Patricia Potter (13 page)

“Don’t go,” she said, and there was both a plea and a promise in her voice.

Meara saw his lips tighten, his eyes blaze with passion, and felt his hand touch her neck softly, a finger making stroking movements. Then his mouth quirked up at one side in a gesture of surrender, and once more he bent his head so his lips met hers with restrained yearning that soon became something else. Storm met storm, fused and exploded. Tumult and brilliant electricity, intoxication and desperation, flowing from both, enveloping both in instantaneous ignition.

His hands pulled her to him, and once more they were on the sand as the water serenaded them and the moon caressed their bodies with its light fanciful touch.

Chapter Six

M
ICHAEL KNEW IN
that moment he could have her. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

But as he looked at her face, shy and afraid but stubbornly determined, he knew he could not.

He saw the fear, the reservations, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge either.

Michael had no experience with virgins, and that she was one he had no doubt. He didn’t have to know more to realize that one weak act on his part could destroy her. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

His body ached for her, ached for the relief she could give him, but something even more basic reached out and stopped him. The storm, the fire storm, still raged, but his lips softened on hers, his tongue withdrew slowly, reluctantly, from the welcoming mouth. He drew back slightly, not enough to be rejection, and he still held her closely to him with a tenderness she couldn’t mistake.

“Michael?” she whispered.

He kissed her cheek, and his hand ran along her neck, reluctant, reluctant to let go.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he almost groaned.

“Why…?”

He moved slightly away from her. “Because it’s too soon, lovely lady. Because the moon is bright, and the water silver, and the waves are singing a primitive love song, and I’m but a genie who will disappear. We’re both in a different world tonight, a magic world that will end when dawn breaks. I don’t want you to wake up and be sorry.”

“I won’t,” she said, and her voice almost broke.

“I won’t take that chance,” he said. “I’ve never cared enough about anyone before to…hurt this damned much. Allow me to be noble this one time,” he said with that wry self-mockery that so fascinated her.

Meara swallowed as she looked up at him, at eyes that were vividly deep and unfathomable. She wondered what he was thinking, but she knew from the way he touched her, like priceless crystal, that he cared. Part of her, the good Catholic conscience part of her, was grateful; the wild, wanton self that she was just discovering was aching for something that went beyond a kiss, beyond his touch.

His arms were still around her, although not so tightly, and he was searching her face as if he was looking inside her soul. And it was his for the asking. She didn’t know at this moment whether she was grateful or resentful that he was being so careful with it.

The puzzlement must have appeared on her face because he grinned suddenly, his hands tightening around her. “You don’t know how difficult you make nobility,” he said with a slight chuckle as his lips touched her forehead.

“Do I?” she said hopefully.

“Ah, yes,” he replied, a groan in his throat.

She was silent for several moments, her hand on his leg as he held her. There was an intimacy about their closeness, and Meara thought how perfect these moments were, how completely rare they must be. She felt infinitely precious to him, and her heart hurt from feeling so much emotion. She could feel the tension in him, in the careful way he held her, the emotion that played between the two of them.

“I’ll…miss you,” she finally said, hesitantly. He would probably never know how much she would miss him.

“You, pretty lady, will be far too busy to miss anyone. I’ll be looking for your byline.”

Meara turned and stared at him. “I thought that would be the most important thing in the world.”

“It still will be.”

“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly, unsure of her goals for the first time in years.

He tipped her chin up until she was facing him. “Yes, you do,” he said. “You told me you’ve worked all your life for this.”

Meara turned her face away from his. “I…wanted to be independent.”

His voice softened. “Why?”

“My father…died before I was born, and my mother…she had a very bad time until she found a place with the Connors. She doesn’t know how to read or write. Her whole life had been her husband, and when he died her heart broke. I don’t think she ever really got over him. I…don’t think she ever really lived again. She breathes, but she doesn’t feel.”

“And you were lonely?”

“Not really. I had books. They were my friends. Books and people. I’ve always liked people. But I never felt…like I really belonged. Then I found I could go places through writing. That I could make my own place.”

“And that’s important to you.”

“Yes.” But some of the surety was gone. She wondered at this moment if she wouldn’t exchange it all for days, weeks, months with David Michael Fielding. Or whether he was part of a dream himself.

She felt his arms tighten around her, as if he felt some of that insecurity she had felt as a child. She had told herself she no longer felt that way, that her life was full with her mother and the Connors and her career. But now she knew she had never quite left that seed of insecurity behind. She had hidden it well, but it was still there. Except in his arms.

“Now,” he said lightly as if to disperse the thickness of emotion between them, “you will become a famous journalist.”

“A good one would do as well,” she retorted wryly.

“You will be, Meara O’Hara,” he said, no doubt at all in his voice. “And I think I had better walk you back before…”

The word hung between them, just as their explosive reactions to each other did. The night was simply too overpowering, the sky too jeweled, the lullaby of the water too irresistible.

With a groan, he released her and felt her suddenly shiver with the cool wind blowing in from the ocean. Their bodies had kept each other warm until now.

They were both covered with sand, but it was dry sand, easily brushed off, and he did so, his hands moving over her tenderly and lovingly, lingering even after all the grains had disappeared. Her slender form was lovely in the moonlight, proud and straight, her skin an ivory tint, and her hair, now loose, like a golden red halo. He didn’t want to leave, to sever the magic between them, to destroy the momentary illusion that they were the Adam and Eve of this world, alone and still free of fear and violence and hate. His lips touched hers because they could not stop from doing so, and he could feel them both trembling as their mouths met, and he was filled with an anguished melancholy, the knowledge that the war had made everything fleeting, made every moment infinitely precious and something to be savored and hoarded, for it may have to last a lifetime.

His hands traced her slender form, touching lightly, almost worshipingly, and he marveled at the wells of tenderness that gave his hands a gentleness he had never known they had. He felt consumed by a glow of light, of a warmth that filled him so completely that he suddenly realized exactly how lonely he had been, how completely bereft of love and affection. Now that he did know, he wondered if he could live without it again.

Michael only knew he must. His mother and brother’s lives were at stake, and even if they weren’t, he knew Meara would despise him for what he was, even now. For the deception, for the lies.

He forced his hands away from her with one last whisper-light touch of her cheek. He tried to smile, but he knew it was crookedly unsure at best. It had been a long time since he had been unsure of anything, but now he was flooded with uncertainty and self-doubt.

Michael thought his restraint would cool their passion. But he was discovering that it had only deepened his need and made more electric the air between them, the bond between them even tighter as she looked up at him as if he were God. God, for christsake. She wanted, needed, more from him, and he wanted to give more. Then realization hit him as hard and with as much shock as a pailful of ice water on a sweltering day. He loved her. For the first time in his life, he loved. He felt gutted, his insides twisting with a sick agony. Christ, what was he doing to both of them?

His hold on her tightened. “No matter what happens, I want you to be happy. Always know that—” He stopped, the words stuck in his throat. He saw her face, demanding that he continue.

One of his hands moved to her chin, lifting it until she looked directly into his eyes, while the other held her tightly against him. His eyes willed her to understand, to remember, even as he saw her confusion at the fierce, almost angry, intensity of his voice.

She nodded, although there was now fear in her expression as though she realized he knew something she didn’t, something beyond the expected dangers of war.

He dropped his arms and turned away from her, toward the ocean, watching as the moon seemed to gild the crest of waves. The infinity, the power of the ocean made him feel helpless. He was nothing but a pawn. They both were. Being moved around by a giant hand that cared nothing for the pain and destruction that followed. But then he knew that was too easy. He’d made his choices, and now he had to live with them. He had returned voluntarily to Germany although he’d known what it had become. He’d returned partly because it was his home, his country, but he’d also done it to escape internment. He had almost made love to Meara tonight although he understood fully the final bitter outcome.

But, Christ, he wanted these moments to continue, to go on forever, to feel so electrically alive and filled with so many emotions, both tender and savage. Since he was a boy, he had kept everything, every feeling, contained in a box within him, and now they were exploding outward with a force and impact that superseded everything else, every ounce of his restraint and good sense and iron self-discipline.

Michael felt Meara’s hand on his arm. It burned him down to his core. It seemed so fragile at the moment, so fragile and trusting and innocent. “You’re a million miles away again,” she said. “Did I chase you that far?”

Despite the attempted lightness of her words, her face was hurt and puzzled. “The problem, sea witch,” he said, “is you bring me too close.”

“And you’re afraid of closeness?”

“Yes,” Michael answered simply, surprised at his own admission.

“I’ll have to try to ease that fear.”

He stared at her. Sand was caught like flecks of silver in that glorious copper hair, and her face was smudged with a streak of dirt, or sand. Her eyes were wide and wistful, and her mouth kiss-swollen. He knew he would always remember her this way, this way and also the way she was that day on the cruiser when he first met her, when he saw the carefree tilt of her head and heard the entrancing laughter. Two Mearas. Equally as lovely. Equally as enchanting. Equally as vulnerable. “I think it’s time to return.

She had already tied her hair back, and she nodded reluctantly. He gave her one last look, finally tearing his gaze from her and forcing himself to remember where he was and who he was and what must be done.

They were on the beach, just below where he had left his bicycle. “The bicycle,” he said wryly, and disappeared for a few moments. Thank God she liked the beach and ocean well enough not to think it odd he would ride down here so late at night. He placed the cane in the basket and started to lead it, grateful that his hands were doing something. Otherwise, he knew, he would touch her again. But still the walk would prolong the minutes with Meara, and he wanted those, needed those.

Later, he knew, he would welcome the pain that always came after too much exercise. Perhaps it would overcome the other pain in him.

He felt her hand touch his on the bicycle, and he realized she needed the reassurance, the contact. “Hell with this,” he said, and guided the bicycle to a dune out of the sea’s reach, laying it there. “I’ll send someone for it tomorrow,” he added as one of his hands took the cane and the other hand clapsed hers tightly, sensing, rather than seeing, her body relax slightly beside him. He was confounded she hadn’t asked for anything, not promises or declarations. His company, it seemed, was sufficient. The realization did nothing to relieve his self-loathing. Nothing, he knew, could ever do that.

They were silent on the way back, Michael lost in his own thoughts, his own emotions, knowing instinctively that Meara was probably the same. The touching of their hands, for the moment, was enough.

As they arrived at the path leading to the clubhouse and the Connors’ cottage, Michael saw the barely visible outline of a man, standing against an old oak tree. He knew instantly who it was. Sanders Evans.

The man’s face was turned toward them, and Michael knew he had been following their progress. He wondered how long Evans had been there. It must be nearly two in the morning or later. Had Evans also been there at midnight when Michael had bicycled toward the beach?

Michael knew that he had been fortunate in more ways than one to meet Meara this evening. A moonlight walk with a woman as lovely as Meara was anything but suspicious. He looked down at Meara to see whether she had noticed the watcher, but she said nothing and he thought she had not. When he glanced up, Evans was gone.