Can't Stop Loving You (15 page)

The damp rose trailed downward once more, and
her body grew taut as a bowstring. Such a small thing. A damp rose.
And yet it ignited their passion as quickly as the most erotic,
soul-searing kisses.

He leaned back and carefully folded the sheet
down, revealing Helen inch by incredible inch. The pearls gleamed
against her skin; the black backless high heels shaped her already
perfect calves, and the black lace G-string enhanced rather than
covered.

“A lady should always wear pearls with basic
black,” she’d said, posing the night before in the bathroom
doorway.

“Just don’t expect me to wear a tux,” he’d
replied. “It might hamper things a bit.”

Remembering, he covered the tiny G-string
with one hand, letting it rest lightly, fingers barely brushing her
exposed skin. Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched in her
throat.

“That’s how I want you to be,” he said,
pressing closer to her, close enough to feel her heat. “Busy with
other things.” His hand eased aside the bit of lace, his fingers
found the heat. “Namely me.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. She was already
swollen from their night of loving, and he brought her quickly to
the edge.

“Brick...” His name ended on a rising
crescendo.

Her cries of pleasure ignited him to the
boiling point. And still he held back While the last notes of
release still quivered in her throat, he bent over her, reveling in
the sweet, hot feel of her intimate flesh against his lips, and
brought her quickly back to climax.

“Brick... please.”

Drugged with her sweetness, he propped his
arms on either side of her head and leaned so close, he almost
drowned in her eyes.

“Do you love me, Helen?”

“Yes.”

“Say it. Say the words.”

“I love you, Brick Sullivan. I adore
you.”

“Tell me how much.”

“More than life itself.”

He tried to let the present joy tamp down the
fear in him, the fear that was always in him. Helen had said the
words to him, freely and often during their five-year marriage. “I
love you, Brick. I adore you. More than life itself.” And yet words
hadn’t kept her from running away.

Would she run again?

The terror threatened to take over, to rob
him of the present.

Her arms stole around his neck, and she
pulled him down so she could press kisses all over his cheeks, his
neck, his shoulders, then back to his lips.

“You know I love you, Brick. I always have
and always will. This time forever.”

Had she said
forever
the first time
around? Brick couldn’t remember.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered. “Fill
me, Brick.”

He could lose his fear in her and find a
wonder that would ease his mind and heart and soul. And yet, he
knew that when the lovemaking was over, the gnawing fear would
return. Had he been careful enough? Had the birth control method
worked? What if she got pregnant?

He felt a tremor run up his arms and through
his body. His pulse pounded so hard, he could almost hear it. His
need to fill her was so great, it was almost physical pain.

“Now,” she whispered. Her hot, wet kisses
inflamed him; her tongue drove him over the edge.

He covered her, merged with her, melted in
her. Sweet gentleness and slow tenderness were rarely a part of
their lovemaking, had never been a part of it. Their volatile
personalities required the same volatility of their bodies.

She wrapped her legs around his waist,
shudders already rippling through her. Her cries of pleasure rose
and fell like music on his ears. When they’d first made love so
many years ago, he’d thought they were cries of distress. Alarmed,
he’d pulled back.

“Am I hurting you?” he’d asked.

“No. Oh, no. Please don’t stop. Don’t go
away.”

Now, he looked down into her face, loving to
see the play of intense emotions. She was totally lost in him, as
he was in her. Over and over he watched her shatter, watched the
dark fires of passion take over until there was nothing but the
wonder and the terror of completely belonging to another, of
merging until self was lost and they were one.

Sweat slicked his body. She wrapped her legs
higher, around his neck. The heels of her shoes nicked his skin.
Her fingernails were sunk deep into his flesh.

Wondrous possession. Terrifying joy.

They moved together as one, as if they
belonged, as if they had always belonged. Never stopping, he looked
down at her.

“This is a game, Helen, and there’s only one
rule.”

“What is it?”

“You have to keep your eyes open.”

“I thought I did.”

“No.”

“I’m making no rash promises, but I’ll
try.”

The dark fires of love shone in her eyes. Sun
slanting through the windows enhanced the glow. Brick felt as if
he’d been crowned king of the world.

Helen.
His love, his life, his
joy.

His passion built until all logical thought
left his mind. Ancient rhythms overtook them, and they danced to
the music that had moved them through the centuries, the songs that
had triggered erotic impulses in their past lives, in green meadows
beside quiet streams where the lamb and the lion lay side by side,
on rolling hills high above cities that lay under siege, in deep
caverns removed from civilizations that were falling. Over
mountains and through storms and across seas they had pledged their
love again and again. A love that would never die.

Buried deep, he lost himself, his cry of
completion blending with hers.

He felt her arms steal around him, felt her
hands glide over his sweat-slicked back. He rested his forehead in
the crook of her shoulder, and she rocked him, crooning love songs
that had no words, only meanings, only wonderful, joyous
meanings.

For a while yet, time would cease to exist.
Brick closed his eyes, willing it always to be that way, willing
the world to stay back, willing reality to leave them alone.

Distant sounds of the city drifted up to
them—street vendors hawking their wares, the blare of horns from
impatient taxi drivers, the squeal of tires, the rumble of trains,
and the roar of jets.

“I scratched you,” Helen said, her hands
roaming down his back. “I’m sorry.”

As beautiful as her voice was, Brick didn’t
want to hear it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to enter the world where
people often conversed without communicating.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“I’ll put something on it.”

To satisfy her, he lay still while she went
into the bathroom and came back with first-aid cream. When she
smeared it on, he didn’t tell her that she should wash the wound
first, didn’t care that she was a lousy nurse. Flushed and lovely,
she bent over him, her hair touching his shoulder.

He ran his hands down the length of her
legs.

“Hmmm,” she said, stretching like a kitten.
“Nice.”

“Why don’t I rub something on you?”

“First-aid cream?”

He laughed. She smiled.

“Guess again.”

He reached for her, but she sidestepped.

“Not yet,” she said.

He folded one arm under his head and watched
as she crossed the room in her high heels and pearls. He would
never tire of watching her.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“And miss all the fun?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Grinning, he closed his eyes. He didn’t have
to see to know when she stood beside him. He could smell her French
perfume, tea rose from the Parfumeur, Ltd. in New Orleans.

“Keep them closed,” she whispered, leaning
over him so that her hair brushed against his chest. She caught one
of his wrists and wrapped something silky and cool around it.

A satin ribbon. She’d tied him to the bed
once in New Orleans.

“I already love this surprise,” he said.

“Stretch out a little, sweet one.”

“Like this?” He spread-eagled on the bed.

There was no reply, nothing except the sound
of breathing.

“You’re gorgeous, Brick. Did I ever tell you
that?”

“Once or twice.” She’d always been more than
generous with compliments. She’d always made him feel like a
hero.

She touched his chest, tangled her hands in
his chest hair.

“Beautiful,” she whispered.

“It’s all yours.”

Laughing, she bound him to the bed with
scarlet ribbons.

“Now you are my slave,” she said.

He didn’t bother to tell her that he’d always
been her slave. He was too busy with other things.

As Brick sauntered up the brick walkway to
his home, he noticed a spot of yellow under the big oak tree in
their front yard. He hurried toward the tree, and a robin pulling
at a fat worm flew off in alarm then watched from a safe distance,
guarding his prize.

Brick knelt beside the tree and plucked the
bit of yellow. A daffodil. The first sign of spring. There were
three in bloom, and he plucked them all, then went whistling up the
walkway.

He eased open the front door, wanting to
surprise Helen. Leaving his shoes in the hallway, he crept through
the house like a thief, peering around corners and through
doorways, looking for his wife.

Usually she was downstairs this time of day,
either in the sun room relaxing with a cup of tea or curled on the
sofa with a good book. Always there was the music. Both of them
loved music, especially blues, jazz, and classical, and they kept a
stack of CDs on the stereo at all times.

Today Helen was playing Ravel. “Bolero.” It
was loud enough to cover an invasion of killer elephants, but still
Brick tiptoed. He loved surprising Helen, loved the wide-eyed look
she always got, adored the way her mouth rounded and her cheeks
turned pink.

He scouted the entire downstairs before
starting up to the second floor. She was in their bedroom, sitting
at the antique secretary beside the window. The late-afternoon sun
slanted across her hair and her cheeks.

As always, Brick was awestruck by her beauty.
How could one man be so lucky? She was not only sweet and kind and
talented, but she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He
watched in silence, the spring bouquet hidden behind his back.

In a moment, he would make his presence
known. He would call her name, then she’d turn and smile. Her eyes
would light up and she’d cross the room to him. Sometimes she
hurried and sometimes she deliberately took her time, holding him
with her eyes as she made him wait for her. Hurrying or slowly
gliding, she was always elegant. Everything she did was elegant,
everything she touched.

In a moment he would hold her. Her lips would
touch his, and he’d know paradise.

He eased the flowers from behind his back,
opened his mouth to call her name. And then he noticed the tension.
It was in her stiff back, in the way she held her head, in her
slight frown. What in the world was going on? Had someone done
something to hurt her?

Slowly she picked up the calendar on the
desk. With a pencil she circled the days.

Brick made some quick mental calculations. It
was close to Helen’s time of the month. Her pencil slowed, then
moved back to the top of the calendar.

She was counting the days. Checking to make
sure she was not pregnant.

Brick squeezed the stems of the daffodils so
hard, their heads drooped. He’d never told her. Something always
sidetracked them.

She laid down the calendar, then turned to
stare out the window. Her shoulders sagged.

She didn’t want his children. She was still
scared he’d run away and leave them. Abandon her with a baby, just
as three men had abandoned her mother when she was a child.

How could he possibly tell her that he wanted
children more than anything in the world, that he’d wanted children
from the day he was old enough to understand where they came from.
That even in the orphanage he’d wanted to be a part of a family, to
grow up and have a family of his own.

He’d meant to discuss it all in New
Hampshire—her fears, his dreams. But they’d always gotten
sidetracked.

And now he was afraid to open that subject,
afraid to bring any hint of controversy or dissension into a
perfect marriage. They had it all—great careers, great friends, and
each other.

What more did they need?

He turned on his most charming smile, the one
he often used onstage.

“Helen?”

She turned slowly. Her eyes didn’t light
immediately the way they always did. His heart stood still.

Then she turned on her most charming smile,
the one she used to dazzle an audience.

“Brick... sweetheart.”

Her pencil clattered to the desk as she
hurried across the room to him.

“I brought you flowers. Daffodils. The first
ones of spring.”

He held out the three flowers with their
bruised stems and pitiful drooping heads.

“You’re sweet.” She handled them reverently,
as if they were the most expensive of hothouse roses. “Thank you,
precious.”

“You’re welcome, darling.”

She hugged him around the waist, squeezing so
hard, he could feel her arms tremble. He glanced across the room at
the calendar on top of the desk. Was his wife pregnant? Did she
carry his child?

“Helen...”

Slowly she lifted her face to his. Was that
the track of tears on her cheeks?

“Yes?”

Tenderly he placed one hand on her cheek. He
couldn’t bear to hurt her. In the face of her obvious fear, he
couldn’t bear to say, “I want a child.”

Pick a safe subject. Anything
.

“Angelica wants us to do a reprise of
The
Taming of the Shrew.”

“Where?”

“Philadelphia.”

“When?”

“The beginning of next month.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I’d discuss it with you.” He kissed the
top of her head, her brow, her cheekbones. “What do you say,
beautiful? Ready to be tamed again by your husband?”