Opposites Attract (17 page)

He could smell her—the soft talc, the lightly sexy perfume. And the fear. She made a small, pleading sound before she stopped fighting him. Without being aware of what he did, he lightened the grip to a caress. His lips gentled on hers, tasting, savoring. Mumbling her name, he trailed kisses over her skin until he felt the essence of her flowing back into him. God, how he'd missed her.

“I can't do without you,” he whispered. “I can't.” He sank to the floor, drawing her down with him.

He was lost in her—the feel, the taste, the fragrance. His mind was too full of Asher to allow him to think. Sensation ruled him, trembling along his skin to follow the path of her fingers. It was as if she sought to soothe and arouse him at once. He was helpless to resist her—or his need for her. As if in a trance, he took his lips over her, missing nothing as his hunger seemed insatiable. Her quickening breaths were like music, setting his rhythm.

The air grew steamier as his hands homed in on secrets that made her moan. Her body shuddered into life. No longer gentle, but demanding, she tangled her fingers in his hair and guided him to sweet spaces he'd neglected. Then ever greedy, ever giving, she drew him back to her mouth. Her tongue toyed with his lips, then slid inside to drink up all the flavors. His head swimming, he answered the kiss.

The need for her was unreasonable, but Ty was beyond reason. Without her there'd been an emptiness that even his fury couldn't fill. Now the void was closing. She was in his blood, in his bone, so essential a part of him he had been able to find no place of separation. Now there was no will to do so.

Under him, she was moving, inviting, entreating. He whispered a denial against her mouth, but his pounding blood took control. He was inside her without being aware of it. Then all sensations spiraled together in an intensity that made him cry out. And it was her name he spoke, in both ecstasy and in despair.

Drained, Ty rolled from her to stare at the ceiling. How could he have let that happen? he demanded. How could he have felt such love, found such pleasure in a woman he had vowed to amputate from his life? He wondered now if he'd ever find the strength to stay away from her. Life with her, and life without her, would be two kinds of hell.

“Ty.” Reaching over, Asher touched his shoulder.

“Don't.” Without looking at her he rose. “Get dressed, for God's sake,” he muttered as he tugged on his own jeans with trembling hands. Who had used whom? he wondered. “Do you have a car?”

Sitting up, Asher pushed her hair out of her face. Hair, she remembered, that only moments before he had been kissing. “No.”

“I'll call you a cab.”

“That won't be necessary.” In silence she began to dress. “I realize you're sorry that this happened.”

“I'm damned if I'll apologize,” he snapped.

“I wasn't asking you to,” she told him quietly. “I was going to say that I'm not sorry. I love you, and making love with you is only one way to show it.” She managed, after three attempts, to button her blouse. When she looked up, he was at the window, his back to her. “Ty, I came here to tell you some things you must know. When I'm finished, I'll go and give you time to think about them.”

“Can't you understand I don't want to think anymore?”

“It's the last thing I'll ask of you.”

“All right.” In a gesture of fatigue she rarely saw in him, he rubbed both hands over his face. The liquor had burned out of his system—by the anger or the passion, he wasn't sure. But he was cold sober. “Maybe I should tell you first that what Jess said to you three years ago was her own fabrication. I didn't know anything about it until the other day when she told me what she'd done. In her own way, she was trying to protect me.”

“I don't understand what you're talking about.”

Turning, he gave her a grim smile. “Did you really think I was tired of you? Looking for a way out? Wondering how I could ditch you without raising too much fuss or interfering with my career?”

Asher opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. How strange that the words still hurt and made her defensive.

“Obviously you did.”

“And if I did?” she countered. “Everything she said fit. You'd never made a commitment to me. There'd never been any talk about the future.”

“On either side,” he reminded her.

Asher pushed away the logic. “If you'd once told me—”

“Or perhaps you were uncertain enough of your own feelings that when Jess dumped that on you, you ran right to Wickerton. Even though you were carrying my baby.”

“I didn't know I was pregnant when I married Eric.” She saw him shrug her words away. In fury she grabbed both of his arms. “I tell you I didn't know! Perhaps if I had known before I would have simply gone away. I don't know what I would have done. I was already terrified you were growing tired of me before Jess confirmed it.”

“And where the hell did you get a stupid idea like that?”

“You'd been so moody, so withdrawn. Everything she said made sense.”

“If I was moody and withdrawn, it was because I was trying to work out the best way to ask Asher Wolfe, Miss Society Tennis, to marry Starbuck from the Wrong Side of the Tracks.”

Asher took an uncertain step toward him. “You would have married me?”

“I still have the ring I bought you,” he answered.

“A ring?” she repeated stupidly. “You'd bought me a ring?” For some inexplicable reason the thought of it stunned her more than anything else.

“I'd planned to try a very conventional proposal. And if that didn't work, maybe a kidnapping.”

She tried to laugh because tears were entirely too close. “It would have worked.”

“If you'd told me you were pregnant—”

“Ty, I didn't know! Damn it!” She pounded once against his chest. “Do you think I would have married Eric if I had known? It was weeks afterward that I found out.”

“Why the hell didn't you tell me then?”

“Do you think I wanted to get you back that way?” The old pride lifted her chin. “And I was married to another man. I'd made him a promise.”

“A promise that meant more than the life of the child we'd made together,” he retorted bitterly. “A promise that let you walk into one of those antiseptic clinics and destroy something innocent and beautiful. And mine.”

The image was too ugly, the truth too painful. Flying at him, Asher struck him again and again until he pinned her hands behind her back.
“And mine!”
she shouted at him. “And mine, or doesn't my part matter?”

“You didn't want it.” His fingers closed like steel as she tried to pull away. “But you didn't have the decency to ask me if I did. Couldn't you bear the thought of carrying part of me inside you for nine months?”

“Don't ask me what I could bear.” She wasn't pale now, but vivid with fury. “I didn't have an abortion,” she spat at him. “I miscarried. I miscarried and nearly died in the process. Would you feel better if I had? God knows I tried to.”

“Miscarried?” His grip shifted from her wrists to her shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“Eric hated me too!” she shouted. “When I learned I was pregnant and told him, all he could say was that I'd deceived him. I'd tried to trick him into claiming the baby after you'd refused me. Nothing I said got through to him. We argued and argued. We were near the steps and he was shouting. All I wanted to do was get away.” Her hands flew up to cover her face as she remembered again, all too clearly. “I didn't look, I only ran. Then I was falling. I tried to stop, but my head hit the railing, I think. Then I don't remember anything until I woke up and the baby was gone.”

Somehow he could see it as vividly as though it were being played on film in front of his eyes. “Oh, God, Asher.” When he tried to take her in his arms, she pulled away.

“I wanted you, but I knew you'd never forgive me. It didn't seem to matter anymore, so I did what Eric wanted.” To force back the tears, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I didn't want you to know, I couldn't have stood it if you had known when you didn't want me.” Lowering her hands, she looked at him, dry-eyed. “I paid for losing your baby, Ty. For three years I did without everything that mattered to me, and I grieved alone. I can't mourn any longer.”

“No.” Going to the window, he flung it up as if he needed air. There was no breeze, nothing to relieve the burning that he felt. “You've had years to deal with it. I've had days.” And she'd had no one, he thought. Years with no one. Ty took several long breaths. “How badly were you hurt?”

Puzzled by the question, she shook her head. “What?”

“Were you badly hurt?” The question was rough and turbulent. When she remained silent he turned. “When you fell, how bad was it?”

“I—I lost the baby.”

“I asked about you.”

She stared without comprehension. No one had asked her that, not even her father. Looking into Ty's ravaged face, she could only shake her head again.

“Damn it, Asher, did you have a concussion, did you break any bones? You said you almost died.”

“The baby died,” she repeated numbly.

Crossing to her, he grabbed her shoulders.
“You!”
he shouted. “Don't you know that you're the most important thing to me? We can have a dozen babies if you want. I need to know what happened to you.”

“I don't remember very much. I was sedated. There were transfusions . . .” The full impact of his words penetrated slowly. The anguish in his eyes was for her. “Ty.” Burying her face against his chest, she clung. “All that's over.”

“I should have been with you.” He drew her closer. “We should have gone through that together.”

“Just tell me you love me. Say the words.”

“You know that I do.” He cupped her chin to force her head back. “I love you.” He saw the first tear fall and kissed it away. “Don't,” he pleaded. “No more tears, Face. No more grieving.”

She held him close again until the fullness left her chest. “No more grieving,” she repeated, and lifted her face.

He touched it gently, fingertips only. “I hurt you.”

“We let other people hurt us,” she contradicted. “Never again.”

“How could we be stupid enough to almost lose it all twice?” he wondered aloud. “No more secrets, Asher.”

She shook her head. “No more secrets. A third chance, Ty?”

“I work best under pressure.” He brushed his lips over her temple. “Double break point, Face, I'm on a winning streak.”

“You should be celebrating.”

“I did my share.”

“Not with me.” She gave him a light kiss full of promise. “We could go to my place. Pick up a bottle of champagne on the way.”

“We could stay here,” he countered. “And worry about the champagne tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow,” she reminded him.

“Then we've got all day.” He began to pull her toward the bedroom.

“Wait a minute.” Snatching her hand away, she stepped back. “I'd like to hear that conventional proposal now.”

“Come on, Asher.” He made another grab for her hand, but she eluded him.

“I mean it.”

Flustered, he stuck his hands into his pockets. “You know I want you to marry me.”

“That's not a conventional proposal.” She folded her arms and waited. “Well,” she began when he remained silent, “should I write you a cheat sheet? You say something like, Asher—”

“I know what I'm supposed to say,” he muttered. “I'd rather try the kidnapping.”

Laughing, she walked over and twined her arms around his neck. “Ask me,” she whispered, letting her lips hover an inch from his.

“Will you marry me, Asher?” The lips held tantalizingly near his curved, but she remained silent. His eyes dropped to them, lingered, then rose to hers. “Well?”

“I'm thinking it over,” she told him. “I was hoping for something a bit more flowery, maybe some poetry or—” The wind was knocked out of her as he hefted her over his shoulder. “Yes, that's good too,” she decided. “I should be able to let you know in a few days.”

From the height he dropped her, she bounced twice before she settled on the bed.

“Or sooner,” she decided as he began unbuttoning her blouse.

“Shut up.”

She cocked a brow. “Don't you want to hear my answer?”

“We'll get the license tomorrow.”

“I haven't said—”

“And the blood tests.”

“I haven't agreed—”

His mouth silenced her in a long, lingering kiss as his body fit unerringly to hers.

“Of course,” Asher sighed, “I could probably be persuaded.”

Keep reading for an excerpt from

the third book in the Inn BoonsBoro trilogy

by Nora Roberts

THE PERFECT HOPE

Available November 2012 from Berkley Books

With a few groans and sighs, the old building settled down for the night. Under the star-washed sky its stone walls glowed, rising up over Boonsboro's Square as they had for more than two centuries. Even the crossroads held quiet now, stretching out in pools of shadows and light. All the windows and storefronts along Main Street seemed to sleep, content to doze away in the balm of the summer night.

She should do the same, Hope thought. Settle down, stretch out. Sleep.

That would be the sensible thing to do, and she considered herself a sensible woman. But the long day left her restless and, she reminded herself, Carolee would arrive bright and early to start breakfast.

The innkeeper could sleep in.

In any case, it was barely midnight. When she'd lived and worked in Georgetown, she'd rarely managed to settle in for the night this early. Of course, then she'd been managing The Wickham, and if she hadn't been dealing with some small crisis or handling a guest request, she'd been enjoying the nightlife.

The town of Boonsboro, tucked into the foothills of Maryland's Blue Ridge Mountains, might have a rich and storied history, and it certainly had its charms—among which she counted the revitalized inn she now managed—but it wasn't famed for its nightlife.

That would change a bit when her friend Avery opened her restaurant and tap house. And wouldn't it be fun to see what the energetic Avery MacTavish did with her new enterprise right next door—and just across The Square from Avery's pizzeria.

Before summer ended, Avery would juggle the running of two restaurants, Hope thought.

And people called her Hope an overachiever.

She looked around the kitchen—clean, shiny, warm and welcoming. She'd already sliced fruit, checked the supplies, restocked the refrigerator. So everything sat ready for Carolee to prepare breakfast for the guests currently tucked in their rooms.

She'd finished her paperwork, checked all the doors, and made her rounds checking for dishes—or anything else—out of place. Duties done, she told herself, and still she wasn't ready to tuck her own self in her third-floor apartment.

Instead she poured an indulgent glass of wine and did a last circle through The Lobby, switching off the chandelier over the central table with its showy summer flowers.

She moved through the arch, gave the front door one last check before she turned toward the stairs. Her fingers trailed lightly over the iron banister.

She'd already checked The Library, but she checked again. It wasn't anal, she told herself. A guest might have slipped in for a glass of Irish or a book. But the room was quiet, settled like the rest.

She glanced back. She had guests on this floor. Mr. and Mrs. Vargas—Donna and Max—married twenty-seven years. The night at the inn, in Nick and Nora, had been a birthday gift for Donna from their daughter. And wasn't that sweet?

Her other guests, a floor up in Wesley and Buttercup, chose the inn for their wedding night. She liked to think the newlyweds, April and Troy, would take lovely, lasting memories with them.

She checked the door to the second-level porch, then on impulse unlocked it and stepped out into the night.

With her wine, she crossed the wide wood deck, leaned on the rail. Across The Square, the apartment above Vesta sat dark—and empty now that Avery had moved in with Owen Montgomery. Hope could admit—to herself anyway—that she missed looking over and knowing her friend was right there, just across Main.

But Avery was exactly where she belonged, Hope decided, with Owen, her first and, as it turned out, her last boyfriend.

Talk about sweet.

And she'd help plan a wedding—May bride, May flowers—right there in The Courtyard, just as Clare's had been this past spring.

Thinking of it, Hope looked down Main toward the bookstore. Clare's Turn The Page had been a risk for a young widow with two children and another on the way. But she'd made it work. Clare had a knack for making things work. Now she was Clare Montgomery, Beckett's wife. And when winter came, they'd welcome a new baby to the mix.

Odd, wasn't it, that her two friends had lived right in Boonsboro for so long, and she'd relocated only the year—not even a full year yet—before. The new kid in town.

Now, of the three of them, she was the only one still right here, right in the heart of town.

Silly to miss them when she saw them nearly every day, but on restless nights she could wish, just a little, they were still close.

So much had changed, for all of them, in this past year.

She'd been perfectly content in Georgetown, with her home, her work, her routine. With Jonathan, the cheating bastard.

She'd had good, solid plans, no rush, no hurry, but solid plans. The Wickham had been her place. She'd known its rhythm, its tones, its needs. And she'd done a hell of a job for the Wickhams and their cheating bastard son, Jonathan.

She'd planned to marry him. No, there'd been no formal engagement, no concrete promises, but marriage and future had been on the table.

She wasn't a moron.

And all the time—or at least in the last several months—they'd been together, with him sharing her bed, or her sharing his, he'd been seeing someone else. Someone from his more elevated social strata, you could say, Hope mused with lingering bitterness. Someone who wouldn't work ten- and twelve-hour days—and often more—to manage the exclusive hotel, but who'd stay there—in its most elaborate suite, of course.

No, she wasn't a moron, but she'd been far too trusting and humiliatingly shocked when Jonathan told her he would be announcing his engagement—to someone else—the next day.

Humiliatingly shocked, she thought again, particularly as they'd been naked and in her bed at the time.

Then again, he'd been shocked, too, when she'd ordered him to get the hell out. He genuinely hadn't understood why anything between them should change.

That single moment ushered in a lot of change.

Now she was Inn BoonsBoro's innkeeper, living in a small town in Western Maryland, a good clip from the bright lights of the big city.

She didn't spend what free time she had planning clever little dinner parties, or shopping in boutiques for the perfect shoes for the perfect dress for the next event.

Did she miss all that? Her go-to boutique, her favorite lunch spot, the lovely high ceilings and flower-framed little patio of her own town house? Or the pressure and excitement of preparing the hotel for visits from dignitaries, celebrities, business moguls?

Sometimes, she admitted. But not as often as she'd expected to, and not as much as she'd assumed she would.

Because she had been content in her personal life, challenged in her professional one, and the Wickham had been her place. But she'd discovered something in the last few months. Here, she wasn't just content, but happy. The inn wasn't just her place, it was
home
.

She had her friends to thank for that, and the Montgomery brothers along with their mother. Justine Montgomery had hired her on the spot. At the time Hope hadn't known Justine well enough to be surprised by her quick offer. But she did know herself, and continued to be surprised at her own fast, impulsive acceptance.

Zero to sixty? More like zero to ninety and still going.

She didn't regret the impulse, the decision, the move.

Fresh starts hadn't been in the plan, but she was good at adjusting plans. Thanks to the Montgomerys, the lovingly—and effortfully—restored inn was now her home and her career.

She wandered the porch, checking the hanging planters, adjusting—minutely—the angle of a bistro chair.

“And I love every square inch of it,” she murmured.

One of the porch doors leading out from Elizabeth and Darcy opened. The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the night air.

Someone else was restless, Hope thought. Then again, she didn't know if ghosts slept. She doubted if the spirit Beckett had named Elizabeth for the room she favored would tell her if she asked. Thus far Lizzy hadn't deigned to speak to her inn-mate.

Hope smiled at the term, sipped her wine.

“Lovely night. I was just thinking how different my life is now, and all things considered, how glad I am it is.” She spoke in an easy, friendly way. After all, the research she and Owen had done—so far—on their permanent guest had proven Lizzy—or Eliza Ford, when she'd been alive—was one of Hope's ancestors.

Family, to Hope's mind, ought to be easy and friendly.

“We have newlyweds in W&B. They look so happy, so fresh and new somehow. The couple in N&N are here celebrating her fifty-eighth birthday. They don't look new, but they do look happy, and so nice and comfortable. I like giving them a special place to stay, a special experience. It's what I'm good at.”

Silence held, but Hope could
feel
the presence. Companionable, she realized. Oddly companionable. Just a couple of women up late, looking out at the night.

“Carolee will be here early. She's doing breakfast tomorrow, and I have the morning off. So.” She lifted her glass. “Some wine, some introspection, some feeling sorry for myself circling around to realizing I have nothing to feel sorry for myself about.” With a smile, Hope sipped again. “So, a good glass of wine.

“Now that I've accomplished all that, I should get to bed.”

Still she lingered a little longer in the quiet summer night, with the scent of honeysuckle drifting around her.

* * *

When Hope came down in the morning, the scent was fresh coffee, grilled bacon and, if her nose didn't deceive her, Carolee's apple cinnamon pancakes. She heard easy conversation in The Dining Room. Donna and Max, talking about poking around town before driving home.

Hope went down the hall, circled to the kitchen to see if Carolee needed a hand. Justine's sister had her bright blond hair clipped short for summer, with the addition of flirty bangs over her cheerful hazel eyes. They beamed at Hope even as she wagged a finger.

“What are you doing down here, young lady?”

“It's nearly ten.”

“And your morning off.”

“Which I spent—so far—sleeping until eight, doing yoga, and putzing.” She helped herself to a mug of coffee, closed her own deep brown eyes as she sipped. “My first cup of the day. Why is it always the best?”

“I wish I knew. I'm still trying to switch to tea. My Darla's on a health kick and doing her best to drag me along.” Carolee spoke of her daughter with affection laced with exasperation. “I really like our Titania and Oberon blend. But . . . it's not coffee.”

“Nothing is except coffee.”

“You said it. She can't wait for the new gym to open. She says if I don't sign up for yoga classes, she's signing me up and carting me over there.”

“You'll love yoga.” Hope laughed at the doubt—and anxiety—on Carolee's face. “Honest.”

“Hmmm.” Carolee lifted the dishcloth again, went back to polishing the granite countertop. “The Vargases loved the room, and as usual the bathroom—starring the magic toilet—got raves. I haven't heard a peep out of the newlyweds yet.”

“I'd be disappointed in them if you had.” Hope brushed at her hair. Unlike Carolee, she was experimenting with letting it grow out of the short, sharp wedge she'd sported the last two years. The dark, glossy ends hit her jaw now, just in between enough to be annoying.

“I'm going to go check on Donna and Max, see if they want anything.”

“Let me do it,” Hope said. “I want to say good morning anyway, and I think I'll run down to TTP, say hi to Clare while it's still my morning off.”

“I saw her last night at book club. She's got the cutest baby bump. Oh, I've got plenty of batter if they want more pancakes.”

“I'll let them know.”

She slipped into The Dining Room, chatted with the guests while she subtly checked to be sure there were still plenty of fresh summer berries, coffee, juice.

Once she'd satisfied herself that her guests were happy, she started back upstairs to grab her purse—and ran into the newlyweds as they entered from the rear porch.

“Good morning.”

“Oh, good morning.” The new bride carried the afterglow of a honeymoon morning well spent. “That's the most beautiful room. I love everything about it. I felt like a princess bride.”

“As you wish,” Hope said and made them both laugh.

“It's so clever the way each room is named and decorated for romantic couples.”

“Couples with happy endings,” Troy reminded her, and got a slow, dreamy smile from his bride.

“Like us. We want to thank you so much for making our wedding night so special. It was everything I wanted. Just perfect.”

“That's what we do here.”

“But . . . we wondered. We know we're supposed to check out soon . . .”

“If you'd like a later check-out, I can arrange it,” Hope began.

“Well, actually . . .”

“We're hoping we can stay another night.” Troy slid his arm around April's shoulders, drew her close. “We really love it here. We were going to drive down into Virginia, just pick our spots as we went, but . . . We really like it right here. We'll take any room that's available, if there is one.”

“We'd love to have you, and your room's open tonight.”

“Really?” April bounced on her toes. “Oh, this is better than perfect. Thank you.”

“It's our pleasure. I'm glad you're enjoying your stay.”

Happy guests made for happy innkeepers, Hope thought as she dashed upstairs for her bag. She dashed back down again, into her office to change the reservation and, with the scents and voices behind her, hurried out the back through Reception.

She skirted the side of the building, glancing across the street at Vesta. She knew Avery's and Clare's schedule nearly as well as her own. Avery would be prepping for opening this morning, and Clare should be back from her early doctor's appointment.