Her Convenient Millionaire (12 page)

His mouth closed hot and wet over her breast and she cried out, muffling the sound with her hand. The tip of his tongue teased the tip of her breast, flicking back and forth. It sent sparks shooting to the hollow inside her that wept to be filled. She spread her legs, pushed her knee between his, trying without words to tell him what she wanted. Micah's only response was to turn the same careful attention to her other breast.

She would go crazy. She wasn't made to endure so much sheer delight. Sherry thrust her fingers into his hair, not sure whether she meant to push him away or hold him in place. It didn't seem to matter. Mike kissed wherever he wanted.

He turned her onto her stomach to press kisses to the tender backs of her knees. It tickled in a way that sent more sparks to arouse her further.

“It's too much,” she whispered, unable to bear any more.

“There's no such thing.” His fingers traced lines of fire up her thighs. “It's not enough.”

His lips followed where his fingers led, sometimes kissing, sometimes just sliding enticingly along her skin. Now and again his tongue would lick out as if to taste a particularly tempting spot on her body. Sherry trembled in anticipation, waiting for his next little erotic taste.

He kissed her thighs and her calves, her back and the arches of her feet. He kissed her bottom, his breath sliding warm down her curves to make her tremble even more. It was as if he intended to memorize every part of her. Why? It made no sense, unless he intended this to be their only time together.

She couldn't bear it. She needed him now. Sherry rolled to her back. “Make love to me, Micah.” She tried to pull him up over her, but he refused to budge.

“I am.” His fingers combed through the fine blond hair between her legs to find her warm wet secrets. “I will. I promise.”

Surely he wouldn't continue his pattern now, his hand leading where his mouth would follow. But he did. Sherry came up off the bed at the electrifying slide of his tongue across her sensitized bud. What was he doing to her?

The world slid away, her body tensed, poised on the edge of some unimaginable cliff. The second touch sent her flying, exploding into a million scattering sparks. But it wasn't enough. She needed more, needed him inside her, and he gave her what she needed in one deep thrust.

He rose over her, elbows straight. She set her hands on his chest simply to touch him in return. Her eyes drifted shut as he began a driving rhythm, pushing her toward that spectacular short circuit once more.

She tossed her head, trying to hold back. She couldn't take it, not again. She knew this time would be magnified far beyond the first, just seconds ago.

He caught her hips and lifted them higher. “Feel it, Sherry. Let go. Fly with me.”

“I can't.” She was almost sobbing as the sensations built. It was too much.

“You can. Trust me.” He sounded much like she did, his voice broken with effort and…and something else. Something more. “I'll be here. Catch you when you come down. Promise.”

“Micah, please—” She begged for mercy, but he had none.

“Let go.”

“I can't,” she cried at the moment the explosion overtook her. Time stood still, shattered around her, as her body convulsed with pleasure.

His cry echoed hers. Did he say her name? She didn't know, couldn't tell. He'd overwhelmed all her senses so nothing got through but what he made her feel. She still trembled in its aftermath when Mike curled down over her, holding his weight up on shaky elbows for a few moments before rolling to the side, taking her with him.

She wanted to put her arms around him, but hadn't the strength. What had he done to her?

He stroked his cheek along hers, then kissed her just in front of her ear, and her tears came back.

Now still, even after it was over, he was so sweet. Because making love was more than just “the act,” exactly as he'd told her. It began long before and, apparently, lingered afterward. And Mike's devotion to her pleasure showed her something. Sherry knew he didn't love her, but he cared. More than anyone had ever cared about her before.

He had fed her a seven-course meal of caring, and all she was used to getting was the odd cup of gruel now and again. No wonder it had seemed too much. He had filled
her to overflowing. And now her tears overflowed, despite her efforts to hold back.

“Sherry? What's wrong?” Mike sounded on the verge of panic.

She couldn't speak, could only twine her arms around his neck, hide her face against his shoulder and cry.

“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” He alternated between trying to see her face and holding her close.

Sherry nodded her head, then shook it. Yes to the first question. No to the second. Maybe she should have just said no. No, she wasn't all right. Then again, maybe she had never been all right before; but now, for once, she was.

“Talk to me, Sherry.” He smoothed her hair back from her forehead and twisted around until he could kiss her there. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Everything is right.”

She could feel him shake his head. Undoubtedly he didn't understand. Sherry didn't exactly understand herself. But he tucked her head against his shoulder and cradled her there while she cried. He stroked her hair, pressing the occasional kiss to the top of her head or to her arm wrapped around his neck, and he waited.

At last, her tears began to subside. Sherry lay boneless in Mike's arms, her legs twined with his, and listened to the music seeping in through the closed windows.

“Feel better?” His fingers combing through her hair felt heavenly.

“Mmm.” She wiped her eyes on his bare chest and looked up at him. “I hate to cry.”

“What brought all that on?” He stroked his thumb beneath each of her eyes in turn, removing the last trace of dampness. “Me?”

“Sort of.”

The dismay in his face made her heart turn over again.

“No.” She took his face between her hands and kissed
him, just a little tender kiss. She kissed his eyes and his cheeks. “You were wonderful. Better than perfect. That's why.”

He still didn't look as if he believed her. She would have to explain. She couldn't bear for him to be hurt, even a tiny bit.

“Do you know where my name came from? Sherry?” She smoothed down his rumpled up eyebrows. “Not exactly the usual run-of-the-mill name here in Palm Beach is it?”

He shrugged.

Sherry took a deep breath. She had to get it all out at once or she never would. “Actually I'm lucky that sherry was considered an acceptable drink for young ladies when my mom was growing up. At least it
sounds
like a normal, ordinary name. I might have wound up named ‘Whiskey' or ‘Vodka', or maybe ‘Tequila.' But my mom didn't discover those till I was older. She cared more about her ‘drinkies' than she did about me. She fell off a boat at anchor in the harbor and drowned because she was drunk. Then I came to live with Tug and Bebe. I guess you have a pretty good idea what that was like.”

He didn't say anything, just stroked his thumb under her eyes.

“Don't you understand?” she whispered. “You cared. You saw me. Just me. Nobody else ever did that.”

Mike drew her in. He was in deep, deep water here, with the wind rising. He kissed her forehead before he tucked her close again and held her. He'd known all along that if he ever made love to her it would change everything. Her whispered confession only intensified the change. How could he let her go?

And yet he knew he had to do it in the end. She might have recognized that he cared about her, but she had said nothing about caring for him in return. Tonight had crum
bled his defensive walls, and somehow he had to build them up again so that when the time came, he could say goodbye with a little dignity.

But what if he didn't have to? What if she decided to stay? If she fell in love with him—

No. He couldn't delude himself. Blair had loved him. She'd said so, anyway. But she'd loved his money more. And when she found a guy with even more money than he had, she was gone.

Sherry was different. He knew that. But he didn't dare take the chance that she was different enough. Much as it had hurt when he discovered the truth about Blair, he knew already that Sherry could hurt him even more. He had to be prepared, had to be ready to open his arms and let her walk away.

“They'll be wondering where we are.” Sherry spoke against his chest. It tickled a little.

He rubbed the spot. “Probably so.”

“We should get dressed. Go back to the party.”

He didn't want to. If he stayed here, holding her naked in his arms, the end might not come. “You're right.”

Reluctantly, slowly, hands lingering as they drew apart, Mike got out of bed. He explored the open room in the light spilling through the bathroom doorway, hunting their wide-flung clothes. He put his on, tossed Sherry's in her direction. He found the discarded protection and disposed of it in the bathroom trash.

“My dress is all crumpled.” Sherry stood scowling at herself in the bathroom mirror. “And my hair—”

Mike grinned, coming to stand behind her, looking at their reflection together. “That's the good thing about your new hairstyle, isn't it? It always looks like you just got out of bed, so when you really did just get out of bed…”

She turned around and pinched his arm through the tux. “Hush.”

His grin faded and he fought the urge to kiss her again as she gazed up at him.

“This was the most beautiful experience I've ever known,” she said, not quite whispering.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Me, too.” He swallowed down the emotion trying to break free. “But you know—” he had to stop and clear his throat “—you know it can't happen again.”

She touched his mouth, her fingers tracing lightly across his lips. He kissed them. He had to.

“I know,” she said. “Too bad.”

The urge took over his body, hands moving to hold her, head lowering. He kissed her once more, deep and hot, with all the passion he still felt. At the door to the pool house, at his last opportunity, he kissed her one last time. He cupped the soft curve of her cheek in his hand, laced the fingers of the other through hers and kissed her with everything that was in his heart, slow and sweet and tender.

Then he opened the door and they went back out into the world.

 

The next few weeks passed in a painful blur. Mike moved Sherry back to the day shift, claiming that with Clara back home she needed watching at night. In reality, he did it to make it easier for him to avoid Sherry.

It helped that they had two cars now and didn't have to chauffeur each other around. Sherry had simply walked into her father's office at the party, claimed the keys to her car and driven it home.

In one sense, all the changes worked. He seldom saw her. But that didn't seem to matter. Sherry was always there, whether she was physically present or not. She was a constant ache in his heart.

So he would get over it. He had no other choice. He had
to endure it, get through it, and eventually the pain would go away. He hoped.

Late on a Wednesday night, Mike was working in his office as usual when the phone rang.

“Micah?” Sherry sounded tentative, almost afraid of him. He'd never intended that.

“I'm here.” He tried to gentle his tone, but didn't know how well he succeeded when just hearing her voice made his body tighten.

“You need to come down to the hospital. Clara's fine, but—”

He didn't hear anything more. He'd already flung the phone in the direction of its cradle and headed down the stairs.

S
herry met him at the emergency room door. “She's fine, Micah, truly. Feisty as ever.”

She pulled his hand from its too-tight grasp on her elbow and held it as she led him through the maze of treatment rooms. “That's why I called you. She's arguing with the doctor and the nurses and anyone else who will hold still long enough.”

“Then why is she here?” He wanted to shake her, put his fist through the wall, do something to get rid of the lingering panic, but he clamped down on the urge.

“She fainted. I caught her, so she didn't break anything, but—well, I guess I panicked.” Sherry made a face. “That's why I came out here to wait for you, because Clara was yelling at me for calling 911. I think it embarrassed her to be wheeled out of the building on a stretcher.”

“Thank you. You did the right thing. She can stand a little embarrassment.” Mike looked up at her then, truly
focused on her for the first time since he'd arrived at the hospital.

A bruise darkened her left cheekbone and a black eye was beginning to develop above it.

He frowned. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.” She waved his question away.

Mike stopped and pulled her around to face him, touching the puffy bruises with gentle fingers. “It doesn't look like nothing to me. What happened?”

“Your mother is waiting.” Sherry pointed at the door just behind her through which the reassuring sound of familiar voices came.

“I know. I can hear her. You said she was fine. Isn't she?”

“Well, yes. Basically. The doctor said—”

“I'll ask him myself in a minute. Now, tell me what happened to your face.” He brushed back her hair and tipped her chin up, turning the discoloration to the light.

Sherry pulled away, refusing to meet his searching gaze. “Your mother's heavier than she looks. When she fainted—” she shrugged “—I lost my balance. We both went down, and the kitchen island got in my way. But Clara's fine.”

Mike's throat went so tight it hurt to breathe. He gathered Sherry into his arms, ignoring her stiff resistance, and held her close until his heart decided it didn't need to pound its way out of his chest after all. This woman had not only taken care of his mother, she'd sacrificed herself doing it. And she was his wife.

How was he going to let her go? He could always get her to stay by telling the truth about his finances, but he didn't want her on those terms. He needed to push her away, prove to her that they came from two different worlds that could never overlap. And maybe, if the pushing didn't work—

No. They were too different. He would prove it to himself, as well, if he had to.

He pushed away from her and went through the door into the treatment room.

His mother glared at him past a tangle of wires and tubes. “It's about time you got here. Take me home, this instant.”

“Hell, no, I'm not taking you home,” he retorted, knowing she wouldn't respond to soothing words. “You blacked my wife's eye when you fainted. You deserve a week's torture in the hospital as payback.”

“I wouldn't exactly call it torture,” the doctor protested.

“Neither would I. But my mother does.” Mike introduced himself to the emergency room physician. “What happened?”

Sherry stood on the fringes of the room and watched her husband in action. Clara's blood pressure medicine would have to be adjusted, and the doctor thought her regular cardiologist, who was on his way in, would probably recommend a pacemaker, but she really was all right. Or as all right as she could be, given the circumstances. Sherry clung to that knowledge. She hadn't totally screwed up.

Of course Clara didn't want the pacemaker, didn't want to be electrocuted a hundred times a day, didn't want any fuss. She most especially did not want to stay in the hospital for any length of time, much less overnight. Mike overrode her objections to the hospital, told her they'd discuss the pacemaker later and soothed his sisters when they came flying in. His skill left Sherry marveling.

A passing nurse handed her an ice pack for her eye, but the shiver that swept through her had nothing to do with the cold. She could still feel Mike's touch, feel the warmth of his arms around her, the throb of his heart beating against hers. She wanted more, and the depth of that wanting scared her.

It was happening all over again. The same old pattern.
She was willing to turn herself inside out for a few drops of attention. It had to stop. And yet, and yet…

Mike was different. He had made love to
her.
To Sherry Eloise Nyland Scott, not to some available body. She could swear it had happened that way, that she hadn't just imagined his passionate care. For her and no one else. How could she think of never having that again, ever, for the rest of her life?

But how could she let herself experience it again, knowing it couldn't last? Wouldn't it make her all the more needy? All the more willing to follow him around like some old dog begging to have its ears scratched?

Then again, she was stronger now. She'd broken away from her father. He hadn't made a single phone call to either Mike's house or Clara's since the party, but if he did, she'd tell him just what she thought. Granted, the break had required drastic acts on both their parts—his despicable plan plus her desperate reaction—to make it happen, but she knew better now. She knew she could make it alone. She knew she could do whatever she had to. So what harm could she come to by making love to Mike again? What could it hurt?

 

A few more weeks passed before Mike could put his plan into action. His mother's blood pressure was back where it needed to be, but she was still resisting the pacemaker. She wouldn't move in with him, wouldn't let any of the family come stay with her, so he hired a private-duty nurse. She complained about that, too, but he ignored the complaints. If she needed a keeper, he'd make sure she had one.

Finally, bright but not so early, on a Saturday morning, Mike pulled up in front of a big, two-story frame house and got out of his car. Sherry exited from the other side and came around to stare up at the Key West–style house
with its porches spanning the front of the house on both floors. “We're painting
that?
”

He laughed. His plan would work wonderfully. “Just the inside. The exterior paint ought to be good for another year or two, providing we don't get another hurricane. We do have to paint the porch floors. They wear through pretty quick.” The messy job ought to show her quickly that she didn't fit into his life.

“And why are we painting it again? I mean you and me doing the job, not why does it need painting.” She hitched up her borrowed, too-big painting shorts.

“Because it's cheaper if we do it. Costs too much money to have somebody else do what we can do ourselves.” This was perfect. She even gave him the opening to emphasize their many differences. He might have money enough to hire painters these days, but he'd done it himself plenty of times. Surely his cheapskate attitude would help drive her away.

“No, I understand that. I mean—why this house? What does this house have to do with us? With you?”

“Didn't I say?” Mike opened the trunk of his car to get out the approximately one-zillion gallons of paint. “Mom owns it. I grew up in this house.”

“You did?” Sherry had to use both hands, but she helped lift the cans out of the trunk.

“Yep. When I moved back to West Palm Beach, I moved in here with them. But after Dad died, Mom said I needed my own place and she did, too. Her health wasn't as good by then, and I thought she'd be better off someplace smaller where I could still keep an eye on her.

“So we moved into the apartments and she started renting this house out. The renters just moved, and the place has to be cleaned up for the next batch. Paint is just the beginning.” He gave her a wicked grin, thinking of all the
carpet cleaning, vinyl polishing and bathroom scrubbing yet to come.

She rolled her eyes at him and started lugging cans of paint to the porch.

He decided to start upstairs in the bedrooms. Standard white paint made the house easier to rent, though harder to keep clean. Sherry spread the drop cloths, he put up the ladder. The twelve-foot ceilings required it, even with a long handle on the roller.

Sherry was assigned the woodwork, and after some basic instruction, turned out to be pretty good at it. He could cover more territory faster with the roller, so he ended up finishing the wide baseboards alongside her. Her hands and forearms were covered with tiny paint speckles, she had a big splotch of paint in her hair—his fault—and a smear along her cheek she'd done herself. She was a mess. His plan was working perfectly and it put him in a good mood.

They moved to the next bedroom. Mike loaded the roller with paint.

“Let me try.” Sherry grabbed the handle, but was smart enough not to yank it. “I want to do this part.”

“Why?”

“Because.” She tugged, and he let go, reluctantly.

“Careful. Don't get too much paint on it.”

“I know that.” She picked at the paint in her hair. “Mr. Drip-the-Paint-on-His-Wife.”

“It'll come out.”

“It better.” Sherry narrowed her eyes at him, but he thought she might be teasing. He hoped she wasn't. He wanted her unhappy, and she seemed entirely too cheerful.

She rolled the paint on, leaving speckled gaps behind.

“Press harder,” he said.

“Like this?” She tried again, with marginally better results.

“Harder.” Mike reached around her to grab the metal
pole and apply the proper pressure. “When you use a roller, you more or less mash the paint on the wall.”

A smooth stripe of paint, appeared and Sherry laughed. “Oh, that is so cool. The wall's all dingy and dirty, and presto! It's all pretty and white.”

She still held the paint roller, admiring the single stripe of paint while the paint dried on the roller, and while he, Mike suddenly realized, still held Sherry. His hands were on the roller, but his arms were around her.

He let go of the handle, but couldn't back away. Not with her scent filling up his head like helium and her nape right there in front of him needing to be kissed.

What had happened to his plan? He'd been so sure it would work, he'd let down his guard and she'd crawled in over it.

“I want to paint colors. Blue. I want blue. And red. I want to paint something red.” She whirled around, almost whacking him in the head with the paint roller. “I never got colors before. Bebe redecorated every other year, but always white walls, what she wanted. Never what I wanted. My opinion never mattered. Ever.”

“Easy.” He took the roller away from her and leaned it against the wall, trying not to think about the little girl who hadn't mattered. “And let's stick with white here, okay? You can paint the apartment whatever color you want.”

“You mean it?” The excitement shining in her eyes made his heart pound faster.

He shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It's only paint. If we go blind from all the color, we just paint it again.”

“Oh, Mike.” Now there were tears in her eyes. How was he supposed to fight tears?

Sherry threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so fiercely he staggered back a pace before he caught her up against him and returned the kiss with equal fervor. His need exploded, as if the past endless weeks of control had
only added fuel to his smoldering fire, ready to catch the instant she stirred him up.

He pushed both hands inside her baggy shorts, to cup her bottom over the filmy panties she wore, and hauled her up hard against him. Not enough. He laid her down on the worn, paint-spattered old sheet that served as a drop cloth and cupped her breast in his hand. Not enough. He shoved her T-shirt and bra up out of his way and claimed her breast, pulling her nipple deep into his mouth, and still it wasn't enough. Would never be enough, because he wanted her. Sherry. Not just her breathtaking body.

Mike tugged the T-shirt back down over her breast and lay there with his head where it was, gasping for breath, praying for strength. “Can't,” he croaked.

Sherry's fingers combed through his hair. “Why?”

He could hear the tears in her voice.
Please don't cry.
He couldn't handle that. He'd break in a million pieces if she cried.

“Why, Mike?” she whispered.

“Because.” Stupid answer. He had to do better. He owed her that much. It might be easier if he could let go of her. Then again, maybe not. “I told you. It has to mean something. To both of us.”

“But I know you care—” She broke off, her hand stilled on his head.

He couldn't take this. He broke away from her, stood up and walked away, but not far. Just to the door leading out to the second-story porch where he looked out at the street. He heard Sherry moving around behind him. Maybe she'd leave now, leave him to his misery. No such luck.

She touched his shoulder. “Mike?”

He tried to shrug her off, but she wouldn't go. She took his arm, and he let her tug him around to face her. He couldn't look at her, though, staring past her at the other
door. Her fingers tracing feather soft down his cheek made his eyes close against the sweetness.

“Can you possibly think I don't—” Her voice wasn't any louder than a whisper, but he heard her. “You do, though, don't you? Oh, Micah.”

Her hands rested on his chest as she stretched up and kissed his mouth. He didn't kiss her back—somehow—but his hands came up to cover hers.

She kissed his cheek right next to his mouth. “You have no idea how much I care.”

She stepped away from him then, and he let her go, the way he would have to when the time came. She grasped the hem of her T-shirt and took it off, then reached behind her to unhook her bra. With a little shimmy, she dropped it to the floor.