Tender Loving Care (11 page)

“You never told me you had two brothers. That you could fly. Where you rented the plane. How you found this place—”

“Suddenly, you’re chattering like a magpie. Am I making you nervous again?”

“I want to hear more about your mother,” she said stubbornly. “And what your father’s like. I didn’t even realize you came from South Dakota, did you know that?”

“You
are
nervous.” His breath fanned her lips just before his mouth touched down. “Good,” he murmured with satisfaction.

The Oregon sun filtered in the windows. The cabin was cool by morning, and invaded by the smells of sea and woodsmoke. Rafe watched her sleep, aware of the faint, lingering scent of her perfume. Her skin had the blush of dreams, and her hair was tousled on the pillow. Zoe inevitably slept sprawled on her tummy, except for those times he’d tucked her close to him in the night.

He’d kept her tucked close until dawn, and he had in mind keeping her close for a lifetime, but Zoe…he was so unsure of Zoe.

Especially these past two weeks, he’d carefully led her to believe that kids were a low priority for him, but it was like traveling on quicksand—he didn’t know how to be careful enough. The kids had nothing to do with what he felt for Zoe, but getting her to believe that had him tied up in knots. That Steven character had wanted her on a package-with-children basis; there was no way he wanted her to think this was the same thing.

He’d deliberately told her he couldn’t handle the responsibility of children alone. He’d deliberately tried to show her that he felt just as inadequate as a father as she could possibly feel as a mother—when Parker was ill, for instance. If she could just see that the little imps needed
both
of them, he knew they could work through any lingering fears or negative emotions she’d built up about children. She adored the twins, whether she knew it or not. And so did he, but it was a thousand times more important to make Zoe see that there was nothing they couldn’t tackle as a twosome.

He didn’t plan to spend the long stretch of lonely years without her, but two days wasn’t long enough to make absolutely sure Zoe felt loved for Zoe. He had in mind binding ties and complicating her emotions and wearing down her resistance and stealing the alternatives away from her. He had in mind sneaking in some love whenever he could. He had in mind assaulting the lady where she was most vulnerable.

Sleeping, she was most vulnerable. Gently, silently, he slid the comforter off her, then the sheet. Her bare skin had the satin glow of sleep, and the long expanse from the nape of her neck to her toes confronted him with far too many options for the ruthless assault he had in mind. Her slim thighs were his personal preference, but he could also build a ladder of kisses up her spine. Her neck enticed him, but so did the curves of her calves.

It was going to be a long war if the choice of first battle was going to be this difficult. Finally, he chose her fanny, primarily because he was sure no one had ever begun a seduction with Zoe on that particular portion of her anatomy. He attacked with assorted kisses, some butterfly soft, some lingering. The firm skin sloped with delicate feminine perfection, which he always knew. His tongue scouted the hollow at the base of her spine, and then dawdled down to the tops of her thighs.

Ruthlessly, his lips coasted down the long expanse of her right leg, then up her left. Where he kissed, she was his. He didn’t dare miss a spot—it was a superstition, like avoiding stepping on cracks in the sidewalk. Everything would be all right…everything had to be all right…if he labeled every inch of her skin Rafe Kirkland’s, if he did it gently enough, softly enough, lovingly enough.

Somewhere en route, he forgot the war.

It was Zoe’s fault. Her skin had this scent, all sleepy female, and the supple texture of her flesh yielded so readily to lips and fingertips. Kisses climbed up her sides to where her breasts were being cruelly crushed to the mattress. His tongue laved that plumpness. When he heard the hoarse little murmur that escaped her throat, he felt irritable. “Lie still,” he murmured. “I want you to wake up nice and slow.”

“It’s far too late for that,” she whispered, and twisted over in one lithe, feminine move that did nothing for his sanity. The rosy tips of her breasts were tilted up, as neglected as the firm white flesh around them. Her tummy…he hadn’t even touched her tummy yet, and below she had a lush pyramid of soft curls that needed finger-combing, teasing, kisses, the caress of a tongue…she still wasn’t used to that kind of caress. She took for granted that he wouldn’t want to. The lady had no idea how much he wanted to.

“Rafe…”

The single word drew his attention to her mouth, the curve and swell of her lower lip, the more fragile heart shape of her upper one. She tasted sleepy, possibly the most intimate taste a man could steal. There was only one spot on her body softer than the inside of her cheek, but he settled there first.

His hunger grew, the more sweetness he found with his tongue. Breathing was becoming an effort, and the temperature in the cabin seemed to soar. He had every intention of making this last for a good hundred years, but she wasn’t helping by responding like an abandoned, sultry, wanton, vibrantly sensual…

“Rafe?”

“Honey, I’m so busy. Could we talk later?” He had more work wiping off that perfectly wicked smile of hers.

“There seems to be something terribly wrong with me,” she murmured.

“Take my word for it, love. There is
nothing
wrong with any part of you.”

There was. Heat had replaced bones, and the surface of her skin was shimmering. She’d wakened to a man intimately, sneakily, lazily taking advantage of her, and she’d entered into that spirit of play. One look at his eyes and she knew he wasn’t playing any longer. Suddenly, neither was she.

Everywhere she touched, she could feel need rippling through his skin. His lips craved contact. Hands kneaded and clutched and held, suddenly not so gentle. Outside, lonely waves crashed endlessly on rock, the silkiness of water eroding the hardest stone over thousands of years. Zoe urged the man inside her where she could hold him, the deeper Rafe, the vulnerable Rafe, the Rafe who shouted with his touch how much he wanted and needed her.

When he claimed, she became silk. Flesh grew slick as they discovered their own desperate rhythm. The roar of endless loneliness was just outside, but not here. Her legs clamped around him, she drew him down into yielding softness, caring, hope, woman, love.

In claiming her, he drove in his need to have, to hold, to protect and care for, to love.

You can’t turn away from this,
she told him with her lips.

See what we have,
he whispered in his heart.

She fought the climax because it would have meant the end, and she had all of him for this moment. It didn’t work; it couldn’t. Waves of sharp, bright color rolled through her like the tide, powerful and inescapable and relentless. Her lips released a fragile cry, and then he folded her close and held her and held her…

And held her.

“I’m
not
climbing that, you overgrown bully.”

“You’re probably more fit than I am. Come on, Zoe, you’re no sissy.”

“I’m
swim
-fit. Not
climb
-fit.” Southern Oregon fashion, the sand dune facing Zoe was at least 150 feet tall. Rafe was sitting at the top holding a can of beer, the lazy good-for-nothing. She’d made it halfway. Considering how little sleep he’d allowed her last night and this morning, she evaluated that distance as reasonable. The weather bureau had reported the temperature as a cool sixty, but where sun beat down on sand Zoe could have testified to at least a hundred.

“Lunch is waiting for you at the top,” he called.

“Bring it
down.
”

“Nope.”

“When…” She dug up fistfuls of sand as she crawled toward him. “
When
I get up there, Kirkland, you’re going to be such dead meat. You’re going to be such cooked goose. You’re going to be such fried fowl…”

When she reached the top, panting and sweating, Rafe was lying flat on the sand holding his stomach. He seemed to have a small problem with laughter. That laughter ended up in a howl when she bent down and gave him a definite shove.

How the mighty do fall, and 180 pounds had so much momentum on the slippery sand. Moments later, she sat on the top of the dune with a beer can in her hand and waved down. “You can do it, Rafe! You’re no sissy!” she called down encouragingly.

“Listen, you turkey. I’ve got sand in my mouth.”

“No kidding?”

“Ah, Zoe. You’re going to be so sorry. When I get my hands on you…when I get my hands on you…”

“Uh…Rafe? Have you looked around recently?”

“Yes.” Rafe smiled. “I’ve never seen you look more lovely.” He’d found the dress in the back of her closet and packed it, so he considered himself partially responsible for her looks right now. The skirt was a simple black crepe, and the top a turquoise satin that draped to the hollow of her breasts. The sleeves seemed made of yards of material that cinched at her wrists, and the effect was alluringly feminine. He hadn’t yet figured out what she’d done to her eyes and hair. Something. Something that made her eyes look emerald green and her hair gleam with shafts of gold and silky softness.

Zoe let her eyes sweep over him as well. He’d brought his tux—she hadn’t known he owned one—and since the man had done the packing, the tux had a predictable wrinkle or two. Never mind that; black made his shoulders look impossibly huge, and it was his pride that struck her.

She ate the last bite of her fillet, and then took a sip of wine. “Rafe…” she started again.

He shook his head. “I wanted to see you dressed up, and I wanted to dance with you. Come on, Zoe.”

She placed her napkin on the table and stood up, letting him lead her to the crowded dance floor. With one hand at her waist, his other hand covered hers on his chest. He picked up the subtle rhythm of the song. Not once did he move to hold her closer, but deliberately he let thigh occasionally tease thigh, chest occasionally flirt with breast. His eyes never left hers. He told her she was lovely, priceless, precious and, so simply, that he wanted to be with her. He told her that without saying a word.

Sometime…sometime…she was going to mention to him that the band was playing country rock. That everyone else in the place was wearing jeans. That the only person with a candle on the table was the one who’d brought it, and that was Rafe. Southern Oregon didn’t exactly abound in elegant restaurants.

Since neither of them cared a hoot what anyone else was doing, it didn’t particularly matter.

“I hate to tell you this, little one, but you’re turning into a downright glutton for pleasure—and all those little hip actions aren’t going to do you a bit of good.”

“No?” Embers of a fire glowed in the corner, casting soft shadows in the pitch-black room. Swallowed in the depths of the featherbed, Zoe nudged her pelvis delicately against Rafe. “I’m not claiming to be an expert in this,” she admitted, “but I could swear I sense a certain effect.”

His lips touched her forehead. “I didn’t say you weren’t having any effect. I said it wasn’t going to do you any good. It’s three in the morning, and you need your sleep.”

“I can sleep next year.”

His whisper grazed her skin like wet velvet. “You’re sore.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. In between climbing dunes and dinner, I think you might remember that we were doing other things.”

“Believe me, I remember.”

He clasped both her hands patiently in one of his. “
No
. When I touched you the last time, you were sensitive. Dammit, did you think I didn’t notice? We are
not
making love again—
Zoe.
Those are your teeth in my shoulder.”

“You like that.”

“Is that supposed to be relevant to anything in particular? You know darn well I like everything you do.”

“You like this, too—good heavens! You like it a lot.”

“You’re sore,” he repeated in the tone of a drowning man.

“A little. Not
that
much.”

“
That
much is my fault.”

“I could have sworn I was there at the time.”

“You were.”

“Rafe, I have an itch—”

“You do
not
have an itch, not there, and I am not letting go of your hands.”

“All right. I think it’s time we got serious here. Fifty cents says I can make you let go.”

“No.”

“Five bucks says you’ll be breathing hard inside of three minutes.”

“No.”

“A hundred—flat on the line, and believe me, you’ll never get this offer again—says you’ll be inside me on the short side of ten minutes.”

“If and when I meet your mother, Zoe, I’m going to tell her just what kind of daughter she raised.”

Conversation lagged. He’d just released her hands.

From the rear window of the rental car, Zoe took one last look at the cabin. She thought,
it’s over,
and tested every corner of her mind for regrets. There had only been so much time, and maybe they should have spent it talking about each other. Maybe they should have spent it talking about the children.

Instead, all they’d done was…be together.

She had no regrets.

As for all the decisions waiting to be made, she knew exactly what she was going to do. Loving him had clarified the only choice she really had.

“My goodness, I didn’t expect you two back for at least another hour. I just put the boys to bed.” Marjorie Kirkland hugged Zoe as naturally as she hugged her son. “Did you have a good time?”

“Wonderful,” Rafe affirmed. “More important, did you survive the boys?”

“No problem at all, but what about you two? Have you eaten dinner?”

“Yes, Mom. We stopped for a bite on our way home from the airport.”

“Well, I’m certainly going to make you a pot of tea, and the boys and I made oatmeal cookies…”

Zoe felt Rafe slide the jacket off her shoulders and gently squeeze her neck from behind. “Rather have a brandy?” he murmured to her when his mother disappeared into the kitchen.

She shook her head. The flight had left her groggy after forty-eight hours of sleeplessness. The blaze of apartment lights and Marjorie’s bright, curious eyes had struck her as a disorienting blur. She wanted to be able to think clearly, and instead couldn’t think at all. “Nothing, thanks. But I think I’ll check on the kids.”

“Zoe?”

She turned back, but Rafe didn’t say or do anything more than possessively brush a strand of hair from her cheek. Since their plane had landed, the silence between them had gradually become charged with a brooding uneasiness—her own doing, Zoe knew. Rafe had tried more than once to talk. Maybe if she’d let him, there would be less tension on his face now, less wariness in his eyes. She wanted to tell him he no longer had to worry about anything, but the right moment wasn’t now.

Carrying her suitcase back to her bedroom, she dropped it just inside and noted that Marjorie’s was neatly packed and ready for her departure in the morning. All she could think of was that Marjorie’s son would also be leaving all too soon.

Switching off the light, she tiptoed toward the boys’ room. The fuzzy darkness and silence enfolded her like a soothing balm as she moved closer to the bed. Both boys were asleep. Snuggled up to his blanket, Parker had kicked off the rest of his covers. She bent over to tuck him in again, dropped a soft kiss on his cheek and then glanced at Aaron.

That fast, two arms reached up to her in the darkness. With a smile and a tug on her heart, she crossed to the other side of the double bed and leaned over to hug him.

“You’re back,” he whispered. “Is Uncle Rafe back, too?”

“Sure—he’s in the kitchen right now. Did you have fun with Uncle Rafe’s mom?”

“Yes. Snookums? Don’t go.”

She sank on the edge of the bed, smoothing his hair and the covers. “I’ll stay for a minute, but you have to go to sleep, lovebug. It’s late.”

“I didn’t think you were coming back.”

Something welled in Zoe’s throat. “Didn’t you remember? I promised you we’d come home tonight.”

“So did Mommy. But she didn’t come back. Zoe?”

“What, darling?”

“Mommy’s dead. She isn’t coming back ever and my daddy isn’t either.”

He said it easily, bluntly, four-year-old style, as if he were informing her of something she might not have been sure of before. Zoe studied his eyes for tears, but she was the only one with sudden diamonds in her eyes. Propping her elbows on both sides of him, she leaned closer. “Know something?” she whispered lightly.

“What?”

“Part of your mommy and daddy can’t ever die for you, did you know that? Any time you’re feeling sad, all you have to do is close your eyes and feel how much they love you. Close your eyes and you can remember them kissing you good night; you can remember last Christmas; you can remember making cookies with your mommy and being snuggled on your daddy’s lap. You’re always going to be able to do that, sweetheart. Any time you want to, all you have to do is close your eyes to feel how much they love you. That love’s still there, and it won’t ever go away.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Can we see your whales again tomorrow?”

Smiling, she tucked the covers around his neck and kissed him again. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Slouched on the sofa with his long legs stretched out in front of him, Rafe had had his eyes peeled on the doorway since she’d left. When she finally wandered back in, he could see how tired she was. Pale mauve shadows made her eyes look huge, and her face was paler than cream. She needed sleep…but something more than fatigue had been eating at her all afternoon and evening.

He crooked his finger and motioned her next to him. She sank down on the couch’s center cushion like a duchess, all straight spine and a proper distance away, not at all what he had in mind. He figured she was worried about propriety for his mother’s sake.

He was worried about Zoe. He hadn’t been able to make a dent in her long silence on the trip home—not that silence in itself had to be dangerous. No two people could have been any closer than they’d been over the weekend, and in his head he knew he’d gotten through to her. He’d felt her love, and heaven knew he felt oceans of love himself for her. As soon as his mother was gone, they could talk. Zoe was temporarily overtired, but there was no reason to think anything was seriously wrong.

But there was. His pulse ticked an uneasy beat, affirming it. Wrapping his fingers around her shoulders, he gently but persistently tugged until, like an accordion, she finally folded closer. Marge was talking thirteen to the dozen. His mother always talked thirteen to the dozen, and Zoe was starting to smile…but it wasn’t a Zoe smile.

Zoe smiles were spontaneous and mischievous and showed off perfect white teeth. When she really laughed, her eyes overflowed with joy. He tucked her into the curve of his shoulder, but her spine was still rigid, and the curve of her lips was distinctly polite. He told himself again that he could wait until his mother was gone in the morning. And knew, immediately, that he couldn’t manage more than twenty more minutes before hauling her off to some private spot where he could find out what was wrong.

“…I should have brought pictures of when they were younger.” Marge’s knitting needles clicked as she rocked. “I’ve got tons of photographs, Zoe. Everyone’s the same. Brian and Nathan stand there looking like angels, their hair all combed, their shirts tucked in…and then there’s Rafe. He always stood in the left side of the pictures; I don’t know why. If he didn’t have a black eye, he always had a scrape that showed. I swear I could have safety-pinned his shirts and they still wouldn’t have stayed tucked in…”

“Mom, Zoe is
bored,
” Rafe said quellingly.

“She is not.”

“I am not,” Zoe affirmed.

The two women apparently enjoyed discussing embarrassing moments in his past history. Rafe might have been amused—his mother inevitably embellished the stories, and with such relish—if he hadn’t seen what she was doing. His mom was a pro at sneakily maneuvering in exactly the direction she wanted it to go. That she’d taken to Zoe the instant she met her was obvious. That she was ignoring her son sent him the warning message that she was gearing up to delicately pry, a complication he definitely didn’t need.

“Anyway, you’re having your own experience raising boys, it would seem.” Marge propped her glasses down on her nose to look over them at Zoe. Her steady stream of light conversation only gradually slowed to a gentler, more serious pace. “I think you two have done something perfectly wonderful, taking on those kids. Shouldering all the responsibility and juggling jobs and upsetting your lives—I don’t think many people would have done it. But I have to admit I’m not very clear on your plans from here. Rafe mentioned he’d have to be back in Montana—”

“At the end of next week,” Rafe finished for her, and droned warningly, “and I already told you we haven’t made firm plans about the children yet.”

“Did you, dear?”

“Yes. And I told you
why
we hadn’t talked yet, which was that we agreed from the beginning to try
not
to form conclusions or make judgments until we’d spent as much time together with the kids as we could.” Anyone who’d ever met Rafe could tell that the subject was now closed.

Marge chuckled sympathetically, looking directly at Zoe with an onward-and-upward determination that would have impressed a general. “Zoe, when Rafe leaves next week, are you staying here with the children? Or—”

“We haven’t discussed that either, Mom. But we’ll work it out.” For Rafe, the discussion of the subject was now ended.

“Of course you will, of course you will. It’s all so complicated, with your jobs and all. I was just wondering…”

“Mother—”

Matched sets of blue eyes were snapping at each other. All Zoe could think of was that she wasn’t ready—maybe she’d never be ready to face the impending talk with Rafe. But now was no worse than any other time, and she wouldn’t have mother and son bickering when she could prevent it with a few words. “Naturally, you mother is curious about our plans,” she scolded Rafe gently, and then directed a deliberate smile at his mother. “I’m taking the children, Marge.”

It was an excellent argument-stopper. Rafe stiffened in total silence like a poker beside her. And Marge’s lips stopped moving for the first time in half an hour; her knitting needles even stopped clicking. Zoe definitely had the floor.

Her palms dampened, and a huge ball of sadness swelled in her throat. Her voice stayed calm and quietly assured only because she demanded that of herself. “As Rafe said, we haven’t worked out all the details,” she told Marjorie, and admitted frankly, “He’s going to argue with me. You’ve got a wonderful son, Marge. I can’t tell you how warm and loving he’s been with the kids. He’d take on total responsibility for them in a minute, but I’m not about to let him do that.”

“Dammit, Zoe—”

Gently, she raised her voice, her eyes focused only on his mother. “His work is important to him, and occasionally he’s had to travel because of it, which would be almost impossible with two children. And in Montana, I can’t imagine where he’d find day care. So much that he needs and wants in his life would be complicated by children. From the very beginning, I knew it was more logical for me to take them. My job hours are more flexible, and my work is more settled.”

Marge stopped rocking altogether. “Yes, but my dear, I thought you two—I was so sure that—”

“Mom, you’re tired,” Rafe announced.

If mother and son occasionally bickered, it was rather obvious their wavelengths were also finely tuned to each other. “Good heavens, I certainly am.” Marge shoved her yarn back into the knitting bag and stood up. “I’m absolutely exhausted. Can’t imagine what I was thinking of, talking this late. It’s after ten, and I’ve got a flight to catch in the morning. Now, you two just finish this nice pot of tea. Don’t bother about me…”

A good fairy couldn’t have disappeared faster, only Zoe touched her fingers wearily to her temples, not certain she wouldn’t have been happier if the good fairy had stayed. Rafe had lurched to his feet and was standing with his hands on his hips, a glowering frown beamed directly at her. She saw a thousand things in his eyes. Frustration and love. Anxiety and irritation. Mostly she saw a man damn close to exploding, but his voice ladled out the surprise of gentleness. “Zoe, you’re so tired you can’t see straight. I’m going to get you a brandy. Just sit there, would you? Just stay right there.”

She nodded, but the minute he was out of sight she dashed for the bathroom.

Hands trembling, she closed the bathroom door, turned on the light and flicked on the cold-water tap, so that the noise of the water would muffle the harsh low sound that escaped from her throat. Tears made rainbows in her eyes.

Crying was foolish. Her decision to take the children alone was best, and the only one she could make. She felt good about it. Wonderful. Ecstatic, in fact, and pressing a cool washcloth firmly to her eyes, she willed herself not to cry.

She was afraid he was going to argue, that he was going to try to talk her into a foursome. Being Rafe, he’d do that out of a sense of responsibility. She couldn’t let him do that. Over the long weeks, Rafe had given her an incomparable gift. Herself. She was Zoe again, the strong woman she’d forgotten how to believe in since her hysterectomy. She had only one gift to give him of equal measure—a sensitivity to his real feelings, as he’d been sensitive to hers.

In so many ways, he’d tried to tell her he didn’t want the responsibility of children. She hadn’t listened, but the weekend in Oregon had told her what he wanted and needed in his life: a woman who was free to dash off on a whim. The adventure of a one-on-one relationship with no strings attached. Freedom and privacy and spontaneity. He wanted a woman to climb mountains with; she’d always known it.

Rafe wanted her, she knew. And she also knew that he loved her, but in time he was bound to feel resentful if the lifestyle he really wanted wasn’t possible. He’d find another woman, someone to whom he alone mattered, a relationship in which he wasn’t roped down by years of sticky fingers and interrupted dinners and night-walking little ones with colds.

She was really very happy she’d come up with a solution that worked for all of them. Any minute now…any minute now…she was going to feel incredibly happy.

When the doorknob turned, she straightened instantly. Then, bending her head, she wrung out the washcloth. “I was just coming out,” she said brightly.

Rafe came in and quietly closed the door behind him.

“Really. I was just coming back out…”

He reached around her to turn off the faucet. The silly thing was still running, and in the mirror her complexion looked somewhere past chalk and halfway to gray. Two strong hands cinched her waist, turned her around and lifted her to the vanity. His fists came down like jail bars on either side of her. Her lungs suddenly had a hard time finding air, and she couldn’t seem to look past the third button on his shirt.

“I
was—
”

“No, you weren’t, Zoe. I don’t know how long you were planning to hide out here, but my guess is two or three years.”

She took a breath. “Your mother’s still awake.”

“My mother is entitled to stay up all night if she likes. She’s a grown woman. She can make that kind of decision all by herself.”

“She’ll think there’s something funny if we don’t—”