answer."
"I wanted you to have access to the place whenever you wanted."
Gewhy?"
"That's a crazy question."
"And this is a crazy situation."
He went to the front window and stared out at the darkness. "I never
promised you more."
Well, he was right. A heavy weight settled in Anne's stomach. Head
bowed, she rose from the sofa, reached for the empty mug, and headed for
the kitchen. At the door, she stopped, but she didn't turn. "Have you
had any supper?"
"No."
"I'll make something."
"That's not necessary."
"I'll do it."
Five minutes later, she sat across from him and watched him down the
club sandwich that she had made with the chicken that had gone uneaten
on Friday night. Conversation was sparse and cryptic, compounding her
frustration. "Thank you," he said when only crumbs remained. "That hit
the spot."
"I'm glad I've finally done something right," she murmured, standing to
clear the dishes.
He caught her hand. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I think you know." She freed her hand and she continued to the sink.
Suddenly he was directly behind her. "You've been vague about something
for the last hour. What is it?"
Fiercely, she scrubbed at the dish.
"You're angry because I showed up late?"
"No."
"What else could it be? I sent word. I even did it through Miles so you
wouldn't worry that I knew your last name."
"That's not bothering me."
He turned her around. "Look at me, Anne."
Her hands dripped of soap. She held them out to the sides.
"I want you to tell me what's wrong," he insisted, and she was suddenly
angry.
"Why? I don't owe you an explanation for my behavior, any more than you
owe me one for yours!"
His eyes held hers for long minutes. "Ah. That's it. You want an
explanation for my lateness, like this is some kind of a business
meeting."
"I don't want a thing!" she cried, whipping out of his grasp to dry her
hands on the towel. She thrust a damp rag into his hand. "Here. You
finish cleaning. I'm going to bed."
She held off tears until she was safely up in her attic room and sure of
not being followed. Then they came with a vengeance. She had loved Jeff
and lost him, through powers that were beyond her. Now it was happening
all over again with Mitch.
Oh, yes, she loved Mitch ... Mitch, whose last name she didn't even
know. She knew that she had missed him desperately, that his brooding
upset her, along with her inability to console him. She knew that she
wanted an explanation for his delay.
For long hours she agonized. Leave here tomorrow, a tiny voice said,
protect yourself, you don't need this pain. But a louder voice told her
to wait. Mitch made her feel. She wanted to be with him. There was
always hope.
On that optimistic note she fell into a deep sleep, long after all sound
of life from downstairs had ceased. The rain continued to pound the
windows, but it was the smell of strong coffee that finally woke her up.
Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was there in her room. The
weight by her right hip, a distinct depression in the mattress, the
faint hint of after-shave-all told her so. She opened heavy eyes and
focused on him. Through a sleepy haze, he looked soft, gentle, and
caring. Freshly shaven, showered, and dressed, he was powerfully male.
His face was one big tender smile, broken only when he sipped coffee
from the mug he held.
"Good morning," he said. "I'd begun to wonder whether you'd ever wake
up. A real sleeping beauty."
Anne was relieved enough that his mood had improved to muster a smile.
"I had trouble falling asleep."
"Tell me about it."
"Hmph. Got a taste of your own medicine?" Pushing higher up on the
pillow, she moved her hair off her cheek.
As the quilt fell away, Mitch's eyes lit. "What's this? Bare arms? A
negligee? Where'd the long flannel nightgown go? It's not that warm
yet."
Anne scowled. "It's not a negligee. A negligee is something daring. This
is just a nightgown." Primly, she pulled the quilt to her throat.
"We're arguing semantics, Annie. The fact is, you look like a woman
should look first thing in the morning."
"I look awful," she grumbled, picturing ratty hair, swollen eyes, and
bare features and suddenly wishing she could hide.
"If you could bottle up and sell what you call awful, you'd make a
million."
"Well, I'm sure you'd know. You must have seen dozens of women first
thing in the morning."
"Ah. I think you need coffee." He slid an arm behind her and drew her
up. "Jealousy isn't your usual style." Though a smile played around his
mouth, his eyes were serious.
"I'm not jealous," she said, but she drank his coffee. The intimacy of
it made a lie of her denial. She wanted to know who occupied Mitch's
time and thoughts when he wasn't with her. Oh, yes, she was jealous.
"Better?" he asked and took another drink himself. He placed the mug on
the nightstand when she lay back against the pillows. "Is the nightgown
symbolic? Like the pink sweater last time?"
She lifted a shoulder, self-conscious. "I suppose. I'm getting out more
now. I feel better." Except when she thought about the upcoming trial,
which she desperately tried not to do. "What about you? Any symbolic
recovery gestures?"
He gave an evasive smile. "Some."
Anne waited. After a minute, she said, "Like what?"
"It's better told at another time. I have something more important in
mind right now."
"What?" she asked with total innocence, until his eyes fell to her
breasts. The nightgown was sheer. Blushing, she crossed her arms over
the pale yellow bodice.
He took her wrists and pulled them away, then murmured a husky, "I
haven't properly said hello," and drew her forward. His lips found hers
unerringly, and proceeded to do all the things Anne loved until she was
dizzy with pleasure.
Had she actually been angry at him the night before? The only thing she
felt now was love. She kissed him as deeply as he kissed her, and when
he shifted her, cradled her, she pushed her hands into his hair.
He was everything Anne had waited for and wanted. His kiss set her
afire, his arms fed the flame. By the time he set her back, her cheeks
and lips were rosy with heat.
She opened her eyes wide. "That was a nice hello."
To her delight, he wasn't done. When he reached for her again, she went
willingly. Her hands slipped around his waist, fingers burrowing under
his sweater to brush his skin. She was barely aware that he had pushed
off the slim straps of her nightgown, until he drew back to release her
arms and let the silky fabric fall to her waist.
His gaze caressed her breasts, which tingled and swelled. "How lovely
you are, Annie," he said hoarsely.
"You've seen me before." She felt vaguely self-conscious.
But his eyes were deep green with passion. "Then, you were sick with a
fever and a hacking cough. The beauty was there, but I hardly had time
to admire it. Now's different. You are lovely. I'll say it again and
again, every time I hold you, every time we make love."
Her insides quivered, all the more so when he stroked her breast. When
his fingers rubbed her nipple, she grabbed at his shoulders for support.
"You're cruel."
She felt a grin by her ear. "You bring out the worst in me," he said and
kept up the torment.
The flames in Anne burned hotter, threatening to reduce her to embers.
Small, unfamiliar sounds came from her throat when he eased her down on
the bed and took her breast in his mouth. He sucked it in, bringing her
arching off the bed. Clutching handfuls of his sweater, she was thinking
she couldn't bear any more, when he released her and whipped the sweater
over his head. Her hands were all over him, then. She couldn't touch him
enough.
He ground out her name through gritted teeth and crushed her to him to
stop her. She gasped at the press of his chest against hers, the texture
against her softness, the rapid thunder of his heart.
"I need you," she cried, looking up at him. This wasn't enough, just
wasn't enough. "Please?"
"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked huskily, and sucked in his
breath when she pulled at the snap of his jeans. Seconds later her
fingers were inside, against his abdomen. "My God, Annie!" For long
seconds of indecision he stared down at her, and she was an open book,
she knew. But she wasn't ashamed. She might not be ready to say the
words aloud, but the depth of her love, her longing, brought tears to
her eyes.
Then something went wrong. Suddenly his eyes grew hard.
"Damn it!" he swore and released her abruptly. Bolting from the bed, he
strode to the window, where he stood with his hands on his hips, his
legs apart, his head hung low, his shoulders heaving. Then, swearing
again, he stalked past her and left the room.
Anne sat in stunned silence, unable to move, to think, to feel. Finally
the chill in the air drove her under the quilt, but even then the
trembling hit her hard. There was only one explanation for Mitch's
behavior, and it had to do with the "obligation" to which he had once
referred. He wasn't free.
So again she wondered, Do I leave, or do I stay? And again she reached
the same decision. Self-destructive or not, she was staying. She had to
be near Mitch.
But she wasn't being humiliated again. She wasn't begging for love until
it was freely offered first.
Needing to make a statement to that effect, she slipped from bed, went
to the dresser, and pulled on a pair of corduroys and a turtleneck
sweater. Then she went downstairs with her head held high.
But her show of confidence was wasted. Mitch was nowhere in sight. He
had eaten. She saw dishes in the sink. And the blue Honda was parked
outside. Deflated, she guessed that he was out in the woods.
Resigned to spending the afternoon alone, Anne built a roaring fire and
settled before it. She had a short essay to translate, and a new novel,
of the bestseller type, to read. She set to it.
Late afternoon became early evening without a sign of Mitch. More
restless than bored, more concerned than angry, she wandered into the
kitchen. But she didn't have it in her to make dinner, so she returned
to the fireplace.
Not long after, the back door opened and shut. Heavy boots crossed the
kitchen floor. A slicker-clad figure appeared.
Without a word he approached, shucking the slicker along the way and
draping it over a chair. Then he hunkered down near her and added
another log to the fire. When it had begun to sizzle and smoke, he
swiveled to face her.
"Angry?" The fire behind him threw a halo around his head, but his face
was in shadow. Unable to tell whether he empathized or taunted, she went
with the truth.
"No. I have no right to be angry."
"I needed to walk. Even wet, it was good. I needed to think."
About her? About another "obligation"? "You sound like you have the
weight of the world on your shoulders," she teased.
"It sometimes seems that way." His voice was softer, more rueful. "It's
been a bad week."
"Work?" she asked with caution.
"No. Work's fine. I have good backup there. They keep things running
when I fade out."
Anne sat quietly, waiting for him to say more. If his problem wasn't
business, it had to be personal. Suddenly, she didn't want to know.
She stood with a start. "I'll go make dinner." He caught her wrist.
Suddenly gentle, he said, "It's my turn. You did it last night. This
time I'm cooking for you."
His gentleness threw her, as did his eyes, which begged her to let him
do this. It wasn't exactly the begging she wanted, but it was something.
Trying to be as nonchalant as she could, she sank back into the chair
and held up both hands. "It's your house."
He chuckled, in a suddenly lighter mood. One agile movement brought him
to his feet, another brought him to her. He planted a kiss on her cheek
before she had time to pull away.
"What was that for?" she asked.
"For being a saint," he said and set off. Dinner was so companionable,
that when Tuesday morning brought bright sun, Anne wasn't surprised to
see Mitch up early to join her for breakfast.
"It's a perfect morning to set in the spouts," he said, wiping the
dishes as she washed.
"Spouts?"
"We've had cold nights and warm days. The sap should be flowing like
water."
Anne laughed in delight. "Maple-sugaring? We can do it ourselves? I'd
planned on visiting a local farm to watch."
He gave a satisfied grin. "Why go elsewhere when we have everything we
need right here?"
"Do you know what to do?"
"Do I know what to do? Since when have you had cause to question my
expertise?"
She grunted. He was all too appealing when he was in good humor.
"Modesty seems to have escaped you entirely."
He gave a short laugh. "No one's perfect."
In Anne's biased judgment, Mitch was as close to it as anyone could be
on that day and the ones that followed. Though they hiked, read, and
rested, the bulk of their attention focused on the maple-sugaring, about
which he did indeed know almost everything.
"The best trees have to be big, forty years old or more," he explained,
