It Started with a House... (13 page)

“She's probably right. It can be debilitating and comes and goes quickly.”

“I don't mean to get personal, but did you suffer from it when you were carrying her?”

“No, bless her. My Gigi was perfect in every way.”

On that they could agree. “Okay, look, I have no way of checking online right now and her doctor is in
delivery. I was wondering if you'd Google the subject for me online?”

“First tell me if she's bleeding or vomiting nonstop? If there's any hint of that, forget the rest and get her to the hospital immediately.”

Did she think him a complete idiot? If Genevieve had ripped a fingernail in that fall, they would already be in E.R. “No, thank God,” he said with growing impatience. “But she all but fainted when she got out of the car here at her house, and I think she must have pulled over along the way to be sick.”

“Poor sweetie. I suspect our lunch salad was too much for her. And considering the pace she keeps, I've been telling her to take some vitamins for ages,” Sydney replied. “She's alert now, isn't she?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Marshall said, “That's the point. She's not. She's barely speaking fragments. And—forgive me if I'm offending you, but have you not noticed she's lost weight?”

“Of course I have,” Sydney replied. “But may I remind you, Marshall, that it's you who has put her into an emotional tailspin. That said, it's not uncommon to lose a few pounds at first.”

He could accept that not-so-subtle censure. “If you say so, but I can't see how that's safe for the baby.”

“A fetus is a resilient little thing. Has she acted like she's cramping?”

Dear God, he thought. “She hasn't moved so much as an eyelash.”

“Well, keep an eye out for that, but otherwise put some crackers within reach for her and she should probably stay off the computer and avoid TV for the rest of the
day. All of that page scrolling and eyestrain can add to the nausea.”

“I'd still feel better taking her to E.R.”

“I understand, but unless she admits to hurting, she'll have your head if you attempt that. She wants to maintain her privacy about her condition as long as she can.”

“Don't I know it,” he muttered.

“And no more conversations that get her stressed.”

What all had Genevieve told her mother? “It's never been my intention to do that. She's has enough of that in her life already, and any time you work with the public, that's its own potential can of worms.” Sydney didn't know how fortunate she was to be incubated from that sitting in her private office as she was.

“Can you handle things there?” Sydney asked. “You aren't going to leave her alone, are you?”

“I'd like to camp out on her couch as long as she's not fully cognizant. Later if she feels stronger, though, she might have something to say about that.”

“If that happens, call me back and I'll relieve you. Bart is out of town and I wouldn't mind at all.”

“All right, I will. Thanks for the input,” he added, although he could have done without some of her opinions.

“You're welcome. Will you give me an update when you can?”

“Of course.”

As he disconnected, Marshall thought about all Sydney had said—at least about her health. A vitamin deficiency would need a doctor's diagnosis, but he could at least check what Genevieve had in her medicine cabinet
to see if there was something there that would give him a clue that she was keeping from her mother.

He returned to the bedroom to check on Genevieve and found her sleeping deeply. Her coloring seemed improved and she didn't act as though she was in any new distress, so he detoured to the bathroom to check for medicines and vitamins. Finding neither, only an over-the-counter pain reliever and low-dose aspirin, he eased out of the room and went to work getting those things done that he'd promised earlier.

About a half hour later he thought of her mailbox and went out to check it. He was on his way back to the house when he spotted an elderly man with a cane exiting the house next door.

“Say there! Hold on!” the scrappy senior citizen called out.

Marshall hesitated then backtracked to meet the frail rail of a man inching along his concrete driveway. The nearly bald guy didn't look capable of making it the whole way without oxygen. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

“You can tell me what you think you're doing,” the man with the quaking voice demanded. “I've never seen you here before and I've lived on this cul-de-sac for the entire forty years since it was built. That's Genevieve's house,” he added, pointing with his cane. “Where is she?”

“She's come down with a bug, sir. I'm a friend, Marshall Roark. I live by the lake two houses away from Genevieve's mother, Sydney Sawyer. Genevieve actually was the agent who sold me my property and we'd just been talking over at my place when she became ill, so I followed to make sure she was okay.”

“Take her to the hospital. The mail can wait. It's nothing but medical bills and insurance advertisements anyway.” Through cataract-cloudy eyes, he peered at Marshall. “You didn't give her food poisoning, did you?”

Oh, brother, Marshall thought. The old guy was overdue for a dose of his own medicine, but he didn't want to be the cause for calling 911. “Not me, sir. She'd just had lunch with Sydney.”

“Who's that?”

“The writer Sydney Sawyer.”

“Who's that?”

“Genevieve's mother.”

“Don't know her, but you sort of sound like you do and might have a right to be here. Then again, you never can tell these days.” He shook a shaky finger into Marshall's face. “Listen here, Genie is a good girl and doesn't mess around. You treat her with respect, and while you're at it, don't embarrass the neighborhood.”

Coughing into his fist, Marshall nodded repeatedly. “I'll pass on your concern and best wishes, sir.”

The neighborhood watchdog scowled at him from beneath wild white and gray eyebrows that would have made Medusa's head full of writhing snakes take notice. “I'll be watching to see that you leave.”

“If that becomes necessary, you should watch for another vehicle. That would be Mrs. Sawyer, Genevieve's mother.”

“What's her name?”

Marshall felt trapped in a Tim Burton movie…
Alice in Wonderland, Edward Scissorhands
…one of those.
“Genevieve's mother's name is Sydney Sawyer. She's a famous writer.”

The squinty-eyed man with the liver-spotted face scowled back at him. “She's not too famous. I've never heard of her. Now Mark Twain, there was a famous writer.”

“I'll bet you have his autograph, too.”

“Say what?”

Marshall gestured with the mail. “I do need to get back inside, Mr.— I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.”

“Butler. Don't try to be a comedian. First name is Riley, not Rhett.”

The old man was a fox if only a fading one. “I admire your sense of humor, Mr. Butler. Thank you for being such a good neighbor to Genevieve.”

“Well, she's been an angel to the wife and myself. That's Shirley, not Scarlett. Shirl doesn't get around as well as I do and Genevieve often picks up our medications and arranges for rides to the grocery for us.”

“She has spoken with affection and concern for you both,” Marshall replied. “I'll go on now and see how she's doing.”

“Give her our love.”

Waving, Marshall hurried to the house. If the Butlers—not Rhett and not Scarlett—needed errands run from now on, he would be doing them. They weren't going to exhaust what little energy Genevieve had in reserve right now.

When he returned inside with the mail and Genevieve's purse, he set things on the kitchen table and went to see if there was any change in her condition. This time he found she had curled into a fetal position. At least it
was something, but he wondered if she was cold, upset or—God forbid—cramping. Chilled, he realized, feeling her hands and finding them icy. While the temperature was comfortable for him, it wouldn't be for someone not feeling well and underweight.

It would have been best to get her into her pajamas, but not wanting to risk her reaction, he settled for taking off her shoes and easing her under the thicker comforter. Once he was reassured that she would remain peaceful, he returned to the kitchen to ring Sydney again.

“She's settled down, and seems to be sleeping more comfortably,” he reported. “Since that's the case, I'll camp out on the couch, as planned. At least until she wakes again.”

“That's good. I don't think it's a wise idea to leave her alone.”

“Do you know her neighbors, the Butlers? I was cornered by Riley.”

“Not Rhett,” Sydney piped in.

“Ah. You've met the rascal.”

“No. Knowing my unquenchable thirst for characters, Genevieve has imparted enough details from their conversations for me to get a vivid mental image. What about him?”

“He's hinted at calling 911 on me if I don't leave at a decent hour. My instincts tell me he's pretty harmless. He thinks he's protecting Genevieve's reputation as much as being a watchdog for his neighborhood. But I know your daughter would be mortified if I had to do a lot of explaining for a police call at this address.”

“You should be all right. From what I've gathered from Gigi, his bark is always worse than his bite.”

“That's what I was hoping. All right then, have a good night. It's not my plan to have to trouble you again this evening.”

“Oh, do feel free. Riley Butler may not interest me overly much, but you, my boy, have my daughter's future happiness in your hands.”

W
hen Genevieve opened her eyes the room was dark and she didn't quite know where she was. Dark…the room never was, not totally. Was it even hers? That was her alarm clock on the night table. But how could it be 1:15 a.m., yet she was sleeping in her clothes?

The cobwebs of confusion cleared faster once she pushed back the covers and sat up. That was when one word formed on her lips. “Marshall.”

Worried, he had come after her. If he hadn't, she could have been injured during that fainting spell. She shivered with dread as she realized she could have lost the baby. Thankfully, except for the strong desire to wash up and get out of her street clothes, she felt okay. Decent. She would have to call him so that he would know how grateful she was that he'd ignored her and come to check on her. She owed him an apology, too. She was not proud of the way she'd reacted, and she should have handled
things better. The child she'd endangered was Marshall's as much as it was hers.

Once she was confident her legs would hold her, she stripped out of her things and went to the closet, where she slipped on a thigh-length ivory tunic and bikini panties. Then she went to the bathroom and switched on the night-light, which was all the help she needed to brush her teeth.

Feeling increasingly more like herself, she decided to check the house to make sure everything was locked, although she was confident Marshall would have been thorough in that respect, as well. Hopefully, he'd left her a note. She didn't deserve such a thoughtful communication, but it would give her a sense of how to start their conversation when she called him later.

While almost soundlessly padding through the near dark living room, she heard something rustle to her left. Gasping, she spun around, nearly stubbing her toe on the leg of the sofa table. On the other side of it, was Marshall, all six-two or so of him cramped impossibly on the love seat. Since her living room was on the compact size, she had purchased it instead of a full-size couch in order to have room for chairs and some accent tables.

Tiptoeing around the furniture, she leaned over until her cascading hair caressed his bare shoulder. She could see him well enough to know that he was awake and watching her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Why are you whispering?” he replied in kind.

“Because…I don't know.” Speaking in her normal voice, she gestured to his impossible sleeping arrangement. “You can't be comfortable on that. What were you thinking?”

“That I'd sleep lightly and hear you if you needed me.”

“Oh, Marshall.” She straightened, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she did so. “You didn't even cover yourself with one of these throws and afghans around the room.”

“They look too pretty to use. Besides, it was warm when I laid down. Even too warm to stay in my sweatshirt.”

Yes, one of the first things she'd noticed was that he was half-naked. “I feel awful about this.”

Stifling a groan as he sat up, he briskly rubbed his face. “Don't,” he said, rising to his feet. “Remember, I'm a veteran of make-do sleeping quarters.”

He was referring to the days, weeks and months in the hospital with Cynthia. That made Genevieve feel all the guiltier for adding to his discomfort. “Of course, but—you should have come to bed. There was plenty of room.”

“I wouldn't have wanted to disturb you,” he began. “I didn't think—” Pausing, he amended, “You wouldn't have minded?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think I was cold at one point and woke just enough to reach for the comforter. Your…body heat would have helped.”

“How are you now?”

“Better. Fine, thanks to you. No queasiness whatsoever.”

“Great. You look it. Fine.”

He was noting her change in attire, and there was no missing that he more than approved of it. Aware that the stove light was probably exposing that she wasn't wearing a bra, she crossed her arms. Walking around
without her robe was making her feel the night's chill and she didn't need to look down to know that her body was exposing that. As for her tunic—maybe it didn't cover her legs nearly as much as she thought. Staring at his chest helped. She didn't feel the coolness as much when she focused on something else—like the dusting of chest hair that didn't hide that his nipples were beading, as well.

“So, you've been here the whole time?” she asked as he reached for his shirt.

“You think I could leave you after you collapsed?” He hesitated then added, “I warned your mother that you might want her as backup if you woke and wanted me gone. I can call her if you wanted me to. She said she wouldn't mind whatever the time.”

“Oh. No, don't do that.” Genevieve couldn't believe she'd slept through phone conversations and everything. “She doesn't sleep well anywhere but at home.”

“Then maybe we'll let her sleep. She did leave the decision up to me,” he added.

Remembering some of her mother's comments about him, Genevieve felt heat rise in her face. “You have made a good impression on her.”

“But less so on your neighbor.”

She assumed that he was referring to the elderly couple she was sensitive about upsetting. “You met Riley? I assume it was Riley. Shirley rarely comes outside. She's on medication that discourages being in sunlight.” Oh, blast, she thought. She was rambling. “Riley tends to come off as gruff, but he's really quite sweet. Hard of hearing, as you probably found out. And there are some dementia issues starting, as well.”

“Which may explain why he has only one joke in his repertoire.”

“Riley, not Rhett.” Laughing breathlessly, Genevieve spontaneously reached out and touched his arm. “Poor Marshall. You got it from all sides today.”

Looking from where her fingers rested back to her, he murmured, “It's all right. I'd do it again, and more…for you.”

This was the Marshall Roark who for months had been creeping under her defenses and kept staking claim to bits of her heart. He stood with the shirt forgotten in his hands, his gaze willing her to take that necessary step closer. She understood that he was reluctant to this time. She'd rejected him too often for him to follow through on any impulses he might have. If she wanted him back, all that he was asking her to do was make the first move.

“Marshall,” she breathed, shifting to lay her hand against his firmly beating heart. Lured by the entreaty in his eyes, as well as his male scent and body, she leaned forward to touch a kiss near where her fingers spanned.

Just as quietly, he dropped his shirt and slowly wrapped his arms around her. Being held against him with such tenderness made her feel safe. When he exhaled it sounded as if the night was also sighing with relief. She felt exactly the same way.

She closed her eyes, soaking in the sensations of him and this peace that she hadn't known in years and had only found again in his arms. His body was all male, as beautiful to the touch as to view, and as she skimmed her fingertips over his torso, she reveled at the power to make
muscles harden and skin heat. With every caress, the cooler air became a relief for her own heating body.

As a content kitten would, she snuggled, rubbed her cheek against him, then wet him with the tip of her tongue. His taste made her yearn for more and she rose on tiptoe to seek his mouth.

With a moan he gave her what she asked for. He kissed her as if she was melting ice cream and he was starving and parched, dying of thirst. He only broke the kiss to breathe, and to journey down her throat and across the shoulder where her slipping nightshirt offered him more of her to explore. It was only when she took his hand and directed it to her breast that he broke their fragile silence.

“Genevieve. Are you sure you're up for this?”

“Not if we stand again.”

“Oh, God, that was wonderful. You don't know how many times I've relived it in my mind. I can't stop thinking about it.”

He'd been stroking her from shoulder to hip and now slid both of his hands to her breasts, caressing her nipples with his thumbs until the hard peaks radiated an almost unbearable ache. She arched into his touch, praying he would never stop.

“I didn't get to do this enough that night,” he said on shallow breaths. “I didn't get to learn the taste of every inch of you.”

Nor she him. She stroked his shoulders, finding the increased tension there as lean muscle and tendons flexed and stretched under her touch. Then she returned to his front to lightly score his chest with her short fingernails.
She won a deeper moan from him as she learned how his nipples could make him ache just as he made hers.

“Wet me again. I promise I'll do that and more for you.”

First she caressed him repeatedly with her nose and hair to sensitize him. By the time she grazed him with her teeth and closed her lips around him, his hands were moving more boldly under her tunic and inside her briefs to cup her bottom and rock her against his powerful arousal.

She'd noted before that he had the hands of a pianist. He used them with sensitivity and control, one moment exploring and coaxing, the next soothing and reassuring. Genevieve knew she would climax from his touch alone if he didn't enter her soon. Gliding her hand along the zipper of his jeans, she entreated, “Don't you want to lie down?”

“Soon.”

First he slid his hands up her rib cage, lifting her tunic along the way. Seconds later it was over her head and gone. His caresses grew more decisive and passionate after that, his kisses damper until she had to cling to his shoulders to keep her balance.

“Lean back,” he coaxed. “You know you're safe with me.”

As he coursed a sensual river of hot caresses down her body she thought she would die from the exquisitely mellow, sometimes piercing pleasure. And still he continued, down her belly and over the waistband of her briefs, his breath hot between her thighs as he finished undressing her. She began to stop him from where he
was going. Only one man had ever touched her like that. But he wouldn't let her. He wouldn't be denied.

By the time he lowered her onto the couch, she was trembling and crying. Marshall rose over her and quickly wrapped her in his arms.

“Genevieve, sweetheart, what's wrong?”

“It was so beautiful.”

“You're what's beautiful.”

“You make me ache.”

“Ache bad or ache good?”

“I want you.”

“Hold on.”

His slow invasion was easier this time, yet still had her arching her back and lifting her hips off the couch. “Easy,” he instructed, his voice almost a raw rasp. “We have all night. Don't let me hurt you.”

But she needed to be closer, needed him deeper.

Her eagerness was his undoing. When he started to withdraw and she refused to let him, in fact wrapped her legs around him to keep him close, he uttered a deep growl and crushed her against him.

“You make me crazy,” he said before locking his mouth to hers. “Ah, Gen—”

Unable to stop, he drove back into her again and again. Each thrust won a soft keen from her as she felt herself driven back to where he'd already brought her once. The pressure built. Droplets fell from his forehead and chest as he struggled to prolong things. But as she greedily licked at every drop to take everything he offered, she also took the last of his control.

In his climax, she found her own, and as he fell onto her in exhaustion, she clung to him, convinced that his
weight was the only thing to keep her from floating away in ecstasy.

At some point he moved them to make her more comfortable and they lay in each other's arms for a small eternity, panting yet continuing to stroke and calm each other. Genevieve might have drifted off to sleep, she was that content, but he began to speak.

“I think you're going to hate me by daylight. I kept trying not to rip you to shreds with this beard. You're too tempting for your own good.”

When he began to withdraw, she immediately tightened her arms and legs to keep him close. “Please don't go.”

“Sweetheart, you're not used to this.”

“I loved your passion.”

“You inspire me.” As he teased her with a slow, gentle rocking of his hips, he added, “Truth is, I don't want to let go of you for fear that you'll escape.”

“I won't go farther than my bed—if you'll take me there.”

He lifted his head and searched her eyes. “Do you have an extra razor?”

“I just bought a new supply.”

With a satisfied growl, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

 

When Marshall woke, his first reaction was a bursting feeling in his chest. Although he shifted his hand against his chest, he was fairly confident that he wasn't having a heart attack, but could a man die of too much happiness? Last night had tested that theory.

He hadn't quite gotten over the habit of wearing a
watch and, lifting his arm, he saw it was almost seven in the morning. They had been at each other so much through the night, he doubted they'd had three hours' sleep. At first he'd worried about the baby, but each time their lovemaking had been slower and more sensuous, unlike the impatient and desperate madness of their first union.

Genevieve.
Just thinking her name made his eyes burn and throat ache with emotion. She'd been a dream, so generous, so responsive. If he'd had any doubts before—and there were virtually none—he knew he loved her. There was still much to learn about her, but the thought of spending the rest of their lives doing so filled him with a sense of rightness, as well as excitement.

He watched her shift onto her side, her movements cautious. Was she sore, or was she being thoughtful and trying not to wake him? As she reached out to check the clock, he was tempted to tease her by growling, “Get back here, woman.” Her soft sound of surprise had him smiling anyway. He didn't remember the last time he'd slept so late either.