Can't Stop Loving You (9 page)

In the moonlight she looked like a fallen
flower, a creamy gardenia. He was filled with her, drunk with her.
His senses reeled.

She spread her hands across his chest,
fingers wide. Then in one slow, sensuous move, she dipped a
fingertip inside his shirt and drew erotic circles on his
chest.

It was too much to bear. He would soon be
totally out of control.

Tell me you want me, Helen. Tell me to
stay
.

He knew she would not ask, knew he could not
stay. People who had been badly burned knew how to avoid the
fire.

He drew a deep, steadying breath, then
smoothed her gown down over her legs. Taking a light quilt from the
end of the bed, he covered her.

Their eyes locked, held. Hers questioned. His
begged.

The silence between them was deafening. His
entire body pulsed with it.

There was only one thing to do. Leaning down,
he kissed her cheek.

She sighed, then closed her eyes.

He took one last glance, memorizing the way
her lashes fanned across her porcelain cheeks, the way the
moonlight illuminated the pulse that beat against her creamy skin
like butterfly wings.

Go. While you still can
.

He left her then, his footfalls swallowed up
by the deep carpet.

The door closed behind him with a finality
that sounded like doom.

In the bedroom next to Helen’s, Marsha lay
under the covers wide awake and tense. She had heard Helen leave
just as she had heard Brick’s door open earlier.

She might be getting old, but she didn’t miss
a trick.

Her guess was that Helen was headed to the
kitchen. For a woman as skinny as she was, she had the appetite of
a stevedore.

Brick did, too, of course. But he was a man.
Healthy men were supposed to eat heartily. And he was a handsome,
healthy specimen of a man.

No wonder Helen had been fit to be tied after
rehearsals.

Lord, would they get back together? Marsha
half hoped they did, half prayed they didn’t.

She knew Helen would never survive another
parting. And until they straightened things out, a reunion would
surely lead to disaster.

Her bedroom door creaked on its hinges and
swung inward, leaving a small crack. That made twice since she’d
been here, and she thought she’d shut it good before she went to
bed. The way old houses shifted and settled, she was going to have
to prop a chair against her door.

Marsha got up to shut her door and saw
them—Brick and Helen. Together. Helen in his arms. His face tender,
hers enraptured.

Marsha didn’t mean to be spying, but she
couldn’t help herself. Lord, if ever two people belonged together,
it was the two of them.

Brick carried his ex-wife into her bedroom
and shut the door. Marsha dabbed a tear out of her eye and settled
back into bed.

Was it wrong of her to hope?

o0o

Down the hall another door opened. Barb
peered through the crack in the bedroom door, then scuttled back
inside.

“Shoot,” she said.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

Matt Rider leaned against the headboard of
his bed, the sheet drawn up around his waist.

“I can’t leave yet. Brick and Helen are in
the hallway.”

“Brick and Helen?” Grinning, Matt wrapped the
sheet around his waist and hurried to the door to peek over her
shoulder. “Well, I’ll be...”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s about time.”

He peered over her shoulder until Brick had
disappeared into his ex-wife’s bedroom, carrying his ex-wife with
him.

“I guess this means I won’t have to put my
plan into action after all,” Barb said.

“What plan is that, darlin’?”

“I was going to pick a public fight with
Brick and return his engagement ring. Shoot, I was kinda looking
forward to it.”

Matt hooted with laughter. “You’d have done
it, wouldn’t you?”

“It was the only way I could think of to let
Helen know I was out of the picture without betraying Brick.”

Matt cupped her neck and threaded his fingers
in her hair.

“Do you have to go yet?”

She melted against him. “I could stay. It’s a
few more hours till morning.”

Matt took her hand and led her back to the
bed.

o0o

From the moment Clifford had called act 2,
scene 1 he’d been nervous as a bird in a pet shop full of cats.
Much to his relief Brick and Helen Sullivan were breezing through
the rehearsal without any signs of the personal upheaval that had
marred yesterday’s rehearsal—though they both looked a little
peaked, as if they hadn’t slept a wink. He guessed even actors were
human.

In spite of their appearances, both Brick and
Helen were in fine form. Brick strutted around like a turkey-cock,
spouting Petruchio’s lines as if he were the only actor alive who
could do them justice.

Clifford thought that perhaps he was.

“‘We will have rings, and things, and fine
array,’” he said.

Bravo,
Clifford thought. This
reunion of the great Sullivans was going to be a smashing success,
and
he
was going to get his share of the credit.

“‘And, kiss me, Kate,’” Brick said. “‘We will
be married o’ Sunday.’”

Clifford leaned forward in his seat for the
kiss. Onstage the Sullivans had always been magic together.

o0o

The moment Helen had been dreading finally
came. She braced herself for the torrid kiss she knew was coming.
She’d seen it in Brick’s eyes. From the moment he’d walked onstage,
his eyes had been burning with passion.

It was the very reason she had not gone down
to breakfast, the reason she had been as late as possible at
rehearsals... so she wouldn’t have to have any personal contact
with Brick, so all their interaction would take place onstage.

Brick’s arm came around her waist. She
stiffened, expecting to be yanked so close, she could feel each of
his individual ribs.

“Loosen up, Helen,” Brick said. “I don’t
bite.”

“You’d better not. I have a lethal knee.”

Brick turned to Clifford. “Sorry, Cliff.
Let’s take that from the top.”

“Fine. From the top.”

Helen mentally smoothed her ruffled emotions.
Just that mere touch had been enough to set off fireworks
underneath her skin. What was she to do? She had fallen in love
with her husband again... and he belonged to another woman.

“‘We will have rings, and things...’” Brick’s
magnificent voice washed over her.

Helen barely heard a word he said. She was
readying herself for the kiss.

His arm snaked out. She prepared to melt into
him and instead found herself a good two inches away from his
chest, not even touching.

His eyes were full of wicked glee as he
leaned close.

Brick Sullivan was up to something.

Helen didn’t dare close her eyes. Instead she
kept them wide open.

His pucker was the most exaggerated thing
she’d ever seen. He looked as if he were preparing to kiss a
frog.

She braced herself... and felt a breeze stir
her cheek as he kissed the air half an inch from her lips.

She jerked back as if she’d been stung. Hands
on hips, she faced the front row where Clifford sat with his jaw
hanging open.

“That’s the most cowardly kiss in the history
of theater.” Helen brushed her hair off her flushed face. “Even
amateurs can do better than that.”

“What’s the matter, Helen?” Brick asked.
“Feeling deprived?”

She wanted to claw the smirk off his
face.

Deprived, indeed.
She’d show him how
she was feeling.

“You may be God’s gift to women offstage,
Brick Sullivan, but onstage with me you are nothing but a leading
man. I expect you to act the part.”

“And just how much acting would you have the
leading man do?” His mouth turned up in devilish mirth.

“Enough so the audience thinks Petruchio at
least
means
it when he kisses Kate.”

“Ah, it’s the kiss we’re talking about.”

“Well, what did you think? The weather?”

Clifford had resorted to groaning and was
close to tearing out his hair. Offstage, Barb and Matt were
laughing so hard, they had to hold their sides, and Marsha was
trying to figure out what in the world was going on.

“Lordy, Lordy,” she said. “Cozying up one
minute and fighting like cats and dogs the next. I’m going to quit
this job before it kills me.”

“Okay.” Clifford left his front row seat and
propped his elbow on the stage. “Let’s do the kiss again.”

Helen took her place. Brick winked at her.
So... he wanted to play games, did he? He’d better watch out, or
she might give him a dose of his own medicine.

“‘Kiss me, Kate...”‘ Brick said, reaching for
her.

Helen sidestepped. “I’d as soon kiss a
frog.”

“That’s not in the script.”

“What’s the matter? You’re an actor. Don’t
you know how to ad-lib?”

“Ad-lib Shakespeare?”

“Why not? Even Shakespeare could use a little
improving after four hundred years.”

Incoherent sounds came from the front row.
Laughter from the wings.

“You’re afraid of the kiss,” Brick said.
“You’re the one who’s afraid.”

“I’m afraid, am I?”

Brick stalked her. Her chin came up
defiantly, and she stood her ground. “Yes,” she taunted.

“‘Kiss me, Kate...’”

“Never!”

His laughter boomed around the stage. “A
wicked wench does nothing but enhance a man’s appetite.”

He reached for her. She jumped away,
laughing.

“Settle your appetite with a docile pussycat.
I’ll have none of you.”

“You’ll have all of me, or my name’s not
Petruchio.”

Like a high-bred filly teasing her stallion,
Helen danced around the stage, always just beyond Brick’s
reach.

Shaking his head, Clifford threw his script
away.

“Is that Shakespeare?” Barb whispered to
Matt.

“It’s Helen and Brick... at their best.”

Onstage Helen’s Kate taunted Brick’s
Petruchio.

“What shall I call you then? A worm? A
dog?”

“Best beware, my fiery Kate. Worms do turn,
and even dogs will have their day.”

“Not while I have breath.”

“Then it’s best to steal your breath
away.”

Brick lunged, trapping her against the garden
wall. Helen felt the flimsy set piece give under her weight. It was
either fall backward into an ignoble heap or lean toward Brick.

She took the lesser of two evils. His eyes
lit with pure delight as she pressed close. She could have counted
each individual hair shaft on his face if she had wanted to.

But she had other things on her mind... such
as trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to tamp down the
indescribable joy she felt at being in his arms once more.

“‘Kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’
Sunday.’”

Brick’s declaration of Petruchio’s intentions
sent shivers across her spine. He sounded as if he
meant
it.

His lips came down on hers, and all logical
thought flew out of her mind. There was no stage kiss for them this
time. Together they set off fireworks.

Clifford clutched the edge of his seat so
hard, his knuckles turned white. The onlookers in the wings fell
into awed silence.

The two onstage kissed as if they never meant
to let go. Their exit was postponed indefinitely.

Helen wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
He snagged her hips with one hand and her shoulders with the other.
They swayed under the impact of the kiss.

His tongue found hers and locked with it in a
delicious duel. She wound her right leg around him, and he
broadened his stance to accommodate her weight.

“Break time, everybody,” Clifford said.

But the two onstage didn’t hear. Nor did they
hear the exeunt of Marsha, Barb, Matt, all the animals, and all the
stagehands.

Alone in the playhouse, they continued their
single-minded exploration of each other.

Helen had lain awake all night waiting for
this moment, knowing it would come. She was powerless to stop it
and reluctant to try.

Brick was magic. Always had been, always
would be.

Was she foolish to steal this bit of magic in
New Hampshire? Foolish to kiss her husband with such abandon,
knowing he belonged to another?

Funny.
She’d never stopped thinking
of Brick Sullivan as her husband.

Her mouth, already bruised from his kisses in
the kitchen, ached under his assault. It was a beautiful ache, a
glorious pain.

What was she going to do when the play was
over? How would she survive when the curtain went down and the
lights went out?

Don’t think. Just feel
.

He pressed her against the wall, and it
tilted dangerously under their weight. Steadying them, he propelled
them to the center of the stage, still joined mouth to mouth and
hip to hip.

Trapped by their passion, they stood in the
spotlight so long that sweat began to inch down the sides of their
faces. They couldn’t get enough of each other. Brick pulled her
close, molding her hips. She arched into him. He slid his hands
under her skirt, shoved it aside, and fitted her closer.

Soon there would be no turning back. Both of
them understood that, knew that there was only so much control that
should be asked of any human being.

It was Helen who wrenched free. She ran a
shaking hand across her lips as if she could wipe away all evidence
of what she had done. But her lips kept the pouty, bruised look of
a woman well kissed.

Brick shoved his hands into his pockets.

Did he do that to keep from touching her? She
hoped so. She hoped she made him as crazy as he was making her.

“Is that what you wanted, Helen?”

Too late now for lies.

“Yes.”