The Sign of Seven Trilogy (53 page)

“Okay,” he said.

“Your sister was very friendly, positively breezy. She behaved as if she hadn't heard me announce I was going to have sex with her brother.”

“It's probably that natural act, celebration of human expression thing. And she had stuff on her mind.”

“I'm a grown woman. I'm a single, healthy adult.” In a gesture that smacked of defiance, she shook back her hair. “So I'm telling myself there's absolutely no cause for me to be embarrassed because . . . Is something wrong?”

“No. I don't know. It's been a really strange morning. It turns out . . .” How did he put this? “I told you my sister's gay, right?”

“It was mentioned.”

“She and Paula, they've been together some years now. They're good together, really good together. And . . .” He paced to the window, back. “They want a baby.”

“That's nice.”

“They want me to provide the Y chromosome.”

“Oh.
Oh.
” Layla pursed her lips. “I guess you have had a strange morning. What did you say?”

“I don't remember, exactly, with all the going blind and deaf. I'm supposed to think about it. Which, of course, I'd have a hard time not.”

“They both must think a great deal of you. Since you didn't say no, straight off, you must think a great deal of them.”

“Right this minute, I can't think at all. Can we close the office and go have sex?”

“No.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Your last appointment is at four thirty. We can go have sex after that.”

He stared at her. “It continues to be a really strange day.”

“Your schedule on this strange day says that I'm to make a conference call for you on the Benedict case. Here's the file.”

“Go ahead on that. Do you want to come to lunch with me, over to Sparrow's with the family?”

“Not for a million dollars.”

He couldn't blame her, all things considered. Still it was an easy hour for him with his brother and Ridge's wife and little boy, with his sisters, his parents, filling Sparrow's little restaurant.

Layla went to lunch when he returned, and that gave him room to think. He tried not to watch the clock while he worked, but he'd never, at any time in his life, wished quite so much for time to fly.

Naturally, his last client of the day was chatty, and didn't seem the least bit concerned about billable hours, or the fact that it was now ten minutes after five. The price of small-town law, Fox thought as he fought the urge to check his watch, again. People wanted to shoot the breeze, before, during, and after business. Any other time, he'd have been perfectly happy to kick back and talk about preseason baseball, the O's chances this year, and the rookie infielder who showed such potential.

But he had a woman waiting, and his own engine was revving.

He didn't precisely drag his client to the door and give him a boot to the sidewalk for good measure. But he didn't linger.

“I thought he'd never shut up,” Fox said as he locked the door behind him. “We're closed. Shut down, don't answer the phone. And come with me.”

“Actually, I was thinking maybe we should consider.”

“No, no thinking, no considering. Don't make me beg.” He solved the matter by grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the stairs. “Marriage counseling, burning buildings, nice ass—in no particular order—just to refresh your memory.”

“I haven't forgotten, I just—when did you clean?” she asked when he drew her into the apartment.

“Yesterday. It was an ugly business, but fortuitous.”

“In that case I have the name of a cleaning woman, Marcia Biggons.”

“I went to school with her sister.”

“So I'm told. She'll give you a chance. Call her.”

“First thing tomorrow. Now.” He leaned in, took her mouth while his hands skimmed down from her shoulders to her wrist. “We're going to have some wine.”

Her eyes blinked open. “Wine?”

“I'm going to put on some music, we're going to have some wine. We're going to sit down in my fairly clean living room and relax.”

She let out a breathless laugh. “You've just added one to the list of why I'm here. I'd love some wine, thanks.”

He opened the bottle of Shiraz a client had given him at Christmas, put on Clapton—it just seemed right—and poured two glasses.

“Your artwork shows off better without the mountain of clutter. Mmm, this is nice,” she said after the first sip when he joined her on the couch. “I wasn't sure what I'd get, seeing as you're more of a beer guy.”

"I have deep wells.”

“Yes, you do.” And gorgeous, thick brown hair, wonderful tiger's eyes. “I didn't get a chance to ask if you'd read our notes, or the marked—” She swallowed the rest of the words when his mouth met hers again.

“Here's what we're not going to talk about. Office work and missions from gods. Tell me what you did in New York for fun.”

Okay, she thought, small talk would be good. She could talk small with the best of them. “Clubs, because I like music. Galleries because I like art. But my job was fun, too. I guess it's always fun to do what you're good at.”

“Your parents owned a dress shop.”

“I loved working there, too. Well, playing there when I was a kid. All the colors and textures. I liked putting things together. This jacket with this skirt, this coat with this bag. We thought I'd take over one day, but it just got to be too much for them.”

“So you went to New York, left Philly behind.”

“I thought I'd go where fashion rules, on this side of the Atlantic anyway.” The wine was lovely, just slid over her tongue. “I'd get some polish, some more experience in a more specialized arena, then open my own place.”

“In New York?”

“I flirted with that for about five minutes. I was never going to be able to afford the rent in the city. I thought maybe the suburbs, maybe one day. Then one day became next year, and so on. Plus I liked managing the boutique, and there wasn't any risk. I stopped taking risks.”

“Until recently.”

She met his eyes. “Apparently.”

He smiled, topped off their wine. “The Hollow doesn't have a dress shop, or fashion boutique, or whatever you'd call that kind of thing.”

“At the moment, I'm gainfully employed and no longer thinking about opening a boutique. My risk quota's been reached.”

“What kind of music? Do you like to listen to?” he added when she frowned at him.

“Oh, I'm pretty open there.”

He reached down, slipped off her shoes, then brought her feet up into his lap. “How about art?”

“There, too. I think . . .” Her whole body sighed when he began rubbing the balls of her feet. “Any art, or music, that gives you pleasure, or makes you think—or better makes you wonder; it's—it's what makes us human. The need to create it, to have it.”

“I grew up soaked in it, various forms. Nothing was out-of-bounds.” His thumb, just rough enough to thrill, ran down her arch, back again. “Anything out-of-bounds for you?”

He wasn't talking about art or music now. Her stomach jittered with lust, fear, anticipation. “I don't know.”

“You can tell me if I hit any boundaries.” His hand went to work on her calf muscles. “Tell me what you like.”

Flustered, she stared.

“That's okay. I'll figure it out. I like the shape of you. The high arch of your feet, the muscles in your calves. They draw my eye especially when you're wearing heels.”

“That's the point of heels.” Her throat was dry; her pulses skipping.

“I like the line of your neck and shoulders. I'm planning on spending some time on those later. I like your knees, your thighs.” His hand slid up slowly, barely touching, then again, just a little higher until he found the lacy top of her stocking. “I like this,” he murmured, “this little surprise under a black skirt.” He hooked a finger under the top, eased it down.

“Oh, God.”

“I plan on going slow.” He watched her as he worked the stocking down her leg. “But if you want me to stop—I hope you won't—just say so.”

His fingers skimmed over the back of her knee, down her calf, her ankle, until her leg was bare, and her skin humming. “I don't want you to stop.”

“Have some more wine,” he suggested. “This is going to take a while.”

Twelve

SHE ALREADY FELT DRUNK, AND THOUGH SHE considered herself fairly adept, Layla didn't think she was quite adept enough to casually sip wine while he undressed her. By the time he slipped off the second stocking it was all she could do to set the glass aside without spilling it.

He smiled, and pressed his lips to the arch of her foot. Excitement shot straight up to her belly, and pulsed there like a second agitated heart. He took his time, stirring and seducing, kindling little fires under her skin, exploiting odd and wondrous points of pleasure. When he gripped her ankles, slid her toward him in one smooth motion, she let out a sound of surprise and gratitude.

Now their faces were close, so close the rich, golden brown of his irises mesmerized her. His hand—callused fingertips—glided up her legs, under her rucked-up skirt. Slowly, slowly. And down again while his mouth toyed with hers. A brush, a taste, a bare whisper of torturous contact even when her arms locked around his neck, even when her needy body pressed to his. Once again, the easy touch, the easy taste, left her drained and dazzled.

His hands cupped her hips, lifted her. The quick shock had her gasping, instinct had her wrapping her legs around his waist as he rose with her. This time the kiss was deep and seeking as he stood with her eagerly twined around him.

“My head's actually spinning,” she managed as he began to walk.

“I plan on keeping it that way awhile.” In the bedroom, he sat on the side of the bed with her straddling him. “I figured candlelight for the first time, but we'll have to save that.”

He trailed his fingers over her shoulders, over the soft wool of the pretty blue sweater, along the tiny pearl buttons down the front. “You always look just right.” He drew it down her arms to her elbows, left it there. “You've got a knack for it.”

With her arms roped in cashmere, he pressed his lips, just a light hint of teeth, to the side of her neck, down her skin to the edge of the little sweater she wore beneath.

He loved the light tremor that ran through her, the sound of her breath quickening, thickening. And the look of her, flushed, just a little anxious. He ran his hands down her arms until both his fingers and the cashmere cuffed her wrists. Then he took her mouth, ravishing it, saturating himself with the taste of her, devouring the quick, helpless sounds she made while her pulse thundered under his hands.

He eased back, a whisper back, and smiled into her dazed eyes. “We'll save this one for later, too,” he said and released her hands.

He watched her face as he drew the little sweater up and away; he watched her face as he played his fingertips over her warm, bare skin. Then he pleased himself, looked down at breasts clothed in a fancy bra of blue lace. “Yeah, you always look just right.”

Reaching behind her, he eased down the zipper of her skirt.

She felt as if she moved through water, warm, softened with fragrance. Her heart thudded, slow and hard as she unbuttoned his shirt, as she found the hard muscles of his shoulders, his chest, his back. When he kissed her again, when he lowered her to her back, she was the water. Warm, soft, and fluid. His hands, his lips played over her, tirelessly, relentlessly. She had no defense against them, against her own need, and wanted none. When he freed her breasts, she arched to him. Thrilled to the steady greed of his lips, of his tongue.

He worked down her, coating her with pleasure until he drew the matching lace away and exposed her.

Then came the whirlpool. She was caught in it, a mad spin that dragged her under to where the water whirled hot and fast. She cried out, shocked, her hands fisting in the sheets for purchase as the orgasm ripped through her. Even when she sobbed out his name, he didn't stop. When she came again, it was like going mad.

Her body quivered and writhed under him, clawing at what was left of his control. She sprawled over the tangled sheets in absolute surrender while the dim light of the dying evening spilled over her and sheened her in gold. Once more he cupped her hips, lifted them. Once more his eyes met hers, held hers as he filled her. As he trapped himself inside her. He watched her eyes as he thrust deep. Watched them as he took her, and as she wrapped tight to take him.

Watched until they closed on the peak of her pleasure, and until his own needs swallowed him whole.

SHE WASN'T SURE SHE COULD MOVE, OR THAT THE bones in her body would ever solidify again and hold her upright.

She wasn't sure she cared.

He sprawled on top of her, dead weight, and that didn't seem to matter either. She liked his weight, his warmth, liked feeling the thunder of his heartbeat so she knew she hadn't been the only one to fly.

She'd known he'd be gentle, and that he'd be fun. But she hadn't known he'd be . . . astonishing.

“Want me to move?” His voice was thick, just a little sleepy.

“Not especially.”

“Good, 'cause I like it here. I'll get the wine and maybe order us some dinner at some point.”

“No hurry.”

“Got a question.” He brushed his lips over her cheek as he lifted his head. “Do you always match your underwear to your clothes?”