Can't Stop Loving You (8 page)

She pulled her robe closed. “What are you
doing?”

“Shhh. It’s all right.” He smoothed back her
hair.

“No. It’s not all right. Nothing will ever be
all right again.”

Fresh sobs shook her. Brick gathered her into
his arms, and she leaned against his chest. How easy it was to cry
on his broad shoulder, how natural. He held her lightly, rocked her
gently as she cried for everything that had gone wrong in their
marriage—the way she had bottled up her anxieties, the way they
would leave to go their separate ways on the road when they both
understood that the road was inexorably drawing them apart, the way
they both covered their pain.

Acting. Always acting.

“Crying is good,” he said.

Oh, God. It
did
feel good. Why had
she bottled it up all those years?

She clung to him, drawing on his quiet
strength. When her anguish finally subsided, she lifted her face
and looked up to thank him.

His eyes and cheeks were wet with tears.
Awed, she touched his cheek.

“You cried for me?”

“Yes.”

No one had ever loved her enough to cry for
her. The beauty of his tears so overwhelmed her that she was
speechless. Only strong men allowed themselves to cry. Yet in their
five year marriage he had not.

They had shared their joy but not their pain.
Why had they never shared their pain? Perhaps if they had, she
would never have left. There would have been no need.

Tenderly she touched the tears on his
cheeks.

“I wish...”

“Shhh.” He put his finger over her lips.
“Don’t say anything tonight that you’ll regret tomorrow.”

He was right, of course. They couldn’t go
back. Especially not now, especially with Barb Gladly in the
picture.

Her spunk returned. She knew the value of
good exit lines.
Leave ‘em laughing
.

“I regret this kitchen table,” she said.
“It’s cold on my bottom.”

“Sit there. You’ve cut yourself.”

“There’s glass on the floor.”

“I know.” He chuckled, sounding relieved,
then lifted her foot to inspect it. “The cut’s not deep.”

“It hurts.”

“I’ll find something to put on it.”

He left her on the kitchen table. Her bare
foot swung back and forth, marking time, while he searched the
kitchen cabinets and the pantry. In moments he was back, carrying
iodine and Band-Aids.

His hands were tender. She shouldn’t be
letting him touch her.

“Is that better, love?”

She nodded.
Yes.

His voice was sweet. She shouldn’t be
listening to him.

He held her foot awhile longer, watching her.
His eyes were black, bottomless, fathomless.

“Sit right there,” he said. “Don’t move.”

He went into the pantry once more and came
out with a broom. She watched with fascination as Brick Sullivan,
who had never known which end of the mop went on the floor,
patiently swept up glass.

Every now and then he glanced at her and
smiled.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Why hadn’t she seen that side of him when
they were married? She’d known he was tender. It showed after
performances when they would both come home tired and he would
insist that she rest while he made drinks. But she’d never seen
this solicitous, domestic side of him.

Would it have made a difference if she had?
Would she have left him anyway?

“I probably woke up the entire household,”
she said.

“No. The kitchen’s too far away from the
bedrooms. Besides, these old houses are built like forts. We could
have a war down here and nobody would know.”

“We did, didn’t we?” She grinned, feeling
more like her old self.

“I suppose so. We always did strike sparks
off each other.”

“Yes.”

She’d missed that, the way he could ignite
her with a look, a touch.

He bent over and swept the shards into the
dustpan. His body was beautiful, long and lean. The kitchen lights
served as spotlights. Every gesture he made was controlled,
dramatic. He was a natural actor. Even the simple act of sweeping
up the kitchen floor became a production in his hands.

When he stood up, she clapped.

“Bravo.”

He grinned at her. “What’s that for.”

“You make everything an adventure. Even
sweeping up the trash.”

“I thank you.” He bowed from the waist, then
dipped the broom in her direction. “My lovely assistant thanks
you.”

It felt good to laugh with Brick. She watched
while he dumped the glass shards into the garbage can, then slid
off the table.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help clean up this mess. After
all, I made it.”

He picked her up and plopped her
unceremoniously onto the table.

“There may still be glass on the floor. You
could hurt yourself.”

“It’s my mess.
I’ll
clean it
up.”

“I think I’m at least partially
responsible.”

She became lost in his eyes, in the deep,
searching way he regarded her. Communication did not always require
words. As actors they both knew that.

She opened herself to his unspoken thoughts.
I’m sorry,
he was saying silently.
I didn’t mean to
hurt you.

“Brick...” She cupped his face, pulled it
close. “Let’s not hurt each other anymore.”

“No. Let’s not.”

A muscle ticked in the side of her jaw, a
sure sign of the strain she was under. She closed her eyes and took
a long, shuddering breath.

How easy it would be to wrap herself around
him and say, “Take me upstairs and don’t ever let me go.”

How easy... and how dangerous.

“Your hands feel good on my face, Helen.”

His voice brought her out of her reverie. Too
much was happening too soon.

She had to stop touching him, had to rein in
the galloping stallion they’d mounted and were riding to the
stars.

She folded her hands in her lap and steered
the conversation out of dangerous waters.

“I’m not making any promises about tomorrow.
Only tonight.” She brought her breathing under control as he
stepped back. “I won’t hurt you anymore tonight, but tomorrow I
quite possibly will go for the jugular.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of the great
Helen Sullivan.”

Did he use her full name to remind her that
no matter where she was, no matter what she did, she would always
have that part of him... his name?
Probably
. Brick
Sullivan was bright enough to give every nuance meaning.

“Just sit right there, Helen. Let me go over
this floor one more time in case there is more glass.”

“I hope I didn’t break anything that can’t be
replaced.”

“You didn’t. I already checked that out.”

“Thanks.”

She had forgotten that about Brick, too. That
he took care of her in small ways.

She missed that about him. Longing filled
her, and she realized that she missed
everything
about
him, the boyish way he looked when he smiled—
really
smiled—the way his hair swung over his forehead when he made love,
the lights that danced in the depths of his eyes when he was happy,
the deep, rich rumble of his voice, his touch, his laughter.

She realized that she’d fallen in love with
her husband all over again. But it was too late, much too late.

Sighing, she slid off the table, picked up a
cleaning rag, and attacked the chocolate on the walls.

o0o

Helen worked at the walls as industriously as
she worked onstage, applying her full attention. Under the guise of
helping her, Brick watched.

She was gloriously disheveled, totally
desirable. And she’d lost control because of him.

An exultation all out of proportion to the
deed filled him. Finally she’d shown him some genuine emotion.

What did it mean?

Nothing,
he told himself.

They couldn’t go back. It would be the same
all over again. She’d cover whatever it was that had made her leave
in the first place, and he’d pretend her leaving really hadn’t
mattered at all.

Maybe if the home were a stage, the two of
them could make it as a team, but home was not a place to act; it
was a place to be
real.
He wondered if either of them were
capable of being real.

“Why did that cake have to be chocolate?”
Grinning, she turned to him.

Irresistible
.

“You have chocolate here.” He rubbed a spot
on her cheek.

She lifted her face. “Hmmm.”

Dangerous
.

He turned his attentions to the walls and
applied what Fanny Mae at the orphanage used to call
elbow
grease.

“Use elbow grease,” the cook used to say
after he’d been sent to clean the kitchen as punishment for one of
his many escapades. “It’ll build muscles.”

“What do I need muscles for? I got a
brain.”

“Wait till you’re grown. Then you’ll see what
you need muscles for.”

Dear old Fannie Mae had been right. By the
time he was sixteen and out of the orphanage, he had muscles... and
women falling at his feet wherever he went.

He followed a line of chocolate stain,
excruciatingly aware that it put him closer to Helen.

He didn’t want women swooning at his feet.
Only Helen.

Her perfume was intoxicating. He took a deep
breath, drinking her fragrance in. Long after she’d gone, the
bedroom had smelled like her. He’d finally had to move into the
guest room in order to get some sleep.

“Oops.” Her hip bumped against him.
“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

It wasn’t. The ease between them had lowered
barriers he’d kept in place. If he didn’t get out of the kitchen
with her, he’d soon be out of control.

He put on some speed.

“I’m impressed,” Helen said. “Have you ever
thought of opening a cleaning service?”

“Only before every performance.”

With Helen he didn’t have to explain. The
great thing about being married to another artist was that she
perfectly understood stage fright, that quick burst of adrenaline
that pumped through the system each time he stood in the wings,
awaiting his cue.

“Me, too.” Helen leaned back to inspect the
wall. “All done. Thanks, Brick.”

She held out her hand. He started to take it,
and then he knew her hand would not be enough, not tonight.

Without a word he swept her into his
arms.

She stiffened momentarily, her eyes wide and
luminous, then she settled back as if she belonged there.

She did. She would always belong there.

Heavy with the knowledge that he’d lost her,
Brick switched off the kitchen light and carried her up the stairs.
She rested her face in the curve of his shoulder. Her breath warmed
his skin.

She felt so right, so natural.

He wished the stairs would go on forever. He
wished the night would never end.

His footsteps made no sound in the plush
carpet of the hallway. As he approached her bedroom door, his
heartbeat accelerated. How many times had he carried Helen to bed?
How many times had he spread her upon the covers and been welcomed
into her soft, sweet arms? How many ways had he expressed his love
for her? How many ways had she expressed hers for him?

The door creaked open. A shaft of moonlight
illuminated the antique bed. Sheer curtains hung from the
four-poster. A draft coming from the hall set the curtains
swaying.

His throat was dry, his eyes moist. His heart
hurt. His groin ached.

Helen
.

Did he whisper her name or was it merely a
cry of his heart?

She placed one hand on his cheek, softly,
tenderly. He could see her heart pulsing through the blue veins in
her slender neck.

One kiss, and then he would go. He pressed
his lips against the blue vein, felt the beat of her heart, tasted
the sweetness of her skin, smelled the scent of spring flowers.

Please tell me not to go
.

Her arms tightened around him. Her eyes were
luminous in the moonlight, luminous and filled with...
What
?
Love
?

God, let it be love
.

God, it can’t be love
.

The mattress sank under their combined
weight. Her hair spread across the pillow. Her face looked like a
cameo.

Propped on his elbows he gazed down at her.
Her fingertips burned his skin where they touched the sensitive
area at the back of his neck.

Her robe had fallen open. He memorized the
rounded curves with his eyes, then his lips. Helen lay perfectly
still, her arms laced around his neck.

Memories overwhelmed him... her long legs
locked around him, her eyes wide with pleasure, her face glowing
with fulfillment. The love and the laughter, so intermingled that
it seemed impossible to have one without the other. Late night
forays into the kitchen, tasting more of each other than the fresh
fruit they kept in a crystal bowl. Soft music playing and candles
burning. Always candles and music.

His lips brushed against her skin. He felt
the shivers that ran through her.

More.
He wanted more.

He skimmed the neckline of her gown with his
fingertips. The satin was cool to the touch, the skin underneath
lush and warm.

She drew a sharp breath. Her back arched
slightly off the mattress as she leaned toward his hands.

Helen. My love
.

With one finger he drew a line from her
throat, around the curve of her left breast, across her flat belly
to the warm juncture of her thighs.

Her sigh was softer than a whisper, so soft,
he barely heard it.

Joy surged through him. His touch made Helen
sigh.

She arched toward him again. He traced her
legs upward, from the curve of her foot to the inside of her knee.
She bent her left leg, lifted her foot. The gown fell away.