Beyond the Storm (9780758276995) (9 page)

She felt Adam grow thicker inside her. She knew he was climaxing soon, she could read it in his eyes and feel it in his breath, taste it on her tongue. And then in an amazing rush that had him crying out with that otherworldly combination of pain and shock and surprise and heat, he released himself. He thrust, more, more, and she urged him on, tightening her legs against his backside, not letting him slip out, not just yet.

At last his body came to rest atop her, his breathing labored. Her chest heaved against his. Sweat dripped from her brow, off her chest, pooling between her breasts. Adam lifted his body, his body slick with sweat, chest hair matted. With her tongue she teased his nipple.

“Oh my God, enough, enough, let me catch my breath . . .” he said, rolling off her and landing with a satisfying thud against the blanket.

And Vanessa, seeing his reaction, did something she hadn't done in quite some time. She giggled, like an impish schoolgirl who just spotted from afar the cutest boy in the class and he'd caught her secretly gazing in his direction. Well, she wasn't going to look away, not this time, she wouldn't let this newly invigorated woman who felt more alive now than she had just an hour ago, a day ago, for some time, taste fear. This was about opening up, body, perhaps more. She felt like water had washed over her, threatening to take her in its wake. She had fought back, though. She had reclaimed herself, and by doing so, reclaimed him.

“Uh, okay, wow,” Adam finally said after minutes of silence.

“You could say that again,” she said, sidling up beside him, resting her chin on his chest.

“Actually, I couldn't,” he said, still catching his breath.

She laughed while playfully hitting his arm.

“So, Adam Blackburn, is that how you show all the girls a good time?”

“You know, usually it's the moment. This time it's the woman.”

“Sweet.”

“Honest,” he said.

“Ooh, I like that. Brave man.”

“What? For being honest? What do you call what we did?”

“You mean the sex?”

“It was more than sex, Vanessa, and you know it.”

Her eyes softened, and she kissed his shoulder. “Yeah, I know it.”

Neither spoke a word for quite a while, even while it appeared time didn't move. They just enjoyed the crackle of the fire, the silence of the house. Not even the steady breeze outside was making shutters creak or curtains flap. She realized Adam was right, sometimes it was the moment that took the ordinary and made it extraordinary, and now, this time and this moment, when all the world existed beyond them, leaving them alone, she knew they had redefined their lives, the ones they had shared, the ones they had lived apart.

Suddenly she bounded up from the floor, looking all around her.

“What'd you lose?”

“Not my virginity, that's for sure,” she said, offering him a quick, surprising laugh and hoping he would follow suit. Quick check of him showed that he was grinning and not making her feel like an idiot for such a dumb thing to say. That was a good sign, they understood each other, their quirks and fallows. “Have you seen the wine bottle? Don't tell me we finished it.”

“It's on the porch, with our glasses. Fear not, there's still half a bottle.”

“Perfect,” Vanessa said, “I'll be right back. And then I want to hear all about her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Adam Blackburn, don't think you've landed yourself in the arms of a foolish woman. A giving man like you, you can't have lived without at least having fallen in love once. I'd like to hear about her. How you met, what was good, and why you're no longer together.”

“Now? You want to hear about her now?”

“See, I was right.”

“Vanessa, after what we just experienced, you want to hear about another woman?”

She kissed him once, then said, “With what we did, and with such intensity behind our actions, I would hardly think there could remain any secrets between us. Certainly not a little old story about finding the wrong woman.”

Rising up, resting on his elbows and forearms, Adam said, “Fine, have it your way. But definitely fetch the wine, because I'll need some reinforcement if I'm going to tell you my sad woes. Oh, and when I'm done, it's your turn.”

Vanessa's back was turned to him at this point as she, gathering up a sheet from an old recliner and wrapping it around her naked self, headed toward the porch, and that was a good thing. Her confidence suddenly wavered, and she felt a bit of wind dip out of her sail. But as nervous as she suddenly was over that prospect, she knew one thing: Adam was right. Hearing his story would be easier—mostly because it didn't involve her in the least. He'd gone on without her. As for her own story, now that was really quite the opposite. What happened to her had everything to do with Adam.

She thought they might need a case of wine to get through that one.

Still, she pulled herself together by setting aside her problems. She wanted to know more about the life Adam Blackburn had lived, and when she returned from the porch with the wine and those silly jelly glasses and an eager expression on her face, she said, “I'm not going to interrupt. Like you said, my turn will come later. For now, Blackburn, you have the floor . . .”

“Yes, with you all covered up,” he said.

Vanessa instinctively tightened her hold on the sheet, all while Adam remained naked.

Exposed.

He didn't see her eyes darken, her pupils hiding as the light from the fire died down. Adam laughed nervously as he made his way to the fireplace, tossing on another log, lighting another match.

“It always starts with a spark, doesn't it,” he said. “Her name was . . .”

“. . . Sarah Jane Stockdale. Blond, tan, athletic, the apple of her father's discerning eye, a woman who struggled to please everyone around her, all while failing at her own hopes. But that's what you get when you lived in such a world. Sarah Jane was the youngest daughter of the lead golfing partner of one of my firm's senior management staff. Had all those connections, all those high-powered labels, he was envied by many to his face and disliked by most behind his back. It all comes down to money, and lots of it. In a world where everything was for sale, I suddenly found myself being put up as the latest commodity. I was dragged in, hardly kicking and screaming, but before it was all over and done with, my name had been dragged through the mud as well. The kind that stains. The kind you can't easily shower off.”

From the moment he first heard her name, Adam knew he would hate her. Okay, not her personally, he had nothing against the woman; heck, he didn't even know anything about her and had to assume she was well-mannered and well-bred, the scion of a family who actually knew what that word meant. The exclusive, pampered world she belonged to was quite another matter. Probably had a cousin named Buffy or Muffy, Adam surmised over drinks one night with his friend Patch, who offered up “poor you” remarks as he poured down tequila shots. No doubt the Stockdales summered in the Hamptons and wintered in St. Moritz and groaned about not being at either during the spring and fall. Bracing from the lime and the salt, Adam asked Patch, “When did the seasons become verbs?”

“These are people who have no trouble buying vowels,” Patch said. That had been the night before the up and coming in the firm Adam Blackburn was scheduled—yes, scheduled! —to meet the aforementioned, and apparently available, Sarah Jane Stockdale. “They can do what they want. Good luck.”

The circumstances surrounding the meeting between born-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks Adam Blackburn and blue-blood, DAR Sarah Jane Stockdale was to be handled in the form of a corporate outing, assuring both parties that nothing untoward could possibly happen. The lofty investment firm of Koch, Franklin, and Cohn was sponsoring a fund-raiser in support of cancer research, and all partners and junior level people were expected to attend. What nobody knew, certainly not Adam, was that the entire afternoon's soirée was a mere front—its sole purpose was to find college-grad Sarah Jane a husband. Wait, correct that, a suitable husband. If they happened to raise money and awareness for cancer in the meantime, all the more power to them, not to mention clocking a tax write-off doubling as a debutante ball. Now, here's the other thing Adam didn't know: He wasn't the only potential suitor being carted out before the prize steed. Of course, that wasn't how it was presented to him the day before the cruise.

Five o'clock on a warm, humid summer Friday, in the high floors of the lower Manhattan offices of the so-nicknamed KFC, Adam was tidying up some details on a few last-minute transactions his clients had begged for before the long holiday weekend, and he couldn't think straight. Numbers were a jumbled mess on his computer screen. He was looking forward to a weekend away from the rat race, from the idiots he worked for, and from the whole financial circuitry that consumed most of his waking hours. Of course, knowing his escape was imminent meant his bosses would suddenly conjure other plans for him, and true to their nature, a knock came at his door, and before waiting for a response . . . a welcome, his door opened. In walked one of the senior partners, Carpenter Franklin, his bald, shiny head adorned with beads of sweat on a high brow. His cheeks were flush. These high-level guys who made it this far up in the firm's hierarchy, they all had names that sounded like presidents and bodies one stress test away from a heart attack.

“Burnie, cancel your plans this weekend, you're busy.”

“Uh, sir, you're right. I am busy.”

“And now, Burnie, you're going to be even busier.”

This Burnie thing, it was annoying as much as it was unavoidable. His immediate boss had this habit of calling everyone by their last name, but with Adam he'd decided that Blackburn possessed too many syllables. So it was shortened to Burnie, despite the fact it took just as long to say that as did to say Blackburn. Half the company thought his real name was Bernie.

“Let me guess, sir. Black tie.”

“Wrongo, Burnie, break out the prep-school wear,” he said.

“I didn't attend prep school, sir.”

“Ohh, keep that detail to yourself. It won't win you any friends.”

“I've done fine so far.”

“So far being the key phrase.”

Franklin also still sounded like a frat boy, even though he'd been bald longer than Adam had been alive. “Regardless of your background, this is a cruise. Daytime. Adapt.”

“Ah, time to drag out the J.Crew uniform. I'll have to go shopping.”

“Tomorrow. Two o'clock. Don't bring the sarcasm.”

“What's the occasion?”

Carpenter Franklin grinned, like he'd scored a big windfall. “Your future.”

Adam's future was not to be found on any New York Waterways ferry to New Jersey—hardly. This was a private luxury yacht afforded only by the disgustingly wealthy, set to hove off from the piers on the West Side for a daylong cruise around Manhattan Island. As Adam boarded the gangplank the next day and hoping not to befall a fate with these moneyed pirates—boat shoes on his feet, navy blue sweater wrapped jauntily around his Oxford-cloth white shirt, khaki pants perfectly ironed—he knew he was a far cry from the paddleboats of Lake Ontario. Danton Hill really was but a distant memory, and as he meandered around the upper deck with a glass of champagne, the whole world turned shiny, like new money gleaned through his sunglasses. Still, he could not have asked for a better setting to put his best (boat) shoe forward. Growing up in a coastal village, Adam was acquainted well enough with the water, its swells and smells, the rocking motion created by waves both natural and human. He was equally adept on large watercraft as he was in a canoe. From childhood, boating had been something he was at ease with, and so feeling the gentle motion of the yacht on this day was equal to a calming breeze off the lake.

Looking around, Adam watched as dozens of well-turned-out people mingled, most of them coming from an older, preserved generation—the partners, their tanned wives, mothers, aunts, possibly a few younger mistresses tossed in to make it interesting. He'd hate to see this yacht crash against the pier, the folks here would stain the Hudson a royal azure, what with all this blue blood coursing onboard.

“Ah, Blackburn, very good.”

In short order of being found by the senior partner, Carpenter Franklin, Adam was whisked away while simultaneously being handed a fresh glass of pricey champagne. It was cold and it woke him up, the bubbles reminding him this day was not without some purpose. He was escorted to a lower deck and a private stateroom, figuring he was about to find out. He was told to stand before another tastefully decorated man who wore an ascot. Adam grabbed the sleeves of his sweater, made sure it was secure on his shoulders. There were also three other men, all approximately Adam's age. He recognized one of them from his own firm; he was tall and tanned and his blond hair was perfectly coiffed, so much so the windy seas would not be much of a challenge to it. Who the other two “chosen” gentlemen gathered were, Adam hadn't a clue. His guess, they were rising stars at other, competing firms. He felt he was on a high-priced version of
The Dating Game
.

“Gentlemen,” the ascot-turned man said, not bothering to introduce himself. He had an air about him that assumed everyone knew who he was. “Thank you for being here on this fine Memorial Day weekend. I realize the timing of this matter came as rather short notice and the method quite unorthodox, but I believe that if you strike when the iron is hot, you can avoid any unnecessary wrinkles. My lovely daughter Sarah Jane, a breath of fresh air on any ocean, is home from the Continent for two weeks, and it is my duty that she be properly entertained during her stay. She is, of course, onboard today, and each of you will be afforded a chance at getting acquainted with her. Keeping things in nautical terms, my Sarah Jane is precious cargo, and she is to be handled . . . accordingly. Thank you.”

With that, Whoever He Was left the stateroom.

“Should we have saluted?” Adam asked.

Only Carpenter Franklin, who had remained behind in the shadows, frowned. The other three men didn't move a muscle and Adam had to wonder if they'd already suffered from too many Botox injections. At this point, they all appeared like they wouldn't want to be caught dead with Adam; the smart-mouth with the bad attitude was always trouble. Without a word, they just cleared out of the room. Apparently the pistol had gone off, the gates opened, and the race was on for the fastest thoroughbred to put his best hoof forward in search of the winner's circle. Adam was the last to leave the stateroom, but not before he drank down his champagne in one gulp. He left the glass on the table, and also left behind a head-shaking Carpenter Franklin. Perhaps his boss was questioning having chosen Adam for this highly sensitive project.

But enough with the first race. He'd lost that one.

He knew he would soon be trotted out to meet the lovely Sarah Jane Stockdale.

She wore a vibrant hue of blue that day, which, when backed up against the sunlit sky, made her blend beautifully into the background, challenging nature's beauty. The whole picture complemented her honey-blond hair and her apple-cheeked goodness. She was prim and she was proper and she also knew her father was watching her every move, from the upturn of her lips when she laughed to her hand reaching out to touch someone's sleeve. Her grandmother too was ever-present, one of those miserly old broads who could make God count his blessings. Sarah Jane laughed when required, shunned a second cocktail, pretended to be cold, only to be embraced by the sweater off the shoulders of the men fortunate to be chosen to dwell in her company. But when it was Adam's turn, and really what other term was there, he put on his best upper-crust attitude and acted properly by extending a hand, being polite and charming but not overly forward. He offered her champagne, and her reply took him by surprise.

“You too? Oh, I expected different. God, I'd kill for a scotch.”

Adam paused, momentarily distracted by her forthright, as well as her unexpected nature. As he leaned against the deck's rail, ironically staring at the very building in Lower Manhattan in which he worked, the one that provided him his livelihood, his decent bank account, his freedom, then considered his answer very carefully. “No hard stuff, not here. On our first date? I'll take you to a place where you can drink whatever you want and swear like a sailor.”

“Oh, goody,” she said, clapping her hands. “I knew I was going to like you the best, Adam. You don't seem as . . . prepared as the others. But you'll have to wait, I still have to suffer through one more horrid introduction, but trust me—it won't take long,” she said, rolling her eyes enough to make one seasick. She pointed to the boat's stern. “Do you see that blond helmet he calls hair? It doesn't move, I don't even think a shower dampens it. And his name is Skipper. I think his parents hated him when he was conceived. Or each other.”

Ouch. She didn't take any prisoners, this surprising Sarah Jane Stockdale. Still, Adam put on his best smile because, in truth, who knew what she'd said about him to one of the other money models. Probably some comment about a fish out of water. Adam would happily jump back in, swim his way back to the shores of reality. But no, he told Sarah Jane, “I'll be waiting right here.” Then he paused, for dramatic, and effective, effect. “Sarah.”

He didn't add the “Jane.” On purpose.

She smiled widely over that. Not a social gaffe, turns out, but a turn-on.

So, not only did Sarah Jane Stockdale, heir to some kind of bean fortune, get to drink as much scotch on her first date with Adam Blackburn at a bar in Hell's Kitchen, blocks from the piers where they had met, she got to swear up a storm and make a fifty-ish man who'd been in his share of bar fights blush, and in the process she relaxed and let down her hair and much later, she even took off her clothes and got fucked all night by the renegade trader whom her parents and grandmother would have passed over without a shed of doubt, one she'd deliberately chosen for the same such reason. Her word, calling him a renegade, all while asking him to take her back to his place.

“This I could get used to,” she said as she lay in a sweaty mess amidst tangled sheets.

Adam stared at the ceiling, wondering just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

And then, at her urging, he'd gotten himself back into her.

All while thinking, how about that, Adam Blackburn, once a refugee from remote Danton Hill, now a sexual toy for one of New York's society girls. She confessed that he wasn't the first man she'd been with, it wasn't her first time, and Adam confessed that he could tell. Nor would it be her last encounter with Adam, whom, in the afterglow, she admitted, her father had referred to as the “long shot.”

“Gee, thanks,” he'd said. “That bodes well for our future.”

“Pay no attention to my family. They don't make my decisions.”

“Didn't seem that way on the yacht.”

“Daddy is a pushover,” she said. “Adam Blackburn, you rock my world.”

“So you're choosing me over Daddy?”

She kissed him, stroked him.

“Who says I have to choose?” she said with easy petulance. “Now, just make me forget where I came from. Nothing proper.”