Maggy's Child (28 page)

“I heard. Nice of you to spell it for her.”

Maggy hesitated, then put into words the thought that
had been troubling her since she hung up the phone. “Nick—maybe I ought to go to a hotel. I don’t want to cause trouble for you with Lyle. He can be—ruthless.”

“Magdalena, get this through your head: I am not afraid of Lyle Forrest. And you’re staying right here. Unless—do you want to go to a hotel?” He asked the question in an altered tone, as if it had just occurred to him that she might not want to stay with him.

“No,” she said, to disabuse him of that notion.

“Well, then.” There was a smile in his voice.

“She called me an adulteress.” It was ridiculous, she knew, but the accusation stung.

“Did she?” Though his arms didn’t tighten around her—clearly he was mindful of her bruises—the muscles in his forearms tensed. Maggy could feel them grow harder beneath her hands. “Don’t worry about it. She’s wrong.”

“I wish she wasn’t.” Passion blazed suddenly in Maggy’s voice and in her eyes as she turned in his arms to look up at him. Though she was tall herself, he was taller by nearly a head. His shoulders were wide, his arms strong, his body muscular. Pugilist’s face or no, he
was
handsome, with his black hair and sleepy hazel-green eyes and hard bronzed face. And sexy. And very, very male. Any normal woman would be panting with desire for him. Once upon a time
she
had panted with desire for him. But not now. Lyle’s abuse seemed to have knocked physical desire clear out of her emotional range. “I wish I
was
an adulteress. I wish I was having a hot, hot affair with you.”

Her hands rested on his shoulders. His hands slid up her back.

“You could be.”

His face was very close. Maggy looked up at him, up at the square, bristly chin and high flat cheekbones, up at the long, thin mouth and crooked nose and broad forehead, up at the eyes that gleamed at her from beneath drooping lids. She met his gaze and read his hunger for
her. And she saw, not an amorous, predatory man, but only Nick. Her heartbeat quickened. Her arms slid around his neck. “I love you, Nick.”

“I know.” His lips, just touching her mouth, were withdrawn, “I love you, too.”

“I
want
to have an affair with you.”

“Not as much as I want you to, believe me.” He was smiling tenderly, ruefully, down into her eyes.

“Kiss me.”

“Magdalena …” But his protest, if protest it was, was silenced by her mouth. She went on tiptoe to press her lips to his, and found them very warm, very firm. Very kissable. Her mouth slanted across his, and the tip of her tongue came out to stroke his lips. His arms tightened around her, and suddenly he took control of the kiss. He gathered her against him, one hand moving up to cradle the back of her head as he tilted her face for his kiss. Maggy greeted the warm caress of his mouth eagerly, parting her lips to accommodate his tongue as it slid between them, her arms twining around his neck.

His tongue explored her lips, the roof of her mouth, the inside of her teeth, and was withdrawn. It entered again with a careful, slow stroke, sliding softly against her tongue, coaxing it to play. She trembled as she answered him, her tongue slipping at last inside his mouth.

She had not yet closed her eyes.

As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, Nick’s eyes flickered open. For an instant, just an instant, Maggy thought he looked dazed. Then his eyes focused sharply on her face. And his eyes smiled into hers.

Still he kissed her, his tongue staking claim to her mouth. He watched her watching him all the while. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. She felt the pressure as pleasure, and her body responded of its own accord: her breasts swelled, nipples tightening. Against her abdomen,
she could feel the corresponding engorgement of his body as he got hard.

For an instant her senses froze as she assimilated what was happening to him. Then, before she could react, he lifted his head, freeing her mouth, though with a deep physical reluctance that she could feel.

His arms around her, which had hardened and tightened like the rest of him, dropped away. He set his hands on her hipbones instead, his long fingers not quite steady as he eased her body away from his.

Contrarily, now that she knew that he was not going to force the issue, Maggy felt almost sorry that he had stopped. In mute protest her arms stayed looped around his neck. Her fingers threaded through the hair at his nape, enjoying the crispness of the curls there and the warmth of the underlying skin.

For a moment Nick’s gaze searched her face. Then, with a quirk of his lips that was almost a grimace, he rested his forehead against hers. His breathing had quickened. Dark color had risen to stain his cheekbones. His body was tense, his hands on her hips restless.

“That wasn’t bad at all,” Maggy murmured, relieved that she hadn’t panicked.

A ghost of a laugh shook him. “Somehow that’s just what I thought you were thinking.”

“So why did you stop?”

He lifted his head to meet her gaze. “Because it’s going to be better than that between us. One day soon. But there’s no rush: we’ve got all the time in the world. We’re back together for good this time, Magdalena. I’m not going to let you go.”

“Oh, Nick …” The sudden ache in her heart was almost a physical pain. Her hands tightened on his neck, and she tilted her face up to press her lips to his bewhiskered chin. “I don’t want you to let me go.”

“Good,” he whispered, his mouth seeking and finding
hers. This time his kiss was brief, a quick foray into her mouth before he abruptly lifted his head.

“The steaks!” He abandoned her as unceremoniously as if she’d been a rag doll, whirling to dash to the stove and jerk open the oven door. Clouds of smoke billowed out around him. He snatched at the pan, burned his hand, swore, and grabbed the oven mitt. Seconds later he was depositing the rescued steaks atop the cutting board near the stove.

Maggy looked at them, looked at Nick looking at them, and started to laugh.

“Talk about burned offerings,” she said.

“You distracted me on purpose.” He turned off the burners under the saucepans, then picked up his fork and poked dispiritedly at the charred meat. “They’re probably still edible, if we scrape off the worst parts.”

Maggy cast a dubious glance at the steaks. “Do they have pizza delivery out here?”

Nick grinned and shook his head. “ ’Fraid not. But we could go out for pizza, if you want to.”

Maggy hadn’t gone out for pizza in years. Pizza wasn’t something the Forrests ate. Except for David, and then only when he and she were out alone together and stopped by a Pizza Hut for a quick meal, or when he spent the night at a friend’s house.

“I’d love to go out for pizza.” A thought occurred to her, and she hesitated, touching her face with a tentative hand. “I forgot—I don’t have any makeup with me. While you were in the process of carrying me off, I wish you’d remembered to bring my purse.”

“Sorry, but purses are not something I normally think about. Anyway, you don’t need makeup. You look great without it. About fifteen again.”

“Thanks.” She sent him a quick smile. It was a casual compliment, uttered sincerely, and she was surprised by how much it pleased her. Probably because Lyle had spent
the last few years telling her that her looks were fading fast, and that she’d better thank God for cosmetics because without them she was about as beautiful as one of her dogs. Hesitantly she asked, “But what about the—bruises? Do they look too bad?”

Nick’s eyes hardened as they moved over her face. “It’ll be dark in the restaurant. And no, they don’t look too bad. What, does he take care not to hit you in the face?”

“Yes,” Maggy whispered, humiliated, and glanced away from him.

“Magdalena,” he said softly, coming close. One hand clasped her waist, while the other cupped her chin and tilted her face up. “Look at me.”

Unwillingly, her gaze met his.

“If you got hit by a car, would you be ashamed because you happened to be crossing the street when it came by?”

“N-no.”

“If you were in a plane crash, would you be ashamed because you’d bought a ticket on that particular flight?”

“No.”

“If you were robbed at gunpoint, would you be ashamed because the robber picked you to steal money from?”

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked. Then, before she could reply, he answered for her, “You would not be ashamed if any of those things happened to you, because they would not be your fault. What that bastard did to you falls into the same category. Lyle Forrest is the one with the problem, and he’s the one who should be ashamed. Not you.”

“Oh, Nick …” A smile trembled and died on her mouth. The ache was throbbing in her throat again, the one that warned of impending tears. She felt as though she’d been spinning in an endlessly whirling vortex for so many years that she couldn’t even begin to count them, and suddenly he’d reached in and grabbed her and yanked
her out onto firm earth. Her head was steadying at last, and with it her perspective. With her mind, at least, she knew his words were the truth.

She was grateful, so grateful, for that. But crying on him twice in one day would be a poor way to show her gratitude. Swallowing, she willed the ache to disperse.

He was watching her keenly. “I want you to say, ‘That bastard Lyle Forrest is a brutal criminal with psychiatric problems, and
he
did this, not me. I have done nothing to be ashamed of.’ ”

A quavering smile touched Maggy’s lips. “You’re being silly.”

“I am not. Say it.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“I don’t care. Say it.”

Maggy swallowed as the words seemed to stick in her throat, and then she got it out. “That bastard Lyle Forrest is a brutal criminal with psychiatric problems, and he did this, not me. I have done nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Do you believe it?”

His eyes blazed intently into hers. Maggy reached up to curl the fingers of both hands around the wrist that supported her chin, and nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s my girl.” His hand left her chin to entwine with one set of fingers. “Every time you start feeling ashamed that he hit you, I want you to say that. Okay?”

“Okay.” Maggy smiled rather tremulously up at him, and his eyes darkened. He brought her knuckles to his lips for a brief kiss, then rubbed her curled fingers back and forth over his cheek. His whiskers rasped like sandpaper against her hand. The combination of prickly bristles atop warm, smooth skin was quintessentially masculine, and it appealed to her. She freed her fingers from his to lay her hand against his cheek. The small contact seemed as intimate to her as any touch she had ever shared with a man, because of the trust involved.

As always, Nick seemed to be able to read her thoughts. He covered her hand with his, pressing her fingers into his skin. His eyes took on a sensuous, somnolent gleam as they met hers. For a moment Maggy thought that he was going to kiss her mouth and found herself almost hoping that he would. But he didn’t.

“Still feel like pizza?” Nick asked instead. When Maggy nodded, he entwined his fingers with hers again and turned away, heading through the darkened hall toward the front door. With her hand in his she was towed willy-nilly after him. He paused only to hook his suit coat from the back of the chair in the living room where he had left it, and toss it over his arm.

When they stepped out onto the porch, Nick cast a quick glance around. It was full night. A sudden swoosh of chilled air caught the remnants of autumn’s fallen leaves that still lurked along the fence line and sent them rustling across the flat, patchy turf of the front yard.

“It’s colder than I thought,” he said, releasing her hand. Instead of shrugging into his coat as she would have expected, he dropped it over her shoulders. A glinting glance forestalled her when she would have protested. Knowing Nick as she did, Maggy swallowed her words. Pointing out the fact that she already had on a thick-knit cardigan while he was in his shirtsleeves would not have made a bit of difference. Nick had always been concerned for her comfort over his own.

And it was cold. Not bitterly, but certainly no warmer than 55 degrees, with a stiff breeze blowing from the east. Maggy was glad of the coat’s warmth as she waited for him to lock the door.

“You must be freezing,” she said, her glance touching his rolled-up shirtsleeves and unbuttoned collar, and his black hair as it was ruffled by the wind.

He slid the key ring into his pocket, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and grinned.

“When you’re around, I don’t feel the cold,” he said, and she smiled at his absurdity, as he no doubt intended that she should.

But at the same time she felt ridiculously warmed.

O
ver pizza they talked about everything and nothing. Instead of a chain restaurant Nick took her to a small, one-of-a-kind place owned and operated by an immigrant Italian family, improbably located at a country crossroad with no other commercial establishment in sight. Even on a Tuesday night it was busy, and Maggy felt lucky that they had managed to procure a booth in the corner. The food, served by the owner’s teenage daughter, was excellent. Maggy savored every bite. For the past three days she had eaten scarcely anything at all, and it was good to feel hungry again and to satisfy that hunger. It was good to sit at a table over such simple but delectable fare and laugh and talk and say whatever came into her head. It was good not to have to be afraid of what might be waiting for her when she got home. It was good not to have to care about her lack of proper manners as strings of chewy cheese stretched between her mouth and the slice of pizza she was eating. It was good not to feel self-conscious over her scrubbed-clean face and lack of lipstick and mascara, or the faint bruises that marred her skin.