No Greater Love (8 page)

He raised his arms as though to hold her and then dropped them to his sides. “Don’t you realize that you are an exquisitely beautiful woman?” He shook his head in disbelief. “How can you not know?” He smiled at her and said teasingly, “You could have any man in the world on his knees begging for a chance to hold you, to kiss you.”

“What a delightful picture,” she quipped and then sobered instantly. “At 28, my world is very small and the men who might have discovered me have already found their heart’s desire. They are married.” She considered him without wavering. “The ones who are left are divorced and mourning the loss of their children, or there are those who want a sexual partner but nothing else. You saw them in the bar.” She shuddered and looked away. “If I were to accept their offers, I would have to face myself in the morning and face the town’s gossip for as long as I live here.”

“Won’t you have to face yourself in the morning whatever you do?”

“Yes, but you will be gone.”

“I see. I am acceptable solely because I have a return flight ticket in my pocket.” His voice was icy. “Is that why you so kindly selected me?”

“I never meant to insult you,” she whispered, edging toward the door.

“You are probably right. All I’m good for is a one-night stand and”—he continued savagely—“I’m not sure that I’m even good for that.” He turned away from her. “You’ve nailed it. Who would want me for anything more than a one-night stand?” He touched the left side of his face. “Before, I just had this visible defect, but now, I have even less to offer anyone—a 40% chance of surviving this illness, and if I survive, it’s most unlikely that I’ll be able to father children.” He turned back and said bitterly, “You chose well. Your pigeon will be gone in the morning.”

She moved to face him directly. “I asked you because you are a man of honor and courage. You are kind to others—Carl, your friends, and me.” She raised a hand to silence him as he was about to speak. “You came to me in the thunder snowstorm when I was terrified, and you talked about Tomas as though he mattered.” She blinked back the tears. “You are a good man.” She spoke quickly, trying to stop the blush that was creeping over her. “You are a very attractive man and”—her voice dropped to a whisper as the blush deepened—“I like you.”

“Humph. You know, I can’t remember ever hearing anyone say that they liked me.”

“Oh, you’re impossible.” Janan stamped her foot as she glared at him. “You don’t have to act so damn superior!”

“No, truly. The Dutch are blunt-speaking but conservative. They aren’t likely to express their feelings. No. I can’t recall anyone ever saying that they liked me.” He cocked his head as he considered her words. “So, tell me. What else do you like about me?”

Janan gave an exasperated sigh and then hammered him with a blistering reply, “I like the lean planes of your face, the gray color of your eyes that turns black at times, and the firm curve of your lips.” She held up one finger when he started to speak. “I am not finished. I like your hands, the long smooth fingers. I like that you are tall and spare.” Her eyes swept over his body from his head to his feet slowly and she watched in fascination as a slight flush colored his cheeks. “I like your smell—clean, with a hint of lime, wood, and new grass.” She paused. “And . . .”

“There’s more?”

Ignoring his question, she continued, “I like your sense of humor. Well, most of the time.”

At his raised eyebrows, she continued, “I like the way you dress, conservative but attractive. I even like the feel of your starched shirts, the wool of your jacket, soft but sturdy. I like the way you feel under my hand, your long, firm muscles.” Her voice dropped to a silvery whisper. “Most of all, I like your courage.” She watched in defeat as he moved across the room and picked up her coat. She reached for her purse, ready to leave, and then felt a wave of tingling anticipation sweep through her as he opened the closet door, arranged her coat carefully on a hanger next to his raincoat, and closed the two-inch thick wooden closet door with a definite thump.

Pieter slid his arms around her waist and held her lightly in his arms. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you in the liquor store.” He moved one hand up her back, the silk of her blouse making a slight hissing sound, and settled it at the back of her neck under her hair. He smiled down at her as his other hand molded her body to his. “I was so sure that your body would fit mine perfectly.” His heart pounded as he pulled her closer. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

She nodded. The dizzying pleasure of being held in strong arms, of feeling her breasts pressed against a firm chest, and of long legs touching hers was more intoxicating than she had dreamed.

“That moment in the snow, when I opened my eyes and saw your mouth so close to mine, I ached waiting to feel the touch of those perfect lips.” His forehead rested lightly against hers. “And then you decided not to do CPR.”

“You were breathing on your own.” She was having trouble getting the words out.   

“Are you always such a stickler for details?”

She lifted her mouth to his and shyly touched her lips to his and then withdrew quickly.

He continued to hold her lightly as she ducked her head into his shoulder.
Definitely a novice. He should send her away. Yes, that would be the right thing to do but where would he be sending her?
He could see in his mind the faces of the men in the bar as they had watched her walk across the lobby. He cleared his throat. “I was wondering. Are you familiar with the procedure?”

She lifted her head and searched his face. “Kissing?”

“Er, no. I was referring to the seducing-of-men.”

Putting a hand on each of his arms, she pushed away from him and spun around with her back to him and instantly became aware of the room beyond the living room, a square bedroom with dark-wood floors, walls covered with a wall paper the green of poplar leaves above a wainscoting of dark walnut paneling, and a ceiling paneled in thin strips of white maple with a tongue-and-groove pattern.
A tree-house room,
she thought giddily. In the center of the room was a solid looking double-sized bed with a slatted walnut headboard. The white sheets and comforter had been folded back and the square white pillows were arranged temptingly against the head of the bed. 

“I am not seducing you,” she gasped as she whirled around, turning her back on the room.

“Well, no. Not right now of course,” he said soothingly. “But you did say that you wanted it all.”

“Perhaps I spoke too hastily.” She moved to the other side of the living room, away from the open door to the bedroom. “Birthdays stir you up. Make you want to do crazy things. Don’t you agree?”

“No. On the contrary,” he drawled. “I‘ve never found that they change a thing. When I was twenty-eight I was living with my mother, and now, when I am thirty-eight, I’m still living with my mother.” Although his words were lighthearted, the expression on his face revealed self-disgust.

“Why are you still living at home if you don’t want to?”

“I am unmarried, the middle son, the one my widowed mother
depends on
,” he answered grimly.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to get married? To have your own home, your own family?”

There was a long pause as her question hung between them. His eyebrows had drawn together in a black scowl that made him seem unapproachable. “I was engaged . . . once,” he finally said.

“Was she beautiful?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself.

“No. Not beautiful. Pretty, as so many young Dutch women are. You know, fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes.”

“She sounds lovely,” Janan forced herself to say as she shriveled inside. His fiancée had been the total opposite of her. “What happened?”

“What happened?” He tossed the question back at her with a cynical smile. “How could anything go wrong? Her mother was delighted with the engagement. My mother was pleased, and, at first, I believed that Francisca was happy.”

“And then?” Janan moved closer instinctively.

“Then she told me that she did not want to marry me because of the chance that our children might have a birthmark like mine.”

“What stupidity!” Janan cried, slipping her arm through his and leaning against his shoulder. “Birthmarks like yours are not inherited. The mutation of the gene that causes port-wine birthmarks occurs after conception. Everyone knows that.”

“I said she was pretty. I didn’t say she was erudite,” Pieter said with a quick grin.

Janan frowned. “I don’t see how she could have made such a decision.”

“Well, that was in the past and I suppose I have been too lazy to change. Or perhaps I never found a reason to change.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips and glanced nervously around the room.

“To get back to the business at hand, you just gave me a lovely kiss, an introductory kiss.”

“An introductory kiss?” she stammered. “I didn’t know kisses had names.”

“Well, there are lots of different kinds of kisses and names help to keep them straight in one’s mind.”

“Is that important? Keeping them straight?”

“Oh, yes. Each kiss has a definite purpose . . . and outcome.”

“Outcome?” she squeaked.  

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him and, when she did not resist, he brought her closer. “I am going to acknowledge your introduction kiss.” He moved his hands to cup her face as he lowered his lips until they rested firmly against hers and then they began to move gently. Lifting his head, his breathing rapid, he said, “Now we are getting to know each other better, don’t you agree?”

Touching her lips with her finger tips, she nodded. “After the acknowledging kiss?”

“Then we will use our hands and tiny getting-to-know-you kisses,” he whispered as his long fingers traced her eyes, her nose and her mouth, each touch followed by a kiss.

Gravely, she learned his face with both of her hands and then stood on tiptoe to press kisses to his eyes.

He put a hand on the wall on each side of her, securing her within the circle of his body and lowered his mouth to capture hers in a kiss that began with a soft caress of her lips and then invasion of the sweet warmth of her mouth. “Invitation,” he murmured as he trailed kisses down her throat toward the first button partially hidden in the ruffles of the low neckline of her blouse.

He groaned as he unbuttoned his jacket and yanked off his tie. “We aren’t doing this right.” He took a step in her direction. “Remember you said when you were shoveling the walk that it would go better if two people worked at it?” Standing directly in front of her with the wall at her back, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and folded them back. “It’s not fair for one person to do all the work. Right?”

She gasped as cool fingers slid the first button of her blouse from its loop. “Helping is good.” She managed to choke out the words.

“Yes, I think so, too,” he said as he guided her fingers to the first button of his shirt.

She hesitated. “I should tell you that I am not sure . . .”

“We will not do anything that you don’t want to do. It will always be up to you.” He paused and then asked quietly, “Will we be safe?”

“Yes,” Janan answered faintly as she remembered him turning the heavy key in the lock, “but, I am not sure I know what to do.”

“The process?” He continued to slip the dainty buttons of her blouse through their loops.

“Yes. I’ve read about it of course, the clinical description, but I’ve had limited personal experience.” At the quirk of his eyebrow, she added defensively, “I’ve been busy looking after my parents.”

“I see.” He maneuvered the hook at the waist band of her skirt and let it slide silently to the floor. “How limited?”

“Very limited.” Her breath was coming in quick gasps.

“My experience has been limited too, but I think I can remember enough to guide us through the process.”

She sent him a frosty look. “You are tall, dark, and handsome. Somehow I doubt that your experience has been limited.”

“No one has ever called me handsome.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I like it.” He pressed an open kiss to her shoulder as he slipped the blouse from her shoulders and let it drift downward to join her skirt.

“What kind was that?” she asked breathlessly.

“A kiss of adoration,” he said, pressing one to her other shoulder. “You’re falling behind on your share of the work.” He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and pulled her against his bare chest. “Ah, there is no better feeling in the world than that of skin to skin, especially when one is like silk velvet.” He trailed a blaze of kisses down her throat to the top of one breast swelling above the top of her white lacy bra. “Preliminary kisses,” he said as he unhooked the bra without lifting his head and continued his path of kisses until he had enticed one small breast into his mouth. He dropped the bra to the floor and, hooking his thumbs in the elastic of the matching panties, pulled her tightly against him so that her breasts were crushed against his chest. He took her mouth with his in a kiss that sought entrance. He lifted his head for a brief moment to murmur, “Persuasion,” before slipping his tongue into the sweetness of her mouth to dance with hers.

Janan arched against him. “Are we really going to do this?” she gulped.

“Most likely.” He lifted his head and met her eyes. “Unless you don’t want to, or”—he paused, frowning—“unless my red blood cells aren’t up to it.”

“Here?” Janan looked around the room wildly. “Now?”

“Now, yes.” He slid his thumbs steadily downward and the panties joined the bra. “Probably not here.” He gave an airy wave toward the bedroom.

“In the tree-house?” she whispered. At his questioning look, she explained, stalling for time, “The dark-wood wainscoting is the trunk of tree and the green walls are the leafy branches
.
The wooden ceiling is the roof.”

“I’d offer to carry you to our tree-house but I think we should conserve
the red blood cells for more vital activity.” He began to walk her backward toward the bed.

“Are you sure that this is all right? You are not well. Are you sure it won’t hurt you?”