The Surprise of His Life (20 page)

"You
want a drink?" he said, starting for the liquor cabinet. The fact that it
was so meagerly stocked said that he wasn't normally a drinking man. All that might
change if his life didn't get back to normal. Normal? All he could remember of
normal now was that he'd been drowning in dullness, sameness, with one day
plodding slowly into another. And then Lindsey had returned home.

"You
told me once that I wasn't old enough to drink," Lindsey said, watching
Walker pour a dash of brandy into a snifter.

"Believe
me, we're both getting older by the minute," he said, downing the drink in
one gulp.

It
was hot and mixed poorly with the cold beer sloshing around in his stomach. He
splashed more brandy into the glass and handed it to Lindsey. She took it. He
noted that her hands were inordinately cold for the hot weather flooding the
city. It crossed his mind that he could think of a lot of ways to warm
them—sexy ways, sweetly sinful ways—then realized that it was just such
thoughts that he was trying to curb.

After
swallowing the brandy, Lindsey made a face. "Brandy and pina coladas don't
mix."

"Tell
me about it," Walker grumbled as the beer and brandy battled.

Suddenly,
as though just remembering what had driven her to this man, Lindsey spoke.
"Oh, Walker, my father's having an affair. And the worst of it is, she's
just a kid. My God, she's just a kid! She makes me look ready for Social
Security."

"She's
nineteen," Walker supplied, adding what he knew she wanted to ask,
"He met her at a diner."

Disbelief
streaked across Lindsey's face. "He left Mother for a nineteen-year-old he
met at a diner?"

"No,
he didn't leave your mother for her. Their affair isn't serious. Even your
father says so. The truth of the matter is that he's running scared. He would
have had an affair with the first skirted thing that crossed his path. Let me
rephrase that, with the first
young
skirted thing. He needs to feel
young right now."

"Why?
What happens to make a man go crazy at an age when he should be moving toward
wisdom?"

Walker
shrugged, sending his bare wide shoulders up and down. "The reasons are as
varied as the men, but basically it's fear. Fear of aging, fear of dying—"
Walker recalled his friend's comment concerning the professional football he'd
never played... and never would "—fear of never realizing a dream."

"But
you're Dad's age and you're not afraid."

Walker
took inventory of the woman before him and of the fury of feelings she unleashed
in him, feelings he wasn't certain he could contain much longer. They might be
wrong, but they were strong and, with each breath he drew, they were growing
stronger. Just how much longer could he resist them? Not long, he was afraid.
His gaze unswervingly on her, he said, "We're all afraid. Of one thing or
another."

Afraid.

Yes,
she, too, was afraid, Lindsey thought. She was afraid that she'd dreamed a
dream that just wasn't going to come true. She loved Walker so much, wanted him
so much, that she'd thought she could conjure up a miracle. He did care for
her, that much she knew. But caring wasn't enough. He had to be willing to
commit. Naively, she'd believed that would happen in time. Now she wasn't sure.
Any more than she was sure that her parents' marriage could be salvaged.

Lindsey
smiled. Sadly. "You're right," she said. At Walker's quizzical look,
she explained, "I am immature."

"I
never said—"

"You
implied it." She laughed, bobbing her head so that her hair swirled about
her. "And you were right. I foolishly thought I could save my parents'
marriage. Well, the truth is that some things just can't be mended. And even if
their marriage can be mended, I'm not the one who has to mend it. It was never
in my power."

"It
takes maturity to reach that conclusion... and guts to admit it."

"Maybe.
Maybe not. The point is, though, that no matter how you cut it, I've acted
immaturely, naively. You hurt me this afternoon, and so I ran to Daddy for him
to hold me and tell me everything was all right. When he upset me, I ran to you
for you to hold me."

Walker
was uncertain which fact moved him more— the fact that he'd upset her or the
fact that she wanted him to hold her and tell her everything would be all
right. This latter was precisely what he wanted to do.

His
voice was husky when he spoke. "Everyone needs comforting, Lindsey. No one
ever becomes that self-reliant."

"Yes,
but adults stand on their own feet. Which," she added, setting down the
snifter she'd just then realized she was still holding, "is something I'd
better learn to do."

Second
bled into second as their gazes became one. Lindsey fought the urge to lower
her eyes to the chest that she wanted so desperately to be held against. She
lost the battle. When she once more raised her gaze to his, he saw her naked
need. What she saw was that she was once more hurting him. With hesitant steps
at first, then practically running, she started for the door. She already had
it open when she felt him behind her.

Walker's
hand shot out of nowhere, closing the door in her face, hemming her between him
and it. Neither spoke. Neither moved. It was as though the moment were frozen
in time. Lindsey could feel the heat of his body. She could feel his chest—so
near, yet so far away. Closing her eyes, she let the nearness of him burn
through her.

Similarly,
Walker was aware of every nuance of Lindsey's being. He smelled the sweetness
of her perfume, saw the blond curtain of her hair as it flowed across her
shoulders, felt her back against his chest. He closed his eyes, praying that
she would ease back into him, praying that just once more she'd be a sweet
siren. But she didn't move. And Walker could never remember regretting anything
more profoundly. Suddenly, he had struggled all he could. Suddenly, he knew
he'd lost the battle. And frankly, he didn't care. He simply wanted her in his
arms.

On
a deep groan, he whirled her around and hauled her to him. Instinctively, his
arms went around her... just as hers went around him. He crushed her to him,
her breasts plumping against the bare, hair-dusted wall of his chest through
the thin fabric of her blouse. But even that wasn't close enough. Even that
didn't satisfy all the lonely nights he'd lain awake wanting her. Only one
thing would do that. Only one intimate act.

"Everything'll
be all right," he whispered, his lips near her ear. "I promise.
Everything'll be all right." He was aware that his comment was as much for
his benefit as it was for hers. Maybe more so. Because he knew what was coming.
He knew what he was about to do. Simply because he could no longer stop
himself.

God,
please don't let me do this! Please don't let me...

The
decision was jerked out of his hands by Lindsey's angling of her head. What she
was doing was not deliberate. That Walker would have staked his life on. She
had said that she would no longer tease him and she wasn't. At least not
knowingly. But what she was doing with such consummate instinct was allowing
him access to her neck.

At
the sight, at the feel of her hair falling away like silken honey, Walker was
lost. Totally. Completely. And if he were to die on the spot, he could not have
kept his lips from the ivory column laying so sweetly before him. In truth, he
was already dying, dying with yearning. He brushed his mouth across her skin,
then brushed her flesh again and again—cheek to chin, the hollow of her
throat—until a fine fury trembled through him. Moaning, he buried his fingers
in her hair, anchored her face, and crushed her mouth beneath his.

The
savage beauty of his kiss tore at Lindsey's senses. Beyond thinking, beyond
caring, she just wanted what Walker was giving her—himself. She didn't care
what lay beyond this moment. For now, time and place forgotten, she just wanted
to taste him, to touch him, to feel him. She wanted him to chase away the
loneliness that dwelled within her heart. She wanted to share her overflowing
love.

At
the parting of her mouth, Walker drove his tongue deep. Then deeper. Tremors
sluiced across Lindsey, making her weak, making her strong, making her want.
Caught up in Walker's fury, as though she had to touch all of him at once, she
wrenched her mouth from his and began delivering kisses across his face, down
his neck, onto the flat furry planes of his chest.

He
moaned as her fingers tunneled through the thick hair; he groaned as her
fingers grazed the sensitive nipple of his breast. When her lips, her tongue,
found the same knotted bud, he died. Died of the most exquisite pleasure he'd
ever known. Backing her against the door, his rock-hard body pinning hers, he
dragged her face up to his. They stared, he at smoky-blue eyes and wet lips,
she at eyes that had gone from brown to passion black. His nostrils flared with
his heavy, moist breath.

"I'm
sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean—"

Walker
silenced her by slipping the pad of his thumb across her lips.

"I
want you," he said. "I don't know whether it's right. I don't know
whether it's wrong. I really don't give a damn anymore. I just know that if
this isn't what you want, you better say so now."

Her
answer was simple and silent. She kissed the pad of his thumb, then drew his
hand away. Angling her head, stretching, she placed her mouth on his—slowly,
gently, a provocative counterbalance to the wild storm that had only seconds
before raged through them. When Walker could no longer stand this sweet
slaughter, he whispered something that could equally have been a prayer or a
curse and scooped her into his arms.

The
bedroom was dark except for the faint light of a cloud-streaked moon. Even in
the misty shadows, however, shapes could be seen—Lindsey's arched neck as
Walker traced it with his mouth, the wide spread of his shoulders as Lindsey
clung to them, dug into them, for support, their bodies, though clothed,
straining to merge, each with the other.

Accompanying
the shadowy sights were muted sounds—the whispered "Oh" that trickled
from Lindsey's parted lips, the soft calling of Walker's name, the urgent gasp
she gave when Walker kissed her still-clothed breast. Walker, too, sang notes
that filled the silence. He breathed her name, he moaned at her touch, he
hissed as her hands slipped inside the waistband of his jeans.

More
important than either sight or sound, however, was feeling. Hot mouth merged
with hot mouth. Hand caressed hand and fevered skin. Body melded with body.
Lindsey felt Walker's unsteady fingers unfastening the buttons of her blouse.
Walker felt Lindsey's fingers tighten on his shoulders. Painfully tighten.
Gloriously tighten. Pulling the blouse from the waist of her slacks, Walker
slowly slid it from her shoulders. Moonlight dappled her skin and air, cooled
from the air conditioning, flitted across her shoulders. Even so, she could
feel Walker's heated gaze. It blistered her senses. It scorched her soul.

In
the dusky darkness, Walker could see the lacy straps of the undergarment that
had driven him crazy on more than one occasion. Running a finger beneath the
thin teddy strap, he played with the fabric, feeling its softness slither over
his skin. Then, with all the laziness of a new day dawning, he drew it from her
shoulder. Similarly, he tugged the other strap onto the other shoulder. The garment
clung to the swells of her breasts. Walker's gaze clung to hers.

Child.

Woman.

She
looked so youthful standing before him, her hair a wild, beautiful mass of
gold. She looked unspoiled, virtually untouched by the harsh realities of life,
and yet there was a maturity about her that couldn't be denied. Maybe it had to
do with all she'd been through of late. It most definitely had something to do
with the blatant way she was returning his gaze—fully, completely, like a woman
who knew exactly what she wanted. And that something was him. No aphrodisiac
could have been as powerful as her desire.

"Ah,
Lindsey," he whispered, not trusting himself to say more.

Her
eyes never leaving his, she slowly—oh, so slowly-untied first one bow, then
another of the teddy. With each unfastening, the garment slipped lower and
lower, revealing more and more of her breasts—the rounded swells, the gentle
curves, the darkly crowned centers.

Walker's
breath faded away, leaving him light-headed, dizzy. Reaching out, he drew the
back of his hand across one breast. The dark center beaded, causing what little
reason he had left to scatter. Lowering his head, he kissed first one breast,
then the other. The taste was sweeter than honey. The taste was headier than
wine. The taste practically buckled his knees. Yanking her to him, he buried
the softness of her breasts into the hard planes of his chest. His mouth sought
hers, saying scalding-hot things that words alone never could have. In the
fervor of that kiss, in the intimate contact of their bodies, the desperate
yearning, the biting desire, returned.

On
a growl, his lips still on hers, Walker found the waistband of her slacks. With
but one goal—removal-he wrestled the button, fought the zipper. Likewise,
Lindsey unsnapped his jeans. Denim and doubt, cotton and caution, fell to the
floor in a forgotten heap.