The sen­sa­ti­on trig­ge­red the an­ci­ent pri­mal ref­lex, pre­sent even in new­borns, to open the mo­uth and se­ek sus­te­nan­ce. But the sa­tis­fac­ti­on she so­ught was of a wo­man’s de­si­re. It shud­de­red thro­ugh her body, and she fas­te­ned on his lips, fran­tic with the sud­den cra­ving to ha­ve her mo­uth fil­led.

  The lar­ge, hard hand crad­ling her skull tig­h­te­ned. With a small gro­an he ob­li­ged her with slow, de­li­be­ra­te stro­kes and vel­vety gli­des along the ed­ges of her ton­gue, but then he went back to the bi­tes and soft gra­zes with his te­eth that ma­de her fran­tic.

  His ot­her arm had co­me aro­und her at so­me po­int, pres­sing his un­mis­ta­kab­le erec­ti­on aga­inst her belly.

  She lo­oped her go­od arm aro­und his neck and ro­se on tip­toe to bring the­ir bo­di­es in­to bet­ter alig­n­ment. As if they had prac­ti­ced a hun­d­red ti­mes, his hand mo­ved down to cup her bot­tom and ba­lan­ce her aga­inst him. With ten­der pur­po­se he stro­ked the lo­wer cur­ves of her but­tocks. But­terfly stro­kes so light she co­uld ha­ve be­en ima­gi­ning them. Not that she was. Oh, no, tho­se light gra­zes we­re lan­ding with far from ac­ci­den­tal ac­cu­racy and awa­ke­ning ner­ve en­dings ac­ross her who­le vul­va.

  She’d al­ways tho­ught sex was for, well, sex, and the struc­tu­re of in­te­rest, the cli­to­ris. Sin­ce a wo­man had to lub­ri­ca­te, and that to­ok ti­me, a cer­ta­in amo­unt of sti­mu­la­ti­on was ne­ces­sary. Fo­rep­lay wo­uld be bet­ter na­med fo­re­work-tasks to be chec­ked off in pre­pa­ra­ti­on for the ma­in event. She had ne­ver ex­pe­ri­en­ced be­ing to­uc­hed as a ple­asu­re worth ta­king for its own sa­ke.

  The back strap of the thong po­sed no bar­ri­er when his ma­gic fin­gers fo­und the­ir way in­to her cleft, qu­es­ting de­eper and de­eper in­to her mo­ist cen­ter.

  He left her mo­uth to dot kis­ses down her neck. “You’re wet al­re­ady.” His vo­ice was a rumbly mo­an. “Do you want mo­re?”

  She tri­ed to an­s­wer and dis­co­ve­red her vo­ice was lit­tle mo­re than a cro­ak. She wan­ted to scre­am, “Yes!” She tri­ed aga­in and ma­na­ged a not-qu­ite-whis­pe­red yes.

  “Do you want to co­me?” he as­ked aga­inst her lips. Be­fo­re she co­uld an­s­wer he bro­ught his com­p­le­tely ope­ned mo­uth over hers.

  “YBuTH.”

  He lif­ted his lips long eno­ugh to te­asingly ask, “What’s that?” be­fo­re he de­li­be­ra­tely did it to her aga­in, ta­king sha­me­less ad­van­ta­ge of the con­t­rol he had of her he­ad.

  If he co­uld hold her he­ad in the pla­ce he wan­ted it, she co­uld do the sa­me to him. With her right arm, she re­ac­hed for his chin. Whi­te hot pa­in, so in­ten­se she saw stars, stre­aked from her sho­ul­der to her neck.

  Imme­di­ately, he re­le­ased her and set her on her fe­et.

  “You’re not re­al­ly in any sha­pe to be do­ing this,” he snap­ped, his burnt um­ber vo­ice mo­re gritty than usu­al. He so­un­ded dis­gus­ted, and as if he’d he­ard him­self, he sho­ok his he­ad and of­fe­red a ru­eful, co­un­t­ry-boy smi­le. “I ha­ve a hard ti­me kno­wing what to get a hold of you by. I tho­ught if I sup­por­ted yo­ur he­ad, you’d be okay.”

  “It was okay,” she as­su­red him, a lit­tle chil­led to think he had cal­cu­la­ted exactly how to hold her even tho­ugh she had be­en the be­ne­fi­ci­ary of his ca­re. “I mo­ved my arm. Big mis­ta­ke.”

  He step­ped aro­und her and sco­oped the dress from whe­re it pud­dled on the car­pet. “Want me to hang this up?” The su­bj­ect was ob­vi­o­usly clo­sed and he was mo­ving on. He held up the dress by the bo­di­ce. “What do you hang it up by?”

  As she sho­wed him the tiny straps sewn to the in­si­de li­ning and fo­und the pad­ded han­ger, Em­mie didn’t un­der­s­tand how he co­uld be so mat­ter-of-fact and bu­si­nes­sli­ke, when hot, ur­gent de­si­re still thrum­med de­ep wit­hin her. It was li­ke he had a switch he co­uld turn off.

  He’d be­en pas­si­ona­tely en­ga­ged. Or may­be not. She’d felt his har­d­ness stra­ining thro­ugh the front of his pants. A man co­uld lie abo­ut a lot of things, but not abo­ut that. Still, a man didn’t ha­ve to fe­el an­y­t­hing for a wo­man to be aro­used. He didn’t even ne­ed to want her. He only had to be horny. May­be he co­uld act li­ke not­hing had hap­pe­ned be­ca­use from his po­int of vi­ew, not­hing had.

  “I’ll go fo­ra­ge in the kit­c­hen for a snack,” he sa­id when he had hung up the dress and evenly spa­ced the rest of the han­ging clot­hes, “so you can ta­ke yo­ur meds.”

  Emmie used the to­ilet whi­le he was go­ne. Af­ter a mi­nu­te, stud­ying her fa­ce in the va­nity mir­ror, she de­ci­ded not to wash the ma­ke­up off, yet. She still felt a lit­tle zip of sur­p­ri­se every ti­me she saw how much dif­fe­rent ha­ir and ma­ke­up chan­ged her. He wasn’t go­ing to hang aro­und long, and she’d li­ke for his last sight of her to be this.

  “I bro­ught you so­me of the pe­can pie we had on Than­k­s­gi­ving,” Ca­leb sa­id when he re­tur­ned. He grin­ned. “I bro­ught me so­me too.” He set the fo­od down on the nig­h­t­s­tand and pi­led the pil­lows aga­inst the he­ad­bo­ard. “Why don’t you get in bed, and I’ll eat with you.”

  Emmie slid un­der the co­vers he held for her, be­mu­sed. She kept thin­king he was go­ing to drop her at any mo­ment. Po­li­tely ma­ke his ex­cu­ses and le­ave, and he kept not do­ing it. On­ce the­ir ro­les in the wed­ding we­re ful­fil­led, no one, le­ast of all her, ex­pec­ted him to stay by her si­de. But he­re he was. Which ma­de her think of a qu­es­ti­on she ne­eded to ask.

  “Why did you ac­cept the in­vi­ta­ti­on to the open ho­use? You don’t want to go, do you?”

  “Why not? Don’t you usu­al­ly go?”

  “Not if I can help it. The party is ab­so­lu­tely bot­tom ti­er-fi­ve hun­d­red sup­por­ters who’ll be flat­te­red to be in­vi­ted to the gre­at man’s ho­use.”

  “You’re not flat­te­red.”

  “No, and I’m not one of his sup­por­ters.”

  “I didn’t me­an to put you in a bind. I-uh”-he for­ked up a bi­te of pie-“I wan­ted to see you aga­in. Ac­cep­ting the in­vi­ta­ti­on se­emed easi­er”-he shot her a mis­c­hi­evo­us lo­ok-“than co­ming out and as­king for a da­te.”

  Emmie’s tilt me­ter hit the red zo­ne. She knew she wasn’t at her shar­pest right now, fud­dled by al­co­hol and pa­in meds. A lot of what had hap­pe­ned to­day was a blur, and tho­se fe­mi­ni­ne in­s­tincts ot­her girls se­emed to ha­ve in abun­dan­ce had be­en left out of her DNA. Pic­kett and ot­her fri­ends had told her she was una­wa­re when guys we­re co­ming on to her-but this was over the top. She was sup­po­sed to be­li­eve he was in­te­res­ted in her, per­so­nal­ly?

  She al­most cho­ked on her in­c­re­du­lity. “You want a da­te?”

  “Emmie, you must re­ali­ze we’ve got so­met­hing go­ing.”

  “You don’t even li­ke me.”

  “What do you think that he­avy pet­ting ses­si­on was abo­ut?”

  She dis­mis­sed that. “Even I know a man will ta­ke what’s of­fe­red. I wasn’t exactly hol­ding you off-and you su­re didn’t ke­ep go­ing.” She knew she was right, knew the­re’d be­en a mo­ment so­me­ti­me to­day when his at­ti­tu­de had chan­ged, and it hadn’t had an­y­t­hing to do with her. But she co­uldn’t think what it was. She fell back on what she knew. “You don’t li­ke me.”

  “I didn’t when I first met you. I tho­ught you we­re cold and sno­oty. I’ve got­ten to know you to­day, and I re­al­ly wo­uld li­ke to see you aga­in.”

  She wan­ted him to ex­p­la­in, but her ti­red bra­in co­uldn’t form the qu­es­ti­ons. She clen­c­hed her te­eth to hi­de a yawn, but it didn’t work. He saw it.

  “You can hardly ke­ep yo­ur eyes open. If you don’t want to go to Cal­ho­un’s, we don’t ha­ve to. I’ll call you in a co­up­le of days, okay? Go to sle­ep now.” He stac­ked the pla­tes to­get­her and sto­od. He bent to gi­ve her a ca­re­ful kiss on the fo­re­he­ad. “I’ll bring in the wed­ding pre­sents, and then I’ll let myself out.”

  With a fi­nal go­od night, he clo­sed the do­or be­hind him.

  Chapter 15

  “Emmie, are you awa­ke?” Pic­kett’s mot­her’s vo­ice ca­me from the bed­ro­om do­or.

  Emmie rol­led over and pus­hed her­self to sit­ting. “Umm. Co­me on in.”

  Mary Co­le Ses­soms en­te­red, bel­ting a smoky gray all-we­at­her co­at that per­fectly com­p­li­men­ted her stylish sil­ver ha­ir, aro­und her slen­der mid­dle. “I’m on my way to church for the early ser­vi­ce. You don’t ha­ve to get up if you don’t want to, but if you do, the­re’s cof­fee ma­de and so­me of Flo­ris’s cin­na­mon buns def­ros­ting on the co­un­ter. Lyle’s still as­le­ep, and Gra­ce won’t be he­re un­til la­ter to or­ga­ni­ze the pre­sents, so you ha­ve the ho­use to yo­ur­self. Ta­ke it easy this mor­ning, okay? You’ve be­en such a go­od sport.”

  Emmie felt he­avy and out of it, awa­re she’d slept mo­re de­eply than sin­ce she’d inj­ured her sho­ul­der. Just this on­ce she’d li­ke to stay in bed and sno­oze, but on­ce Em­mie was awa­ke, she was. She’d ne­ver be­en ab­le to la­ze in bed and ra­rely ne­eded an alarm clock.

  She fum­b­led for the tiny chi­na clock on the nig­h­t­s­tand.

  Ni­ne- thirty. She’d slept la­ter than usu­al. She pad­ded to the bat­h­ro­om and lo­oked in the mir­ror. The prin­cess from last night had tur­ned in­to a hag with ha­ir mas­hed on one si­de and stan­ding stra­ight up on the ot­her, and black smud­ges of mas­ca­ra un­der her eyes. Sic tran­sit Glo­ria Mun­di. All her worldly glory of ma­ke­up and st­y­le had in­de­ed pas­sed. May­be when Lyle got up she’d know how to res­to­re what the night had ta­ken away.

  Once she’d was­hed her fa­ce and com­bed her ha­ir, she didn’t lo­ok a lot bet­ter. Her fa­ce was pa­le, her eyes dull, and her ha­ir was still flat on one si­de and bum­py-lo­oking on the ot­her. One go­od chan­ge-her sho­ul­der felt stiff, but didn’t hurt. Davy had be­en right when he sa­id that if she to­ok the pa­in me­di­ca­ti­on on a sche­du­le, she wo­uld rest mo­re de­eply and he­al qu­ic­ker. He’d al­so pro­mi­sed that her body wo­uld adj­ust to the Vi­co­din af­ter a co­up­le of days, and it wo­uldn’t ma­ke her so groggy. She ho­ped so. She had ra­rely felt so out of it. Her sho­ul­der ga­ve a twin­ge, let­ting her know that it co­uld hurt if she didn’t ta­ke her meds.

  She pul­led on the pow­der blue terry ro­be, anot­her item pur­lo­ined from Gra­ce’s six-fo­ur hus­band. Li­ke the pa­j­ama top it was ro­omy eno­ugh to slip in­to wit­ho­ut twis­ting her sho­ul­ders. It hung al­most to the flo­or and the sle­eves we­re so long that Gra­ce, who tho­ught of ever­y­t­hing, had pin­ned them back prac­ti­cal­ly to the sho­ul­der se­am with sa­fety pins.

  Emmie pul­led the co­balt blue sho­ul­der har­ness over the who­le and he­aded dow­n­s­ta­irs to the kit­c­hen.

  The mic­ro­wa­ve he­ating her cin­na­mon roll din­ged at the sa­me mo­ment the do­or­bell bon­ged. It bon­ged twi­ce mo­re as she ma­de her way down the hall to the front do­or, con­fir­ming Em­mie’s as­sum­p­ti­on that so­me mem­ber of the fa­mily had for­got­ten the­ir key. No one el­se wo­uld drop in for a vi­sit at this ho­ur on Sun­day mor­ning.

  The fan and si­de­lights ad­mit­ted the gray light of the drizzly mor­ning, but when she ope­ned the do­or no one was the­re.

  She clo­sed the do­or, and the bell so­un­ded aga­in. Fi­nal­ly, it pe­net­ra­ted her men­tal fog that she was he­aring just one no­te, not the full Wes­t­min­s­ter chi­me. Which me­ant so­me­one was at the dri­ve­way do­or.

  By the ti­me she had tra­ver­sed the hall aga­in, ban­ging co­uld be he­ard. Wit­ho­ut even a tho­ught that she sho­uld find out who was on the ot­her si­de first, she ope­ned it.

  Ca­leb, with Davy at his sho­ul­der, sto­od the­re fra­med by the de­ep gre­en twi­ning smi­lax Pic­kett’s mot­her had tra­ined to co­ver the sto­op.

  Both men we­re dres­sed in je­ans. Davy’s we­re fa­ded al­most whi­te along the se­ams. At the fly, dar­ker blue stre­aks, whe­re the je­ans had worn in­to per­ma­nent folds, po­in­ted li­ke ar­rows to his pac­ka­ge. Davy wo­re a tee shirt that dis­p­la­yed his chest de­ve­lop­ment and the girth of his bi­ceps. He’d might as well ha­ve had a sign that re­ad, “I’m a stud.”

  Ca­leb’s je­ans we­re ne­wer, not tig­ht-fit­ting, and iro­ned. He had pa­ired them with a dress shirt open at the thro­at of so­me clo­se-to-whi­te oli­ve sha­de that bro­ught out the gre­en in his eyes and the sa­me rust-flec­ked twe­ed sport co­at as yes­ter­day. No one co­uld miss the strong co­lumn of his neck or mis­ta­ke the con­fi­dent set of his sho­ul­ders. He lo­oked exactly right.

  Ca­leb’s eyes swept over her ta­king in the lop­si­ded ha­ir, her pa­le and puffy fa­ce, the sha­pe­less man’s bat­h­ro­be. His smi­le was ten­ta­ti­ve. “Sorry for the ban­ging. Did we get you up?”

  “No, I was awa­ke,” an­s­we­red Em­mie a split se­cond be­fo­re she re­ali­zed if ever the­re was an oc­ca­si­on to lie, it was this one. Too la­te, she saw the fa­int sne­er that twis­ted Davy’s too-per­fect smi­le. She sho­uld ha­ve sa­id she was so­und as­le­ep and thin­king the ho­use was on fi­re, had rus­hed to the do­or. She sho­uld ha­ve sa­id an evil witch sto­le in­to her ro­om as she slept and tur­ned her in­to a Sim­p­son re­fu­gee. She sho­uld ha­ve sa­id-an­y­t­hing at all, ex­cept the truth. Li­ke a cha­rac­ter in a fa­iry ta­le, all her gos­sa­mer had tur­ned to cob­webs. This was why if she ga­ve her­self a bir­t­h­day party, so­me­body el­se wo­uld be the gu­est of ho­nor. She tug­ged the la­pels of the ro­be to­get­her. “May I help you?”

  “Gra­ce cal­led this mor­ning to say a who­le tab­le full of pre­sents we­re left at the co­untry club. She as­ked me to pick them up and bring them he­re. Can you open the ga­ra­ge do­or? It’s star­ted to ra­in. Don’t want the pre­sents to get wet.” He pa­used, cle­arly ex­pec­ting so­met­hing from her, but Em­mie co­uldn’t ima­gi­ne what. At last he as­ked, “May we co­me in?”

  “Um, su­re.” Em­mie sto­od asi­de to ad­mit them. “I’ll open the ga­ra­ge do­or, if I can re­mem­ber whe­re the but­ton is.”

  Ca­leb wal­ked uner­ringly to the small but­ton be­si­de the do­or that ope­ned in­to the ga­ra­ge. “This it?”

  After she’d shown them the for­mal li­ving ro­om whe­re the gifts we­re dis­p­la­yed, she pla­ced her hand on the ne­wel post of the sta­irs. “I’ll just go up­s­ta­irs and get in­to so­me clot­hes.”

  “Fi­ne. We’ll bring in the pre­sents.”

  Emmie was at the do­or of her bed­ro­om when she re­mem­be­red her cin­na­mon roll still in the mic­ro­wa­ve. She co­uldn’t ta­ke her me­di­ci­ne un­til she ate it. She re­ver­sed her steps and was al­most to the fo­ot of the sta­irs when she he­ard the men’s vo­ices co­ming from the li­ving ro­om.

  “I don’t know who I fe­el sor­ri­er for, you or Lon.” She he­ard Davy la­ugh.

  “What are you tal­king abo­ut?” Ca­leb as­ked.

  “You know Jax’s ex-mot­her-in-law? She got lo­aded at the re­cep­ti­on. She wo­und up spen­ding the night with Lon in his ho­tel ro­om.”

  “I’d sug­gest you don’t spre­ad that aro­und.”

  “She’s a lush, but at le­ast she’s be­a­uti­ful.” Davy pur­su­ed the su­bj­ect, ig­no­ring Ca­leb’s war­ning. “But you, you we­re stuck with the dork last night.”

  Ca­leb mum­b­led so­met­hing Em­mie co­uldn’t he­ar, but that Davy la­ug­hed in res­pon­se to. “I ad­mit,” Davy sa­id as he chor­t­led aga­in, “she lo­oked bet­ter last night, but go­od God, man, even with gre­at ho­oters, that’s a pity fuck if I ever saw one!”

  All the nasty snic­kers she’d ever he­ard re­ver­be­ra­ted so lo­ud she hardly he­ard Ca­leb when he rum­b­led, “Shut up, Davy.”

  Emmie grip­ped the ba­lus­t­ra­de tight eno­ugh to le­ave dents in the po­lis­hed oak. Her he­art be­at so hard she was af­ra­id she was go­ing to pass out-or ex­p­lo­de. Her fin­ger­tips tin­g­led as if she’d had an elec­t­ric shock.

  Then Ca­leb grow­led. “Go get the last of the pre­sents.”

  Oh, God! Davy was go­ing to co­me in­to the hall and see her. He was every re­ason she had pre­fer­red to be in­vi­sib­le. Or ma­ke su­re she only de­alt with the Davys of this world from a po­si­ti­on of aut­ho­rity. She knew she ne­eded to run back up­s­ta­irs, but she co­uldn’t ma­ke her fe­et mo­ve.

  And it was too la­te an­y­way. Thro­wing so­me re­mark over his sho­ul­der, Davy exi­ted the li­ving ro­om and saw her at the fo­ot of the sta­irs.

  Who knows what con­f­lu­en­ce of events ma­kes a tur­ning po­int in so­me­one’s li­fe? La­ter, Em­mie won­de­red if the fact that she was on the third step from the bot­tom, which put her he­ad hig­her than his, was the de­ci­ding fac­tor, sin­ce it ma­de her li­te­ral­ly lo­ok down on him. May­be the flo­od of ad­re­na­li­ne po­un­ding thro­ugh her system had bur­ned out so­met­hing. May­be it was the fact that she saw in his shoc­ked brown eyes and the em­bar­ras­sed red of his smo­oth che­eks just how yo­ung-how yo­ung and cal­low-he was.

  At any ra­te, al­t­ho­ugh a se­cond be­fo­re she wo­uld ha­ve slunk away to nur­se her wo­unds in pri­va­te, she wasn’t go­ing to do so now. She had had it.