months. Enough time to do the research and decide exactly where. She would start in London where at least she spoke the language, and wander from there.

She booked a one-way trip online, and paid for it.

On Tuesday was a dinner party she had accepted six weeks ago. Back when she and Dan were still together. Not that she had told him about it at the time. He seldom planned his social life so far in advance. But the appointment was in her own diary. She stared at it.

The hosts were an
ex-player, Tom Rafferty, and his wife Eleanor. There would probably be other team members there, but most uncomfortable was the thought of Dan. He might still have been invited, directly rather than through her. She did not want to spend an evening in the same room with him.

But that was just
the fear talking, really. The thought she might not be able to stand her ground, to dismiss him from her mind, her life, if she had to look at him or talk to him. The task was to be stronger than that. Otherwise she must give up every friendship from her former life with him, and with the team in particular, and she did not want that.

She dressed carefully, stockings and a knit wool dress that was thin but beautifully warm and draped very well, elegant and sophisticated. Too much for one of these gatherings, which were so casual, but she would rather be overdressed and look great. She balanced it by gathering her hair in an elastic band on the back of her head, a plain bunch, and applying very natural make up.

That would do. She need only seem coolly relaxed, as if anything Dan said could not touch her. A polite disinterest.

Outside Tom and Eleanor's house she sat in her car for a long minute, gathering her poise about her like a shield. No matter what happened here, she could manage it. These people liked her, and she liked them, and so long as Dan was civil there was nothing to worry about. If for some reason he was not, everyone would side with her. She was among friends.

But Dan would be civil. After all, this was his professional life as well as his personal one. Of course he would be. No need to build it up to be some frightening thing it was not. She gathered her bag, got out of the car and went to the front door.

When Eleanor let her in, she thought she detected some extra emotion behind Eleanor's eyes, her smile. It might have been pity. Felicity did not like it but knew it was well meant. She fastened her own, brightest smile on her face and breezed through the moment. She was ushered into the large living room of the immense house –
a house bought with some of the money Felicity had helped them manage. Tom was one of the players who had taken her advice and was now well-established for life. The place was full of people already, standing in groups with beer bottles or glasses of wine or orange juice in their hands, or sitting on the sofas that were arranged in several conversational groups across the expanse of carpet.

Felicity scanned the room for Dan's distinctive big frame but she could not see him anywhere, nor hear his too-loud voice. Perhaps he had still to arrive. Or maybe – and she brightened at this thought – he would not come at all.

She found the wine and poured herself a glass, more to hold than to drink, then began to circulate.

It would have been pleasant to talk, to exchange news, other than the awkwardness of the one piece of news it seemed everyone had heard about: her separation.

"It's sad when a marriage ends."

"Yes, it is," she agreed, exasperated with a comment she had heard half a dozen times already.

Amanda waved a hand at the rest of the room. "And coming here, seeing all the friends you had as a couple, must be hard too."

"I suppose. I wasn't really thinking about it. How's the flower business these days?
The florist shop going well?"

"Still a bit slow.
I'm thinking I need to reduce staff to push the profits back up . . ."

Felicity managed, but after an hour she was ready to find a quiet place to sit with a plate of food as occupation, and take twenty minutes off. This w
as more draining than expected.

Others were helping themselves from the buffet, a laid back affair of hamburger and hotdog fixings, salad and coleslaw and baskets of hot chips Eleanor kept refreshing from the oven. Felicity gathered a plate and hovered by the table, mentally assembling a meal before she committed anything to the plate itself.

"Not your sort of food?" came a masculine voice from just behind her, and she turned and blinked up at Luke Barrett.

For a moment she gaped, and then she snapped back into polite composure, refusing to think about their parting Saturday night, with a mental shove of those pictures to the back of her mind.
The food. He had mentioned the food.

"It's not that. I just don't want to put something on my plate I then don't like."

"If you find you don’t like it just leave it," he recommended with a smile.

"And you so well-mannered, Mr Barrett. I'm sure your mother taught you to
eat everything on your plate, when someone else had made it for you."

"She surely did. And it's Luke, if you remember. But she's a practical woman, my mom, and she also taught me when there are this many guests your hosts can't be everywhere. Take your unfinished food to the kitchen and hide it down the waste disposal. Not that unfinished food is often a problem with me, I'll admit."

A little surprised – she had never heard him string so many words together at one time – she nodded. "It takes a lot of fuel to feed you guys."

"It
does, no question. Can I help you to anything?"

"I think I can
manage, thanks."

He stepped past her and with swift, economical movements he filled his plate to almost overflowing, then stood by expectantly, clearly waiting for her.

Thus prompted she began, more selective than he, leaving the over-sized buns and the chips but taking hamburger patties, salad, coleslaw, fried onions and pickles in dainty small serves.

"Look at that arranged all nice and tidy on your plate," he said admiringly, and she glanced down at the selection that yes, she had absent-mindedly placed to be as attractive as one could manage with such food.

Then he stepped sideways, inclining head and body in a way that ushered her to come along with him. "There's a nice spot over here, a bit quieter and the view's good."

She felt hijacked, but he did it all with such good
humor, such visible pleasure to have her company she could not resent him for it, and he was right, the breakfast room was empty for the moment and the windows out onto the lawn showed the garden lit up like a picture, the careful landscaping highlighted by equally careful lighting. There was even the table so she did not need to balance her plate on her knee.

And perhaps, all things considered, Luke would not expect to discuss her failed marriage with her. That alone made his company welcome.

She sat next to him, oddly aware of his big body hulking next to hers. Odd, because she was accustomed to large football players. Why should she feel so self-conscious in this moment, so feminine and small?

"Had a good day?" he asked, and gathered a large forkful of food together.

"I have, thanks. Mostly working. I got a lot done."

"What do you do for work?"

"I'm a financial analyst."

He flashed
her a bright, interested grin. "Financial analysis? I wouldn't have guessed it, looking at you."

"What do you mean?" she asked, pausing with a mouthful of salad halfway to her mouth, ready to be offended. She had heard plenty before about how her pretty blondness made observers think of light, sweet, fluffy things, right down to Dan deciding his pet name for her would be Candy Floss, the English name for cotton candy.

"It seems a dry subject. Hard to imagine someone with your natural gifts gravitating to it."

Okay. Alright, that response was acceptable. She would let that one pass. "If you have money you have a life full of choices," she said, her own personal mantra. "We're a society
obsessed by it but woefully ill-equipped to make it work for us. I think that's a crying shame."

"Y
ou're changing the world one bank account at a time."

"I help my clients have security for themselves and their children and grandchildren, and then I encourage them to think about how they can give to the wider community. Because of me, hundreds of
thousands of dollars have gone to community projects in the city and the state. I think that's a pretty good scorecard."

"It sure is," he said admiringly. "When did you know you wanted to do that?"

"I followed my father into it. It's what he does. He made it fun to keep my own budget and accumulate money and make investments when I was little. He's this really organized guy and he showed me how being well-organized can set you free, in finance and your home and social life."

"So even in your work life you're very family-oriented."

"I . . . yes, I guess so. I hadn't thought of it like that."

"It seemed kind of obvious to me. You were always coming into the stadium to help out your ex, and I'm guessing nobody paid you for that."

"No, of course not. I was just being helpful. It's what family do for one another, isn't it?"

"I've always thought so. Did your ex help you out with your work?"

"No, he . . . ah . . . no. I didn't really need help. I could get it all done myself."

"Most of us can get it done by ourselves. But that's not what it's about, is it? If you care for someone you help them. Not because it's necessary but because it feels good. It lets your special person know you see
them, you care enough to get involved. Their goals are your goals."

"Yes. Yes, that's true." But she
had grown used to working full time and keeping the house all on her own without help. There was really no other option. Dan had always spoken of how lucky she was that her work was more flexible and less demanding than his, how she could set her own schedule and there were no deadlines, no one chasing her for answers this second.

She had stayed silent, thinking but not saying they would sure enough be chasing her if she did not get her work done so efficiently, well ahead of expectations and self-imposed deadlines. That was how she had
built up her business with so little in the way of advertising. People had referred her for the quality of her work, and the results that were the natural outcome of her many hours of quiet research.

"Still, I guess everyone's different," he said. "It must be hard on people who go into a relationship thinking it's going to be one way, and the other person thinks the opposite.
Lonely and maybe a bit sad."

"Yes." And here they were talking about her failed relationship. It seemed it was inevitable. Apparently no one could look at her and think of anything else. "I
’ll be sure to clarify every assumption in the future," she said tartly.

He just
grinned his laid back grin. "That's a tall order in itself. Don't think a person can manage that, either."

"Maybe the world needs a thousand-item questionnaire that's compulsory for all dating couples.
A detailed self-analysis of every hope, dream and intention for life after marriage. Fill out every question then swap answers."