Power Play (15 page)

Monica put her face right up to his.
“No.”

Eric tightened his grip around her wrist as his pulse began scrambling.
“Admit it.”

“You admit it first,” she jeered. “Admit you're the one who deepened the kiss, and it wasn't because you wanted it to look real. You
wanted
to kiss me.”

Eric laughed. “Of course I did,” he replied, as if it were obvious. “I came on to you the first time I met you, remember? Why would you think I still wouldn't find you hot, annoying as you are?”

Monica jerked her hand from his grasp. “So the kiss was purely physical. It meant nothing to you beyond that.”

“Uh, no.”

“Then why are you so hot for me to admit that I felt something?” Monica challenged.

Eric yawned with boredom. “I want to make sure I hadn't lost my touch.”

He had to extricate himself here, and fast. This debate was headed into emotional territory.

Monica's blue eyes turned steely gray, flecked with challenge. “You're lying.”

“So are you.”

The thump of dog paws clambering up the stairs put a quick end to the discussion, at least for now, since Eric knew Jason and Delilah would be following their hounds up within seconds.

Monica moved past him, deliberately slamming her shoulder into his in a not-too-friendly gesture. “Touch me in that bed tonight, and you're dead,” she repeated, going out into the hall.

“Back at ya,” he called to her departing back. Two could play the ego game.

 

“How's it going, Dad?”

Eric's question was met with a grim smile as he, Jason, and their father strolled around the barn. Sights and smells from childhood came rushing back to Eric the way they always did when he was home. The scent of feed and of animals. The cows in their stalls, lying down in their straw. The hum of the ventilators ensuring a never-ending stream of clean air. Eric wondered if Jason was feeling the same tug in the gut he was. He glanced sideways at his brother. The answer was yes. Jason's expression was wistful.

“The ladies,” as his mother insisted on calling herself, Monica, and Delilah, were still assembled around the dining room table, lingering over coffee and a selection of coffee cake, cherry pie, and peanut butter cookies. Dinner had gone well. Eric had left most of the talking to Monica, since she was the better actor. She fielded all the questions about their burgeoning relationship with aplomb, especially those being lobbed at them like grenades by Jason. He and Monica looked at each other with appropriate affection, though behind her loving glances, he knew she was still smarting over his calling her out on their kiss. Well, let her smart if she wanted to. He knew when a woman liked being kissed by him, and whether she admitted it or not, Monica Geary liked it.

His father paused before one of the new Holsteins. “This is Tallulah,” he said.

Jason raised an eyebrow.
“Tallulah?”

Their father chuckled. “That was the name your mother always wanted to name a girl if we had one.”

“Good thing you just had us, then,” said Eric.

“You didn't answer Eric's question, Dad,” Jason said gently.

Their father's eyes were glued on Tallulah, unable to look at them. He'd never been good with expressing emotion. “I don't know when I'll be able to pay you boys back,” he said quietly. He paused. “I don't know
if
I'll be able to pay you back.”

“It wasn't a loan, Dad,” said Eric. “We told you that.”

Their father finally looked at them. “That was a helluva lot of money you boys gave us.”

Eric and Jason glanced at each other. “We make a helluva lot of money, Dad,” said Jason.

“Did you use it to hire some more help?” Eric asked.

Their father nodded his head. “Two more workers. Maybe you boys could come home and replace them,” he said in a joking voice.

Eric and Jason both laughed. “You'd underpay us,” said Eric.

“We'd give you free room and board,” said their father. “And unlimited pie.”

Jason chuckled. “Then it's definitely worth considering.”

“Is the extra help—well, helping?” Eric asked.

“Yes. Obviously, it's lifting some of the burden off your mother and me. We still have Tommy from Carson coming down three days a week.”

“Well, that's good,” said Eric. Tommy had been helping his parents for as long as Eric could remember; plump, bald, and wizened, he was even more taciturn than their father.

“I still don't know how long we're going to be able to keep things going here, boys,” their father continued in a choked voice. Eric filled with panic that he saw reflected in Jason's face. Neither of them had ever seen their father close to tears. Ever. He was the rock of the family, the practical, stoic one.
The father.

Eric put a hand on his father's shoulder. “Dad . . .”

“You know what the situation is,” his father said angrily. “Goddamn agribusiness, always trying to streamline to increase profits. It's driving down prices, forcing family-run operations like ours out of business. You have any idea how many family farms around here have gone into foreclosure?” He shook his head in despair.

“What if we gave you enough to compete?” Eric suggested. “Increase the herd, get a milking parlor?” He couldn't believe the sense of quiet desperation beginning to take hold of him. The thought of his parents losing or having to sell the farm distressed him more than he ever thought possible.

“We've got the money to do what Eric suggests, Dad,” Jason reiterated quietly.

Their father returned to his usual stoicism. “I'll think about it.” He was a man of incredible pride. Eric suspected it was entirely possible that the idea of being rescued by his sons made him feel like a failure.

“We're here for you Dad,” Eric murmured. “In whatever way you need us to be.”

His father patted his shoulder. “You're good boys. Now, let's get back to the house before all that pie is gone.”

“Not enough pillows.”

Monica looked at the two flimsy, feather-filled pillows dividing the double bed in Eric's old bedroom into equal halves. She'd barely been able to concentrate when she, Eric's sister-in-law, Delilah, and Eric's mom had been chatting over after-dinner pie and coffee. All she kept thinking about was how she was going to be in the same bed as Eric later in the evening. Also, she couldn't stop eyeing the cherry pie. It was so good she wanted to eat the whole thing, career be damned.

Eric sighed, adding his only pillow to the lineup. “Better?”

“Are you sure it won't affect your precious athlete's back?” she asked sarcastically.

“Oh, darling,” Eric murmured with the affected expression he'd perfected. “I knew you cared.”

Monica gritted her teeth. “Jerk.”

She glanced around the room, rubbing her arms briskly, growing tenser by the moment. Beneath her thin, blue silk bathrobe she was wearing a matching blue silk baby doll with a sexy side opening and a matching G-string. She'd never been one of those women who could sleep in one of their boyfriend's rumpled old T-shirts. She'd always liked silky things, pretty things, even when sleeping alone, which is what she'd assumed she'd be doing tonight.

“Turn around,” she commanded Eric.

“What?”

“I want to slip into bed without you seeing what I'm wearing.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “I've seen women's bodies before, you know.”

“Well, you're not seeing this one.”

“Whatever.”

Eric turned around as Monica shed her robe and quickly slipped into bed. The sheets were deliciously cold as she pulled them up to her neck.

“You can turn around now.”

Eric turned, a hint of amazement on his face. “You look like some kind of terrified virgin bride on her wedding night. By the way,” he said, stretching casually, “I sleep in the nude.”

Monica bolted upright in bed, the sheets falling to her waist. “Not tonight you're not.”

She saw Eric's eyes roam over her bare shoulders, then dip lower to her cleavage. She pulled the sheets back up again. “I mean it,” she warned.

Eric grinned at her. “What are you so afraid of, Miss Geary?”

“It's just weird,” she insisted.

What if the pillows shift and you roll over and we make contact and you have a hard-on and it's burning against my leg and I'm hot and bothered and—?
she thought feverishly. Could he tell that's what she was thinking? Why was she thinking that, goddammit? She would not fall for this man. She'd fallen for too many jerks before, always thinking,
I'll be the one to change him.
But men didn't change. They might try to change their outward behavior, but their fundamental nature remained intact, and Eric's fundamental nature was that of a jerk. She would have to be vigilant against her own emotions. Against her own starved libido.

“I'm going to close my eyes while you get into bed in
your underwear
,” Monica told him.

“Suit yourself,” said Eric.

Monica screwed her eyes closed tight, at least to the point where she heard his jeans fall to the floor. Then she cracked one eye open, just a teensy-weensy bit, immediately wishing she hadn't. Gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Tightly hugging his muscled thighs. A magnificently sculpted body.
God knows everything you're thinking, and he's going to punish you, Monica Elise Geary,
she scolded herself, closing her eyes.

Eric slipped into bed, flashing her a seductive smile. Then he turned out the light.

ELEVEN

Monica was familiar with torment. In her early twenties she'd experienced the torment of auditioning and then waiting to hear if she got the part. She'd felt the torment of Monty telling her she was wasting her gifts. Then there was the ongoing torment of knowing you could act but having to perform with others who couldn't, worrying if it would drag your performance down.

Now she knew a new torment: lying less than two feet away from a gorgeous man.

Should she be insulted that Eric fell off to sleep so fast? Shouldn't he be at least a
little
tortured, especially after claiming that he still found her hot? A cool breeze was kicking through the half-open windows. It should have calmed her fiery desire. But it didn't help at all.

Monica lifted her head, peering at Eric over the pillow barrier. He was on his back, legs splayed beneath the sheet and a thin layer of blanket loosely covering his hips, his arms behind his head. Even in the darkness, there was enough light coming from outside the window for Monica to see his chest very clearly. There was some hair curling around his nipples, but not much. The physique . . . so perfect. Delicious. Another surge of heat crackled up her skin. What if she were to reach out and lightly, just lightly, press a palm to his chest? Would her burning skin wake him? Was it a bad thing to do?

She swallowed, reaching slowly across the divide separating them, but halfway there, she stopped herself. What if she were the one sleeping, and he did that to her? She imagined it. She was a light sleeper. She'd wake up and feel violated. Or would she?

Frustrated, Monica sank back down on her side of the bed. Perhaps because she wanted it to be so, she swore his body was radiating heat, too. Subconsciously, maybe, but heat nonetheless. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the deep, regular rhythm of his breath. She wished he were a snorer. Or one of those guys who farted their heads off in bed. Anything that would disgust her and cool this embarrassing desire.

She closed her eyes, trying to drive thoughts of him from her mind, her pulse pounding like a hammer. What would it be like to feel his weight on top of her while his mouth devoured hers? What pleasure would her body experience feeling his fullness against her, knowing he wanted to put himself inside her? She felt her nipples go hard and reached her hands to her breasts, softly rubbing them with the pads of her fingers. Electricity flew through her body.

She took a deep breath, pulling her hands away, not wanting to incite herself further. But the images kept coming. She saw Eric stunning her with that sexy, crooked grin of his before his mouth began streaking down her body, an intoxicating prelude to his tongue greedily lapping between her thighs until she was unable to control her quaking body. She imagined him thrusting hard inside her, her cries of pleasure matching his own strangulated groans as they climaxed together. She saw herself curled in his arms in the afterglow, both of them sweaty but not caring, his still-fevered mouth tenderly pressing itself to her brow before he nuzzled her neck and told her how much he—

Her hands curled into fists. Enough. That was enough. What she was doing was insanity. It was desperate and masochistic. She knew that if she ever seduced Eric, he would jump at the chance to sleep with her. But Monica could never screw just for the sake of screwing. The act would have significance for her but not for him. She could never risk that, even though he was the reason she was now lying here, roused and tense at the same time. Feeling like her own worst enemy, she turned on her side away from him, waiting for the tension to leave her body so she could sleep.

 

Every morning for as long as Eric could remember, he woke at 4:30 a.m., the exact time he and Jason always had to be up to make the 5:30 a.m. hockey practice before school. Usually when he woke, he'd take a few seconds to get his bearings, then fall quickly back to sleep. But not this morning. This morning there was the soft rise and fall of breath coming from the other side of the bed: Monica, defending her virtue by erecting a goose-down pillow barrier between them. As if that could stop him if he really wanted to initiate something.