Wanted: Wife (24 page)

“Oh, Andy,” I said, wrapping my arms around him, “thanks for bringing me here. I couldn’t ask for any better place.”

“Good. Because for the next couple of days I’m making it the honeymoon I never gave you.” He slung his arm around me and we looked out on the darkened beach, stars fading behind the coming dawn. “You know, I did a lot of thinking yesterday, some of which made me realize how badly I’ve treated you.”

“What?” I said, pulling away. “You never—”

“Julie,” he said, a finger against my mouth. “Let me finish. When I do there’s a good chance you’ll agree with me.”

“Okay.” I settled against him.

“Anyway . . .” He sighed, glancing to the ocean. I knew whatever he was trying to tell me wasn’t easy, and that scared me a bit. “When I thought about how quickly you jumped into this marriage, barely knowing me, and how busy we’ve been ever since, not to mention how hard you had to work since the day—almost since the very minute—we got married, well . . . I think it was pretty unfair of me to expect you’d just go along with what you signed up for without first being a bride, because like the bastard I am, I never treated you as one.”

Now he was just confusing me. “Andy—what the hell are you talking about?”

He turned us toward the beach and the red line of illumination to the east. “I’m like the father who tosses his kid into the water to see if she’ll sink or swim. And that’s unfair, because who was I to assume you’d think the deal I offered would be enough? Yet there I was, taking advantage, thinking my grand promise on paper would suffice. But it couldn’t, no matter how much it’d eventually amount to. Because it could never show just how much you mean to me.” He let me go, taking from his pocket a little wooden box. “I was going to give this to you last night after everyone left, but we sort of got . . .” He laughed softly. “. . . sidetracked.”

When he opened it my heart clenched; inside was a diamond ring in the same style as my wedding band, carved platinum with a setting of about a carat. “Oh
Andy
. . .” I said, barely breathing it.

He took the ring from the box and slid it on my finger; it fell into place like it was molded. “I’ve been carrying this around since the day we were married. I should’ve given it to you then, but I wasn’t sure you’d take it.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. “My dear, no matter how self-sufficient I may be, diamonds still are a girl’s best friend.”

“No doubt.” And then he went very quiet. “But this ring is different. Where the wedding band was a symbol of our contract, this diamond’s more a symbol of . . .”

“The heart than the mind.” When he smiled, I placed my hands to his chest. “You’re right. I probably wouldn’t have taken it then. But now?” Now everything seemed changed, altered. Although I wasn’t sure how it happened, I knew it had. “I don’t know how I lived without it. Thank you, Andy. It’s perfect.”

“And so are you.” He kissed me and we turned toward the rising sun, its trail burning a reddish path from horizon to shore. Had I been burdened with an ordinary sensibility, I would’ve harkened it as a portent, but that was way too easy. So I took it for what it was—beautiful, like my husband before me, strong and lusty and carrying me inside, the world rising around us.

Chapter Seventeen

Paradise Island

A
NDY LAY BENEATH
me, clasped between my legs, his cock deep inside me. I loosened my smoky-scented hair, my breasts lifting as I plucked out clips and pins, his hips slowly undulating as his fingers circled, kneaded, tormented my areola. I swiveled likewise, once, twice, three times, then lifting up, let my hair fall, a curl catching on a nipple before it swooped to the underside of my breast and I came down, damp flesh meeting damp flesh, charged beyond electric. He hissed, jolted, and I reached back and under, my fingers just skimming before I cupped their weight in my hands, rolling them like Ben Wa. He hissed again, cursing softly, grabbing my wrists to pull me against him.

“Merde. Tu te comportes comme une chienne en chaleur . . .”
he whispered against my mouth,
“mais, oh . . . t’es un sacré bon coup.”

“You know . . .” I said, nipping the side of his mouth, “I’m going to have to learn French if I ever want to understand what you say when you fuck me. I suspect . . .” I nipped him again. “It’s very saucy.”

“You’re saucy,” he said.
“Coquin.”
His eyes glittering, he clasped my behind in his big hands, and squeezed. “What do you want to know? That I live to fuck you? That you’re the best fuck I ever had? Well, there it is, I’ve said it.”

He punctuated that with a few well-delivered thrusts, and before I knew it he had me on my back, my leg slung over his arm. He thrust again and I moaned. “
Oh, oui, oui
, that’s it . . .
ma chérie
. . .
ma belle . . .”
He leaned down, his lips just gracing mine before he opened them with his tongue and kissing me deeply, took my breath away.

“Ma femme . . .”
he whispered, just soft enough to break my heart.

My God, wasn’t it bad enough he was gorgeous with the most perfect body and blue eyes and that lovely accent which could swallow me whole? Wasn’t it enough he knew exactly how to touch me—just as he did then and I bit my lip, mewling—his warm breath in my ear, whispering words whose translation worked more from emotion than meaning? But did he also have to be so smart and kind? Now
that
was my undoing. I writhed beneath him as he thrust so deliberately, winding me higher and higher and higher still. Then I saw his face, every angle chiseled by morning sun as he raised up, and throwing his head back, I could tell—by the burgeoning muscles in his arms, the tautness in his chest, how he roared when everything inside him poured into me and I spasmed with bliss—I was beyond it all.

He kissed my eyes, my cheeks, my lips, smiling with the ruddy glow of a sated man. “You’re wonderful,” he said, his finger trailing down my jaw
“Je t’adore.”
He kissed me again.
“Je t’adore.”

I was falling, falling.

I
AWOKE TO
a sound I used to know as well as my own voice—my phone ringing—whose vocal irregularity now relegated it to another lifetime. Yet it was enough to send me bolting from within Andy’s slumbering embrace, to wonder where the hell its blare was coming from. For lack of anything better I grabbed the bedspread from the floor and wrapped it around me, closing the door as I left for the living room. Almost immediately I found it; there was Bucky, growling at my purse from where it sat on the sofa.

“Good boy,” I said, and patting his head, dug out it out. Thank God—it was Uncle Jinks. “Burned to the ground?” I said, my whole body clenching.

“Sorry, but no,” he said, laughing. “Though we did wet the house down just in case. Gave it a good soaking, so if anything, it’s spanky-clean. The guys are just pulling out now. They thank you for the couple pots of coffee your hospitality made them.” “So is it all out?”

“Around here, at least, since the wind shifted and it started raining, but there’s still a few hot spots. I expect we’ll get them all contained before night hits, if not sooner. It’s still smoky as hell though, so stay put.”

“It’s not raining here yet, but it’s sure looking like it.” Not exactly what I wanted in a beach holiday, but . . . I smiled inwardly . . . the indoor activity wasn’t so bad, either.

“It will, don’t worry, but it shouldn’t last long. So enjoy yourself. Everything here is fine.”

“Is that Jinks?”

Andy emerged from the bedroom, yawning, naked, and I must say, somewhat formidable-looking. “Hold on, Uncle Jinks. Andy wants to talk to you.”

When I handed him the phone he pulled me back against his chest, caging me with his arm. “Morning,” he whispered, kissing my neck. “Uncle Jinks! So how is it?”

I swore the man had a double-jointed personality. As he listened and offered particulars to his uncle in an oh-so-businesslike manner, he slowly undid the toga I had made of the bedspread while hardening most deliciously against my hip.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, okay,” he said as Jinks jabbered, kissing his way down my neck to my shoulder, the bedspread now a puddle on the floor. Not to be outdone, I whirled around and, falling to my knees, began to meet him halfway.

“Uh!” he croaked.

“What?” I heard Jinks say.

“Nothing Uncle!” he said, half an octave higher. “You just do what you think—is best, and I’ll talk to you—tomorrow! ‘Bye!” He rang off and tossed the phone to the sofa. “Dammit Julie!”

“Done talking?” I said, after two quick licks.

He grasped me by the shoulders and pulled me upright. “I was talking to Jinks.”

“And I was giving you a—”

“I’m well aware what you were doing, but I was on the phone—”

“When you should be
on me
.”

He arched a brow. “Really?”

“Well, you started it.”

“You’re right.” He eased me back into the sofa. “Which means I’ll finish it.” Then he spread my legs and lowered his mouth to me.

It took four-point-five seconds, I shivered, shook and screamed, and then he was inside me, so efficient, my sixty-minute man. But wasn’t that the best part, my being in his arms, staring up into those eyes, his taste in my mouth? He came and called my name, the sound of it like poetry, and after it was over we held each other for just a few moments more, nuzzling, whispering, his heart beating against mine.

I said against his neck, “You’re scrumptious, Andy, but I’m about to die of starvation.”

He looked around. “What time is it anyway?”

“Look at my phone.” I arched my neck backward; it was wedged in the cushions. He reached past me and grabbed it. “Eleven-forty-two.”

Bucky whined, pressing against Andy’s leg. “When’s the last time he was let out?” I asked.

Andy winced. “The last time he let himself out.” He kissed my shoulder, pulling himself from me. “Why don’t you catch a shower, and I’ll go find us something to eat. There’s a deli just down the road. I’ll walk Bucky along the way.”

“Sounds excellent.” So a few minutes later, with Bucky leashed by a length of clothesline (both of us forgot his real one), Andy left, leaving me to face the cottage, the beach, and the ocean on my own. I pulled on a nightshirt and threw open the back door.

If rain was on its way, it hadn’t hit yet, and I went to the railing, surveying my domain. The beach was all but deserted, except for a lone fisherman about a quarter mile to my left, and no one in the other direction. The morning was a bit cloudy and somewhat sultry, and I expected a hell of a downpour soon, but for now I wanted to take every advantage. I took the long flight of stairs down to the beach and, sinking my feet into the rumpled sand, trotted straight for the ocean.

I stopped at the shoreline. I’d soon find out if what I always heard was true about the New Jersey water, that it was warmer in fall than in summer. I tentatively inched toward it until the surf washed over my toes. I sighed; it was true. The waves rolled toward me in gentle folds. I glanced up and down the beach: still pretty much vacant. So there was a good chance no one’d notice I was dressed only in a thin, yellow nightshirt that barely reached my knees. Not that I cared. After living in the woods for six weeks, cooking over open fires and copulating like a rabbit, surely swimming practically naked in public could hardly matter when my norms went to extremes. So I took a deep breath and, stepping into the surf, dove right in.

I wasn’t about to press my luck; I’d been around water long enough to know you shouldn’t swim alone, especially when certain local denizens had no qualms against eating me alive. But damn if it didn’t feel so good, slinking like an eel underwater. When I popped to the surface I felt all traces of the smoky night slough away, my skin and hair awash with salt and clean. I looked around me: endless ocean and sky above, a long strand of white sand, Andy’s cottage dead ahead looking so pert and independent and—it suddenly struck me—
safe
. I contemplated that tiny revelation and the little house:
safe
. As much as I was growing to love Andy’s farm in the woods, this place seemed different, exposed to even more brutal elements, but a refuge all the same. I felt an affinity, and I didn’t know why. But somehow I knew if there ever again came a time like those horrible first days after Richard left me, I would want a place like this to come to. Not that I’d let that happen again. A wave crashed at my back, pushing me forward. Because this time I’d do the leaving.

I swam toward shore, a rumble of thunder in the distance.

B
Y THE TIME
Andy returned, I had showered and set the table, finding and washing the same style of French crockery as we had at the farm. I also got my first good look at the house. The furnishings appeared utilitarian yet not without style, a sturdy painted wood table and chairs, a small matching hutch, a Danish modern living room set, all vintage, but still looking good. Things were hardly dusty, as I suspected the place had been given a good cleaning lately, and although the beds weren’t made up, there were recently-laundered towels and sheets in the linen closet. Which made me think: had Andy been planning this romantic little hideaway? Had he just been waiting for the right moment? I held my hand out, admiring the diamond ring he had given me the night before. Coming here and getting this just couldn’t be a coincidence. So when Andy and Bucky returned with the rudiments of breakfast and a bag of kibble, I asked him.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said later, slicing a corn muffin just as Andy emerged freshly showered from the bathroom, “but this honeymoon wasn’t exactly an impromptu decision, was it?”

He sat down, opening the local newspaper. “Why do you say that?”

“Not that I’m complaining, but you must have planned it. This place doesn’t exactly look uninhabited.”

“That’s because it wasn’t. My father had it rented out for the summer. The cleaning service was just in to close it up for the winter.”

I don’t know why that deflated me, but it did. “Oh,” I said simply, picking bits off the corn muffin.