Jamie braked, flicked off the lights and pocketed the key in one swift movement before Mirelle realized that they were in a garage. His garage.
"I want you, Mirelle. Christ, how I want you," he said softly, roughly, leaning towards her, his face a fierce shadow. His body pressed hers into the seat leather, his hands quick and expert, his lips searching and finding her sensitive places. He guided her out of the car and into the cold dark house. Thoroughly aroused by his seeking hands, she found herself undressing in his room as, somewhere in the dark, he cursed the folderol of dress clothes. Then his warm smooth skin was against hers and they were beside each other in the bed.
"What say you, my silence?" he asked in a whisper at her ear, his long body heavy against her as his restless expert fingers excited her.
"I need you, Jamie. Just now I need you very much."
"Thank God!"
Afterwards, lying in a lovely lassitude, Mirelle could not be sure if Jamie slept. Turning her head cautiously, she saw that, on the contrary, he was watching her intently. He lay on his side, barely touching her body, one hand propping up his head. As she turned, he tucked the blanket close about her, then let his hand rest lightly on her belly.
"The piano's not the only thing you play well," she said.
He chuckled softly, pulling her against him. She thought he sounded relieved, and, in the candid expansiveness of loving's aftermath, she asked him if he was.
"Yes, Mirelle, I am." He kissed her softly.
"Why?"
He looked down at her steadily. Her eyes were used to the darkness now and she met his gaze.
"I've taken a rascally advantage of your distress, my dear…"
"No, Jamie. I needed loving… your kind of loving… desperately."
He cocked his head slightly, his expression quizzical as he waited for her to continue. She ran her forefinger down the line of his face. He caught her hand and bit the finger. "No, Mirelle, no sculptor's pensive tracing now, please. This is between James Howell, man, and Mirelle LeBoyne, woman."
"Yes, that's who it's between, isn't it?"
He buried his face in her neck, kissing the line of her throat and she knew she had said the right thing, at last, in Jamie's presence. And she also knew why she'd phrased her answer that way.
So she pressed against him, inching her body closer to his, felt his legs overlap hers, his hips angling against her. He was strong, so strong and so the restraint with which he used her was all the more surprising. The difference between his and Steve's lovemaking was incredible yet she followed his lead as if they'd been lovers for a long time. Their bodies seemed to match, to fit, and he knew exactly how to draw out the tension before their climax to the precise and critical point of complete release. This second time she was unable to resist the need for sleep.
She woke, though, startled and immediately aware of the unfamiliar surroundings. The illuminated dial on his bureau alarm read 3:10. She ought to be getting home but the thought of moving from his arms - his head pillowed against her shoulder - was unbearable. She could indulge herself this once. The children would all be safely asleep. No one need know where she was or how long she'd been gone. Even the late late train from Philadelphia didn't get in to Wilmington until close to 4:00.
She counted carefully. Nor would she get pregnant as a result. The reassurance amused her and the giggle got as far as her chest, which was far enough to rouse Jamie.
"And what amuses you, my love?" he asked, as flippant as ever.
"I won't get pregnant."
"That's a good girl. Oh, you mean, unlike your mother?" He propped his head up, unwillingly, she thought, for he kept the other arm draped over her, his hand on her breast.
"Mother did not have the advantages of modern science."
"She was quite a woman for all of that."
"Yes, indeed she was."
He gave her a long hard look. "You've forgiven her?"
"I guess I have, though I didn't know that I had to."
He stroked her face, his fingers idly dropping to her throat, her breast again. "And?"
She caught his hand, held it against her breast, feeling his fingers cupping the soft flesh, gently, possessively.
"Right now, I could even forgive my mother-in-law for her transgressions."
He laughed aloud, a vastly amused whoop of a laugh and rocked her into his arms, until her body was athwart his, her forehead pressing against his neck, his hands playing with her hair and caressing her back.
He was a marvelous lover, she thought, aware that love-making need not stop with the climax but could be, as Jamie proved, deliciously prolonged to ease the return to separate awareness. She did not want to leave this bed, disturb this mood…
"I've got to get you home, Mirelle," Jamie murmured with a groan of regret, and then began to kiss her face avidly. "But, God, how I hate to let you go."
"I hate to leave."
He held her from him a little so that he could see her face.
"Do you?"
She caught her breath, half afraid of what he might say next. "Yes, I do." She had to be honest with Jamie. "But I also have to go."
"I know you do, my silence." He was gentle again. No, not gentle, responsive. He understood what she meant. "Promise me one thing, Mirelle?"
"What?"
He grinned because she'd jerked her chin up defensively. He kissed her there. "Don't regret this evening. No, be quiet." His arm tightened to reinforce his order. "I damn well took deliberate advantage of your emotional state, but I've been trying to get you into my bed for some time. I'm not sorry I have. However, in the cold clear light of tomorrow, back in lower Suburbia, you may view the romantic nonsense of being swept into my bed as tawdry. I don't want that, Mirelle, not for you, and not for the way I feel about you. Lie still! You're a decent woman, Mirelle. You did nothing to lead me on so don't have that on your conscience tomorrow. And you're honest. At least you have been tonight in my arms. Don't turn plastic tomorrow. Or ever."
Mirelle ran her free hand up into his hair to pull his head down so she could kiss him deeply. "Thank you, Jamie." She couldn't find any other words but he held her tightly, so perhaps what she couldn't say was expressed properly.
Then, as if only a violent movement would suffice, Jamie threw back the covers and rose from the bed, his long frame silhouetted briefly in the moonlight. She rose, too, shivering in the chilly room, and they dressed in an easy silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HOWELL TOOK HER home, whipping through the deserted streets with deft speed.
"I've got make-up lessons tomorrow, or rather today, and a TV recital on Sunday. May I come leer at you on Monday?"
"If you're sure you can fit it in your overcrowded schedule," said Mirelle, grinning at him.
He grinned back for a moment, then turned uncharacteristically solemn. "Remember, tomorrow morning, what you promised me, Mirelle."
"I will, Jamie."
And because it was so painful to leave him, she did it as quickly as possible, with no farewell of any sort.
The children were, as she'd known, sound asleep. Roman had lost the pillow under his broken arm. She replaced it tenderly. Nick and Tonia were burrowed deep into their covers, warm little animals.
Roman had left a note on her pillow. "Everything here okay. Hope you had a good time."