Moonlight Man (7 page)

“No, who learned to ski at Mont Ste.-Anne, in Quebec, where they do not have leprechauns.”

“So how would you know one if you saw one?”

“I’ve been to Ireland.”

“Skiing?”

He laughed with her. “From what I saw, they don’t even have any decent-sized mountains, though they do have some pretty craggy hills.” He looked at her intently. “You’re not Irish, are you?”

She laughed. “Heavens, no! My father’s family came from Gypsy stock, and my mother’s family are very staid and proper British people. In fact, my maternal grandfather was born in London, and my grandmother in Coventry. My mother was born on this side of the Atlantic, though, and while they tried very hard to make her into a proper little English girl, they had a hard row to hoe.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know if it was called peer pressure in those days, but she wanted to be just like the other kids on the block. She was a grave disappointment to them, just as Jeanie and I are.”

“And your father?”

She smiled. Talking to him was easy, as long as they didn’t get caught up in conversations that could lead to trouble. “His parents died young, too, so I just barely remember them.”

“Do you remember your mother’s parents?”

“Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, they live in Victoria, not far from the McKenzies.”

“Oh. When you said that your father’s parents died young, too, I thought you meant they had as well.”

“I meant my parents. They died when I was eighteen—a week before my nineteenth birthday.”

“I see.” His voice was gentle. “And your grandparents? Are they too old to travel?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

He frowned. “Yet they didn’t attend your sister’s wedding?”

“No,” she said, watching her children dismount ahead of them, and readying herself to ski down the steep ramp. She stood, pushed off from the edge of the chair, and came to a stop beyond the end of the ramp where the kids were waiting. “All right,” she said, “let’s go.”

But as the children headed down the slope, her arm was caught in a fierce grip, pinning her where she stood. “Why won’t you talk about your family?”

Her gaze flew to his face. “I thought I just had.”

“Your grandparents. They’re alive, and yet when your son was lost, and then your sister, you were alone except for Max’s family. I used to sit in my camper after searching all day and think about you, about how alone you must be feeling. Yet you have family. Why weren’t they with you?”

She looked up at him, then down at the large, gloved hand that held her arm. Slowly, he eased his grip and let her go with a murmured apology.

“You have family. Why weren’t you with them for Christmas?”

“There are … reasons. Things I have yet to deal with.”

“And there,” she said, “is my answer to you. Only I don’t intend to deal with them. My sister and I do not get along with our grandparents. They don’t want to know about us and our lives, and we can live with that. End of story. Now, I came to ski. What did you come for?”

“The same as always. I came to be where you are.” He held his position in front of her for another second, then leaned forward and brushed his mouth over her cold lips. They didn’t remain cold long. The contact sent an electric shock and a bolt of heat through her.

With a firm shove on her poles, she shot back from him, turned quickly, and headed directly down the fall line, trying to catch up to her children.

With them, she would be safe. She watched Roxy navigate a steep bit of the slope like a pro, and thought how easily children relearned old lessons.

As a large form in a red jacket with blue sleeves caught up with her and skied beside her, she thought, too, how easily a woman’s body could relearn things best forgotten. That short, hard kiss still burned her lips when she reached the foot of the slope, even though her cheeks stung with cold.

The four of them skied together for the rest of the afternoon, and Sharon couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself more. Not only was Marc an excellent skier who was more than willing to give both children impromptu lessons, but he had a sense of humor that could get her laughing and keep her that way until her sides ached. When she finally dragged her exhausted but reluctant children toward the chalet, she was sorry she’d agreed to spend the night there. She would have enjoyed leaving when Marc did, and maybe seeing him again that evening. However, instead of heading toward the parking lot and his truck, he came along beside them in the direction of the chalets.

“I’m parked over in the campground,” he said. “Could I invite you to dinner?”

“Hey! Yeah! Mom, that’s great! Let’s go,” said Jason with his usual enthusiasm. “You know you’re always too tired to cook after skiing all day. What are you making, Marc?”

“It’s already made. A big pot of stew simmering in my slow-cooker. I plugged it in as soon as I got parked. Okay, Sharon? Better than keeping these hungry kids, waiting while you get something ready.”

“I’d planned on wieners and beans,” she said, and Jason made a rude, gagging sound that earned him a stern look.

“And as well as cookies, I must admit I make probably the best baking-powder biscuits this side of the Rockies,” Marc added.

That decided her. “Great. Sounds wonderful. But we’ll bring dessert. What time would you like us there?”

“Just as soon as you’re ready. I’m in about the third row back, about … say … fourth or fifth vehicle along.”

“I’ll find you,” she said dryly. “I know those rust spots intimately.”

The look he gave her suggested that he’d like for her to know more than his rust spots intimately, but after a moment he turned and skied away toward the campsite.

A long, hot shower revived Sharon enough to make the hike to the campsite without too much trouble, and Marc opened the door quickly to her knock. With four bodies inside it was cramped in the camper, but it was warm and snug and the stew and biscuits were as good as he’d promised.

“Stew?” she said, taking an appreciative bite. “I’d call this burgundy beef and serve it for company.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” he said. “Very special company.”

As delicious as the meal was, jammed into the booth around the small table, with Marc’s warm thigh pressed against hers, Sharon had to force herself to concentrate on her food, on the flavors and textures in her mouth, and try to ignore the other sensations coursing through her body.

For dessert, she’d taken Zinnie at her word and raided the freezer, coming up with a homemade apple pie that had only to be warmed in the oven after the biscuits had come out. Its spicy goodness filled the small camper with a wonderful aroma, and they all ate until they were stuffed.

“I don’t know if I can hold this,” she said when Marc set a big mug of hot chocolate in front of her.

He slid in beside her again and looked into her eyes.
I could hold you,
they seemed to say, and she shifted an inch or two away, crowding into Roxy, who said, “Mom, can I be excused, please?” Sharon laughed. “Well, sure you can, honey, but I don’t see where you’re going to go.”

“Up there. Jason and I can go up there and read our comics, can’t we? I’ve finished my chocolate.”

“Up there” was the double berth over the cab of the truck, and it was Marc who gave permission. Eagerly, the kids scrambled up. Marc leaned in and turned on a light at one end of the bunk. He was good with kids. She had to hand him that.

Sharon felt more relaxed now that she didn’t have to touch Marc, and finished her chocolate leisurely.

“You cooked, I’ll clean up.”

“You wash, I’ll dry. I know where everything goes.”

She nodded. “In a space like this, I guess everything has to go in exactly the right spot.”

They worked together harmoniously, bumping into each other now and then, but there didn’t seem to be anything threatening in those gentle touches. They had just finished when Jason said, “Mom, Roxy’s asleep.”

She pulled a face. “I was afraid of that. Oh, well, I can stuff her into her outdoor clothes and carry her.”

“No you won’t,” Marc said. Quickly, he got into his own boots and jacket, found a thick blanket, took it up to the front of the camper, and wrapped the sleeping child in it carefully. “You carry her things, and I’ll carry her.”

“You do that very well,” she whispered, as he rolled Roxy out of the blanket onto her bed without disturbing her.

“I had some practice once,” he said, reminding her with a sharp pang that he’d been a father and a husband at some time in his life, way back in that past that she knew held the answers to what made Marc Duval the kind of man he was, a drifter with callused hands and smooth manners.

He stood nearby while she tucked her daughter warmly into the lower of the two bunks in the loft where the children were to sleep. Back downstairs, she found Jason nearly dozing on the couch by the fire. “Up to bed with you, too, my love, if you want some energy to ski tomorrow.”

He didn’t even try to argue, just said good night to Marc and climbed the stairs, weariness in every step.

Marc sat looking at her for a long moment, and when he stood, she did the same. They met in the middle of the room, and she walked into his arms as if it had been predestined from the moment they met at the foot of the slopes. They stood not moving, not speaking, just absorbing each other’s warmth, each other’s scent, her cheek on his chest, his on the top of her head. “Sharon,” he said finally, sliding his hands into her hair. “Lord, just to hold you without your fighting it is heaven, but I want to kiss you too.”

“Yes,” she said, her hands going around his neck, fingers threading through the hair that hung down over his collar. She lifted her face, a smile on her lips. “Kiss me, Marc.”

It was a gentle kiss, with none of the boiling urgency that had driven them before. This was a kiss of exploration, slow and sweet and almost numbing to her senses. He moved his lips from hers, tracing a line along her jaw with his tongue. She shuddered as a sharp knife of delight stabbed at her, and felt the sucking of his lips against her throat.

He slid his hands under her sweater and felt her gasp of pleasure when he found her nipples under the silky fabric of a teddy. “Marc …” Her soft whisper held sheer bliss as she moved against him, accepting his touch with such open yearning that his intentions to move slowly, cautiously, were nearly turned to smoke.

“Yes, I know,” he murmured. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t tell you …”

“You don’t have to. It feels the same to me. Lord, but I’d like to make love to you tonight, my angel.”

“Oh, Marc!” She could feel his arousal hard against her stomach, and she wanted to reach down between them, caress him as he was touching her. But she knew what he was saying, agreed with it even while her body cried out that to deny themselves was insane. “I don’t remember ever wanting anything as badly as I want that, but …”

“I know.” He lifted his head, cradled hers between his hands, and looked into her eyes. “We aren’t in any hurry,” he said reassuringly. “We can wait. We can have this in the meantime.” He joined their mouths again and lifted her sweater. Bending, he took one hard nipple into his mouth along with the soft cloth of her pink teddy.

She looked down at him, at his dark-gold hair, his gold-tipped lashes, his closed eyes. His face had the look of a man at peace as he suckled her.

“I need to stop now,” he whispered. “I have to, or …”

“Yes. Please stop,” she said, sitting up, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “And make me stop, Marc. My kids are just up there.” She glanced at the open loft above them. “I know as well as you do that we can’t.”

“We will, though,” he said with confidence, smoothing her hair back from her face. “I promise you, we will.”

She nodded, but tentatively. As hard as waiting was, as much as she ached to join her body with his, rushing this incredible thing that was growing between them would be wrong. And it wasn’t just that her kids were upstairs. There were other bedrooms, any one of which they could have disappeared into. But she knew she couldn’t, not now while she still lacked trust, still lacked the ability to believe in him.

She stared at the flames behind the glass door of the airtight stove and wondered if that trust would ever come. So much had happened to her, so many hurts, such a great deal of pain. Could she rise above that and accept what this man offered, as limited as it might be?

Until she knew that about herself, she knew she couldn’t accept the pleasures they could generate together. This time, she had to be certain. A small voice reminded her that she had been certain with Ellis, but she argued back that then she had been young, inexperienced.

And yet, how experienced was she now? She had known one man in her life. Ellis. What kind of man was he to base all her decisions upon? The question she had to ask was what kind of a man was Marc Duval?

As he stood and drew her up into the loose circle of his arms, gazing into her eyes with a depth of understanding and longing that stunned her, she knew she was in deeper trouble than she had ever thought. Dimly came the tinkle of golden bangles. Oh, yes, Grandma Margaret had struck again. Sharon just hoped she knew what she was doing.

“Good night, sweet Sharon,” he said, placing a tiny kiss on her nose.

“Will you come for breakfast?” she asked, feeling suddenly shy and awkward. What if Grandma Margaret’s magic wasn’t as potent as she thought it was? What if Marc was leaving now because he really didn’t want her all that badly? He could have pushed. One more kiss, another few strokes of his tongue over her rigid nipples, and the overture would have finished; it would have been time for the full symphony to begin. She had been ripe for seduction, and yet … he was leaving. Could he, somehow, sense her inadequacy? “The … the kids would like it.”

“Would you?” He smiled, his golden eyes agleam with a tenderness that shook her deeply.

She nodded. “Yes. I’d like it too.”

“That’s what counts with me. I’ll be here by seven-thirty if that’s not too early.”

“Okay. See you. Good night.”

Suddenly, he snatched her into his arms and kissed her with such force that it drove her head back. She, clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she couldn’t bear to let him go.