The Season Of Love: Beloved. Diana Palmer
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She shrugged. “I got drunk and passed out.”
“And the pistol?”
“The mouse.” She nodded toward the refrigerator. “He’s under there, I can hear him. He can’t be trapped and he’s brazen. I got drunk and decided to take him out like John Wayne, with a six-shooter. I missed.”
He chuckled softly. “I thought it was something like that. You’re not suicidal.”
“You’re the only person who thinks so. Even Dr. Gaines didn’t believe me. He wanted me to have therapy,” she scoffed.
“The newspapers had a field day. I guess Jill helped feed the fire.”
She glanced up, surprised. “You knew?”
“Not until she commented on it, when it was too late to do anything. For what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “I don’t know many people who believed the accounts in her cousin’s paper.”
She leaned back in her chair and stared at him levelly. “That I did it for love of you?” she drawled with a poisonous smile. “You hurt my feelings when you accused me of killing my husband,” she said flatly. “I was already overworked and depressed and I did something stupid. But I hope you don’t believe that I sit around nights crying in my beer because of unrequited passion for you!”
Her tone hit him on the raw. He got slowly to his feet and his eyes narrowed as he stared down at her.
She felt at a distinct disadvantage. She’d only seen Simon lose his temper once. She’d never forgotten and she didn’t want to repeat the experience.
“It’s late,” she said quickly. “I’d like to go to bed.”
“Would you really?” His pale gaze slid over her body as he said it, his voice so sensuous that it made her bare toes curl up on the spotless linoleum floor.
She didn’t trust that look. She started past him and found one of her hands suddenly trapped by his big one. He moved in, easing her hand up onto the silky fabric of his vest, inside it against the silky warmth of his body under the thin cotton shirt. She could feel the springy hair under it as well, and the hard beat of his heart as his breath whispered out at her temple, stirring her hair. She’d never been so close to him. It was as if her senses, numb for years, all came to life at once and exploded in a shattering rush of physical sensation. It frightened her and she pushed at his chest.
“Simon, let go!” she said huskily, all in a rush.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. The feel of her in his arms exceeded his wildest imaginings. She was soft and warm and she smelled of flowers. He drank in the scent and felt her begin to tremble. It went right to his head. His hand left hers and slid into her hair at her nape, clenching, so that she was helpless against him. He fought for control. He mustn’t do this. It was too soon. Far too soon.
His breath came quickly. She could hear it, feel it. His cheek brushed against hers roughly, as if he wanted to feel the very texture of her skin there. He had a faint growth of beard and it rasped a little, but it was more sensual than uncomfortable.
Her heart raced as wildly as his. She wanted to draw back, to run, but that merciless hand wasn’t unclenching. If anything, it had an even tighter grip on her long hair.
She wasn’t protesting anymore. He felt her yield and his body clenched. His cheek drew slowly against hers. She felt his mouth at the corner of her own, felt his breath as his lips parted.
“Don’t…” The little cry was all but inaudible.
“It’s too late,” he said roughly. “Years too late. God, Tira, turn your mouth against mine!”
She heard the soft, gruff command with a sense of total unreality. Her cold hands pressed against his shirt-front, but it was, as he said, already too late.
He moved his head just a fraction of an inch, and his hard, hot mouth moved completely onto hers, parting her lips as it explored, settled, demanded. There was a faint hesitation, almost of shock, as sensual electricity flashed between them. He felt her mouth tremble, tasted it, savored it, devoured it.
He groaned as his mouth began to part her lips insistently. Then his arm was around her, the one with the prosthesis holding her waist firmly while the good one lifted and traced patterns from her cheek down to her soft, pulsing throat. He could hear the tortured sound of his own breath echoed by her own.
She whimpered as she felt the full force of his mouth, felt the kiss she’d dreamed of for so many years suddenly becoming reality. He tasted of coffee. His lips were hard and demanding on her mouth, sensual, insistent. She didn’t protest. She clung to him, savoring the most ecstatic few seconds of her life as if she never expected to feel anything so powerful again.
Her response puzzled him, because it wasn’t that of an experienced woman. She permitted him to kiss her, clung to him closely, even seemed to enjoy his rough ardor; but she gave nothing back. It was almost as if she didn’t know how…
He drew back slowly. His pale, fierce eyes looked down into hers with pure sensual arrogance and more than a little curiosity.
This was a Simon she’d never seen, never known, a sensual man with expert knowledge of women that was evident even in such a relatively chaste encounter. She was afraid of him because she had no defense against that kind of ardor, and fear made her push at his chest.
He put her away from him abruptly and his arms fell to his sides. She moved back, her eyes like saucers in a flushed, feverish face, until she was leaning against the counter.
Simon watched her hungrily, his eyes on the noticeable signs of her arousal in her body under the thin silk gown, in her swollen mouth and the faint redness on her cheek where his own had rubbed against it with his faint growth of beard. He’d never dreamed that he and Tira would kindle such fires together. In all their years of careless friendship, he’d never really approached her physically until tonight. He felt as if he were drowning in uncharted waters.
Tira went slowly to the back door and opened it, unnaturally calm. She still looked gloriously beautiful, even more so because she was emotionally aroused.
He took the hint, but he paused at the open door to stare down at her averted face. She was very flustered for a woman who had a lover. He found himself bristling with sudden and unexpected jealousy of the most important man in her life.
“Lucky Charles,” he said gruffly. “Is that what he gets?”
Her eyes flashed at him. “You get out of here!” she managed to say through her tight throat. She pulled her robe tight against her throat. “Go. Just, please, go!”
He walked past her, hesitating on the doorstep, but she closed the door after him and locked it. She went back through the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom before she dared let the tears flow. She was too shaken to try to delve into his motives for that hungry kiss. But she knew it had to be some new sort of revenge for his friend John. Well, it wouldn’t work! He was never going to hurt her again, she vowed. She only wished she hadn’t been stupid enough to let him touch her in the first place.
Simon stood outside by his car in the misting rain, letting the coolness push away the flaring heat of his body. He shuddered as he leaned his forehead against the cold roof of the car and thanked God he’d managed to get out of there before he did something even more stupid than he already had.
Tira had submitted. He could have had her. He was barely able to draw back at all. What a revelation that had been, that a woman he’d known for years should be able to arouse such instant, sweeping passion in him. Even Melia hadn’t had such a profound effect on him, in the days when he’d thought he loved her.
He hadn’t meant to touch her. But her body, her exquisite body, in that thin robe and gown had driven him right over the edge. He still had the taste of her soft, sweet lips on his mouth, he could still feel her pressed completely to him. It was killing him!
He