Sleeping With the Enemy (24 page)

“But you’re a pregnant woman,” he said, “and in this crowd, if I let you get your own, I’d probably be lynched.”

“Good point,” she agreed.  “But I’m really not hungry right now.  Thank you anyway.”

He stretched an arm along the back of the couch behind her, and Rose leaned her head back and closed her eyes, comfortable with his closeness.  Their relationship had changed since Thanksgiving.  Jesse’s quiet determination had begun to chip away at the wall around her heart.  Whenever he came near, she could almost hear it cracking.

His fingers, stroking the soft hair at the back of her neck, sent quick little thrills up and down her spine.  And then a small voice said, “Auntie Rose, this is for you.”

She opened her eyes to see Pat’s youngest boy, Dennis, standing in front of her, holding out a small package.  “Thanks, kiddo,” she said, and took it from him.  It was small and square, wrapped in silver paper with a white ribbon, and bore a simple white tag with her name printed on it. 

“Hmm,” she said.  “Wonder what this could be?” She sniffed it, but the only scent that clung to it was that of fresh-cut balsam.  “Do you know what it is?” she asked, and Dennis shook his head, covered his mouth and giggled.  She shook it, but nothing rattled.  “All right,” she said with mock exasperation.  “I guess I’ll just have to open it.”

She worked at the ribbon for a while before she freed the package from its grip.  Tore away the paper to reveal a small black jeweler’s box.  She cast a quick glance at Jesse, but his face gave away nothing.

Rose opened the box and gasped.  It was a ring, a spectacularly beautiful ring of diamonds and emeralds that glittered a rainbow when the light caught them.  “Holy mother of God,” she said.

“I never gave you an engagement ring,” Jesse said.  “I thought emeralds would suit you.”

She’d never owned anything this beautiful.  The diamond that Eddie had given her had been small and practical, what they could afford at the time, with both of them straight out of high school.  But this was the most exquisite piece of jewelry she’d ever set eyes on.  She slipped it on her finger, awed by the shimmer of the stones as she moved her hand this way and that to admire it. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, looking at him in disbelief.  His face was taut, his jaw set, and with a small jolt, she realized how much he needed her to be pleased with the ring.  With genuine appreciation, she said, “It’s gorgeous.  How’d you know I love emeralds?”

The tension eased out of his face.  “I didn’t,” he said.  “They just seemed right for you.”

“Thank you.” She leaned forward, and right there in her mother’s living room, in front of twenty-four assorted relatives, she kissed him.

He cupped the back of her head and drew her into the kiss.  Rose rested her hand against his cheek, enjoying the firmness of his mouth against hers.  He tasted like eggnog, sweet and spicy, and with reluctance, she ended
the kiss.  He brushed his chin against her cheek, razor stubble like fine sandpaper against her tender skin.  “You’re welcome,” he said.

Later, after all her female relatives had finished
ooh
-ing and
ah
-ing over the ring, she stole a private moment in the kitchen with her mother.  Mary was setting out a huge Tupperware container of sugar cookies she’d baked the day before.  Rose picked up a cookie with bright red frosting and green sprinkles and studied it.  “Remember when we used to help you make these?”

“I remember,” her mother said.  “And it usually took me a week afterward to get the kitchen clean.”

They shared a grin.  “And how’s the wee one?” Mary said, eyeing her distended belly.

Rose patted the growing mound.  “The wee one’s fine.  Kicking up a storm.”

“You’re not having a difficult pregnancy, then?”

Rose sat on a battered kitchen stool and leaned her elbows against the counter behind her.  Watching her mother bustle around the kitchen in her customary brisk manner, she said, “I haven’t felt this good in years.”

Mary opened the freezer, took out a tray of ice cubes, and slammed them against the sink to free them.  “And how are things going with your young man?”

Nibbling on the cookie, Rose said, “Actually, it’s going quite well.”

“So I thought.” Mary dropped the tray of ice cubes into her punch bowl.  “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Rose crossed her arms.  “And just how do I look at him?”

Mary paused to wipe her arms on her apron.  “You look at him,” she said, “like a woman in love.”

Heat raced up her face.  “Don’t be silly.”

“Would it be such a bad thing, Rose?  To be in love with him?”

“That’s not the point, Ma, and you know it.”

“Do I?  Well, of course you’d be the one to know.  All I can say is, for a woman who’s not in love, you’re looking exceptionally happy.”  Mary picked up the punch bowl and swept past her and on into the front parlor, leaving her alone in the kitchen.

Through clenched teeth, Rose blew out a breath.  Why was it that mothers and daughters had such difficulty loving each other?  Or maybe it was just her.  Maeve didn’t seem to experience this kind of abrasive love-hate relationship with their mother.  But then, Maeve had always had everything together.  She’d never floundered like Rose.  She’d known right from day one just where she was going with her life, and she’d quietly and efficiently made it happen.  Perfect people didn’t have to fight with their parents.  Perfect people had nothing to fight about.

The phone rang, and she picked it up.  “Rose?” said her ex-husband.  “I called to talk to the kids.”

Normally, she would have made some kind of crack about him being too cheap to call the kids at home, long-distance.  Tonight, for some reason, she didn’t have the stomach for it.  “Merry Christmas, Eddie,” she said.  “Hang on a second.”  Setting the phone down on the kitchen counter, she walked into the front parlor.  “Luke, Devon, your dad’s on the phone,” she said, and kept on walking.

She paused at the door to her mother and father’s bedroom.  How many times had she sought comfort here when life’s slings and arrows had taken their inevitable toll?  The years hadn’t changed the room at all.  The antique mahogany bedroom set was still its main focus.  Mom’s hand-stitched crazy quilt still covered the bed, and the odor of Dad’s pipe tobacco still lingered on the air.  In this room, in this bed, Mary and Patrick MacKenzie had conceived nine children.  Three of them had been born here.  There’d been no money for hospitals in those early days.  Old Doc Mahoney had made house calls back then, and had delivered many of his babies right at home.

Her parents’ marriage had endured for more than forty-five years.  That was love, not the rushed, impersonal, shallow relationships she saw around her today.  Rose pondered her mother’s words.  Was she in love with Jesse?  She’d been in love before, but love had turned out to be a lie.  How could she put herself through that again?  It was easier to avoid love altogether, to avoid even the suggestion of it, than to face the inevitable pain when you woke up one morning and found it had all been a sham.

Jesse came up behind her without making a sound and slipped his arms around her waist.  “Want to talk?” he said.

She leaned her head back against his shoulder.  “I thought I did everything right,” she said softly.  “You know? Like they tell you in the magazine articles? I cooked Eddie’s meals, I kept the house spotless, I ironed his damn shirts, for Christ’s sake.  I kept myself in shape.  Tried to be a good mother to our kids.  But it was all a lie.”

He tightened his hold on her, but still she didn’t look at him.  “He ran around on me.  Told me I was worthless, slapped me around every time he had a few too many.  And you know what I did?  I put on blinders, because it was easier than admitting I’d failed.  I let him get away with it for years.  He’d probably still be getting away with it if I hadn’t come home one day and found him in the shower, playing hide-the-salami with Heidi.”

“I’d never do that to you,” he said.

She blinked back infuriating tears.  “I know,” she said.  “That’s what makes it so hard.”

He pressed his cheek to hers, and his breath was warm and comforting.  “Makes what so hard?” he said.

Furiously, she said, “I don’t want to love you!”

“Ah, Rose.” He turned her in his arms, pressed her face to his chest, and she followed the sway of his body, dizzy with the knowledge of what she’d just admitted.  “I’ll always take care of you,” he said.  “I’ll never hurt you.”

Beneath her ear, his heart thudded erratically, a perfect match for her own.  “I must be crazy.”

And he laughed, deep and rich and low.  “Maybe we’re both crazy,” he said.  “Think we can escape from this band of lunatics? Or will they come after us?”

“They’ll leave us alone,” she said.  “Mom would kill anybody who dared to disturb a pregnant woman after she’s retired for the night.”

Hand in hand, they climbed the stairs to the room where she’d slept as a child.  Just to be safe, they locked the bedroom door behind them.  She leaned against it, feeling oddly vulnerable as she studied his elegant face, the high cheekbones, the dark eyes that could see all the way to her soul.

“We never really had a wedding night,” he said.

“No,” she said softly.  “We didn’t.”

“Tonight, we’re starting over.  This is it, Rose.  Do you understand?”

She was trying to understand.  Never before had she felt this desperate mix of pleasure and pain, this aching need to touch him and to be touched, this white-hot longing to feel his damp flesh pressed against hers until he obliterated the rest of the world.  She needed Jesse more than she’d ever needed a man, but finding herself had been so hard.  What if she lost herself again?”

“Rose?”

The vulnerability in those dark eyes surprised her.  Could it be possible that this quiet, unflappable man was as needy as she was? And as frightened? She reached out a hand and touched his face with a degree of tenderness that astonished her.

He cupped her chin in his palm and drew her mouth to his.  When his warm mouth made contact with hers, she let out a long sigh of satisfaction and melted into him.  They tasted each other with a slow deliberation that left her breathless and hungry for more.  His fingers tangled in her hair and tugged.  With a soft moan, she arched her neck, exposing the exquisitely tender flesh of her throat to his seeking mouth.

The moist tip of his tongue played a sweet glissando of delight along the corded length of her neck.  “Tonight,” he said raggedly, “we’re starting over.  Tonight, the walls between us are coming down.”

Her breath was an inferno in her chest, robbing her of the ability to speak.  With trembling hands, she tugged his sweater up and off, her focus directed toward a single elementary goal:  to feel the touch of flesh against flesh.  His.  Hers.  Together.  Smooth, slippery heat, until the boundaries between them disappeared and they fused together into a distinct, perfect whole.

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.  The bedsprings protested beneath their weight as they fumbled with clothing, a button here, a zipper there, determined to achieve as rapidly as possible that state of bliss that could only be reached by naked flesh pressed hard against naked flesh.

Breathless, she tasted him:  neck, cheek, chin, eyelids.  The hard line of his jaw, the warm, solid mass of his shoulder.  His flavor was ambrosia, his body exquisite.  Everything she touched was exquisite, from the hard shoulders to the flat stomach to the lean, muscled buttocks.  He closed his eyes and said hoarsely, “Come love me, Rose.”

They rolled together, and he buried himself inside her slick heat.  Their movements slow and deliberate, she watched his eyes, dark and intense and passionate.  Damp with perspiration and trembling with pleasure, she spoke his name, closed her eyes, arched her back and locked her thighs tight around his hips.  He groaned and quickened the pace.  She followed him instinctively, seeking the pleasure, her fingertips digging into his flesh.  Then her body shattered, and she cried out, and Jesse crushed his mouth to hers to muffle the sound.

He collapsed on top of her, wet, sticky, and heavy.  She fought for breath, for sanity, decided both were vastly overrated and pathetically inferior to the pleasure of the warm, wet body lying atop her and crushing her lifeless.

After a time, he said hoarsely, “I’m squishing the baby.”

She ran both hands down his back to his buttocks and left them there, cupping smooth male flesh.  “To hell with the baby,” she said.  “You’re squishing me.”

He rolled to his side, drew her into his arms, cradled her head against his shoulder.  “Ah, Rose,” he said, “I love your damn sassy mouth.  I love your sense of justice, and the way you always fight for what you think is right.”

Her heart began to thud.  “I love your quiet strength,” she said.  “No matter what happens, you’re solid as a rock.”

Against her cheek, she felt him swallow.  “Not always,” he said.  “Don’t forget the bedroom door incident.”

“I provoked you.  Deliberately.  I wanted to see how far I could push you.”

“And you found my breaking point.  Don’t do it again.”

“You know I will.  Every chance I get.”

“I know you will.” He threw a leg over hers and pulled her closer, resting a hand on her swollen belly. 
It’s all so simple
, she thought. 
Why did I think it was so complicated?
Love didn’t have to be the chaotic mess she’d always experienced.  This was simple, and strong, and good.  Like what her parents had.  It was an amazing revelation.

His breathing had gone shallow and even.  “Merry Christmas,” she whispered tenderly.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled, already half asleep.

She drew the covers higher, tucked them gently around his shoulders.  And lying there in the pristine innocence of her girlhood bedroom, cradled in the arms of the man she loved, Rose MacKenzie Lindstrom slept the sleep of the dead.

chapter fourteen

A noise at the door of his classroom caught his attention, and Jesse looked up from the exam he was grading.  Amanda Ashley stood in the doorway, her face flushed and her eyes moist.  Trying not to sound impatient, he said, “Yes?”