It Started with a House... (6 page)

He nodded, his introverted expression indicating he was picturing her suggestion. Then, reaching over to pick them up in one hand, he said, “Let's go see if that looks as perfect as it sounds.”

His excitement was as intoxicating as the wine and she followed, admitting to herself that she was glad she'd
accepted the wine and didn't just blurt out what she'd come to say and run away like a coward. She liked him, was drawn to him, and it wasn't his fault that she was just not ready, and might never be.

It turned out that the TV she'd heard was playing in his office. As they passed there, Marshall leaned in to key the remote and shut it off. That made things ultra-quiet as they entered the master suite.

“Sorry about the noise,” he said. “It must strike you as odd that a person who enjoyed the solitude and quiet of the outdoors would have the TV all but blaring.”

“Not at all. I did the same thing in the beginning. Only for me it was airhead comedies that require no thinking. I couldn't risk anything that would make me cry for fear of never stopping.”

“Of course. The last thing you needed was the latest body count from overseas.”

As they entered the master bedroom, he flipped on a few lights, then turned left into his vanity area. Only a hint of dampness and warmth remained from his shower, and she could see that he'd left the room immaculate, but her imagination went into overdrive anyway and she pictured him emerging from the shower stall.

The click of Marshall's glass on the brown marble counter jerked her back to reality, and she watched, feeling a little dazed, as he held up the framed photos above the brass towel rack and against the green-striped wallpaper.

“Is this what you mean?”

Genevieve looked from the photos over her shoulder at the mirror and saw her hunch was on target. The photos
would be beautifully reflected in the vanity mirror, as well. “Perfect. Don't you think so?”

“At the risk of sounding egotistical, yeah. When I first framed them, I thought at best they could fill a dark hallway somewhere or be donated to a garage sale. They've spent most of their life in a closet. Cyn thought black-and-white photos were depressing.”

As he stood back and crossed his arms over his chest as though reminiscing, Genevieve understood and gasped. “
You're
the photographer.”

“It's been years since I picked up a camera. This is the Cascades in Washington just after I graduated from high school.”

“You were a teenager when you took these? They're so mature. You found the strength as well as the isolation of nature. That takes some special sensitivity, I would think.”

“Whatever it is, it's long lost or buried.” He set the frames onto the carpet and leaned them against the wall. “Care to try another hunch?”

“Don't you want to hang these?”

“I can do that tomorrow when you're not here. I don't want to waste my muse's time. Especially when she's nervous about being around me.”

Almost relieved that the issue was finally out in the open, Genevieve said, “I would happily help you, Marshall, but we both know that's not all you want.”

He brushed her hair back over one shoulder, only to reclaim one strand to wrap around his finger. “You did admit that you kissed me back.”

“After which I began to feel as though I'd been cheating.”

“Unless you're keeping company with a ghost, you can't cheat on what no longer exists.”

Genevieve felt caught in a web, trapped by his charisma, while at the same time being pulled away into the vacuum that was her fading memory. She moved her goblet to hold it with both hands as though any barrier was better than none. “The fact remains that I still feel married.”

“Since you didn't when I was kissing you the other day, I think the solution is to kiss you more.”

M
arshall hadn't intended for things to come to this when he'd first grabbed up the photos and led Genevieve back here to the master suite. He was too grateful to have her here giving him input with what to do with everything to risk upsetting or offending her. At the same time, he was discovering that he couldn't be near her without needing to touch her, and when she'd praised his work, he felt as if he'd seen his first glimpse of sunshine after an endless darkness. Someone else might be strong enough to resist responding to that, but he was far too human. Too hungry.

As he lowered his head, she whispered, “Marshall, please don't.”

“Stop thinking for once. Just for one minute…feel…me.”

His kiss was as tender and coaxing as his words, his lips brushing over hers before skimming over to her
cheek and chin, then back to her mouth. With slightly more pressure, he parted her lips and sought entry with his tongue. Genevieve tried to stop him again by touching her fingers to his mouth, but he only took hold of her hand and kissed each fingertip. All the while his gaze held hers. He could see as well as feel and hear his growing effect on her—the way her eyes dilated and her breath grew shallow, and the way her glass bumped against his chest as she began to lose herself in what was happening between them. Taking the crystal from her, he blindly reached behind him to set it on the counter next to his, then he wrapped both arms around her and drew her completely against him. “
Genevieve
. I could say your name all night. I want to.” She felt unbelievable fitted against him—and not just because it had been a long time for him. The taste of her went straight to his head. With her to intoxicate him, his sore muscles didn't need wine. But she wasn't totally willing to be swept away. Although she let her eyelids drift closed, seduced by his caresses, her fingers sought and gripped at his shirt.

“Kiss me back,” he coaxed. “Let go and wrap your arms around me. Hold me like I'm holding you. Need me like this.”

He'd never been so open with a woman. Comfortable, yes, but naked with his vulnerability to another soul, never. That honesty must have reached her because she did release his shirt and she slowly slid her arms over his shoulders to caress his neck and sink her fingers into his hair just as her tongue began answering his bolder strokes.

God, yes, he thought, growing hot and hard. He could
feel her breasts grow taut and he wanted to see her, taste her. When he trailed his fingers down her sides to caress the subtle curves, she whimpered into his mouth, and brought his hand back to fully cover her. He stroked her with his thumb and then bent to cover her with his mouth.

She gasped and trembled as though struck by lightning and held on tighter. Marshall could feel the tremors of his own excitement and need, too.

Guided by touch alone, he unbuttoned her jacket and spread the silk to stroke his hands over her lacy bra and the creamy perfection he'd exposed. “You're so beautiful.” He feathered kisses all over her satin-smooth skin. “Beautiful,” he said again as he unclasped the front fastener. Then she was bared to him and he worshipped her with his hands and mouth. When he wasn't suckling and enticing one breast, he was cupping the other and keeping her taut with his thumb.

Things slipped a little more out of control after that. It felt as though they'd already drunk the entire bottle of wine and Genevieve even reached out blindly to steady herself and accidentally hit the light switch, casting the room into darkness.

As Marshall returned to feast on her mouth, he cupped her hips and rocked himself against her. At the same time, she bunched up his shirt so that their bodies from the waist up were flesh to flesh.

“I have to…” he rasped, bunching up her narrow skirt. “We have to.”

Her hair veiled her face as she pressed her head to his shoulder and rubbed herself against him. His chest hairs teasing her nipples all but drove her wild, and she
began fumbling with the top button of his jeans. The barrier of that little bit of lace between her legs nearly had him shredding them. Once he'd stripped her, he finished opening his jeans and lifted her over him.

“Genevieve,” he rasped in half apology, half plea.

“Please,” she whispered.

He tried to be careful; she was so tight, but she was also wet and hot, and wrapping her legs around him. He lost his head. Locking his mouth to hers, he pressed her harder against the wall and drove into her repeatedly, devouring her moans and, after two more thrusts, her cry of ecstasy. The next thrust brought his own.

As the all-consuming wave of passion receded, their hearts continued to pound as one. Marshall buried his face in Genevieve's hair as he fought to catch his breath. He didn't want reality to intrude, didn't know what he would do if he looked into her eyes and saw regret. Pressing an openmouthed kiss against the curve between her neck and shoulder, he felt himself pulsate inside her as his appetite stirred anew. “Give me a few more seconds and I'll do this properly on, if not in, the bed,” he said, thinking he hadn't recovered this quickly since he was eighteen.

The promise was barely spoken when the front doorbell rang.

“What the hell…?” he began.

 

“Murder,” Genevieve moaned. Reality came more quickly to her—like an icy slap. “Let me down.” Even as she unwrapped her legs, Marshall protested.

“Let's ignore it.”

How could they? “My car is in your driveway, and I'll
bet you that's my mother out there.” There wasn't time to explain how she knew. Once he knew Sydney Sawyer, he would understand. “Go! I'll follow as soon as I can.”

He went, making himself presentable along the way. By the time Genevieve turned on the lights again, she heard the water running in the next bathroom, which told her that he'd paused to freshen up himself.

She quickly fastened her bra and jacket, and stepped back into her panties. Her mind was racing like a Grand Prix driver thinking of how she could explain to her mother being back in Marshall Roark's bedroom, but then she caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror.

She gasped in horror. Her white suit had an
O
around her left breast. She might be able to get out the wine with a little work, but not now. Not without leaving a wet mark that would be another dead giveaway to her mother, whose vision even in low lighting—
please, Marshall, don't flip on every freaking switch in the place
—was second only to an X-ray machine.

Upon hearing a painfully familiar soprano voice, Genevieve uttered an expletive under her breath. Yes, that was definitely her mother.

Glancing back at her reflecting, she winced. “Poor suit,” she murmured, knowing what she had to do. Taking up her glass, she doused the front of her jacket with most of the remaining wine.

The effects were as awful as she expected they would be, but at least the incriminating stain was hidden. Quickly wetting the washrag on the counter, she went to join Marshall and his untimely visitor, or more likely visitors, since wherever Sydney was at this hour, Bart
couldn't be far behind. All the while she dabbed at and fussed with the stain.

“I'm sorry, Marshall,” she said, emerging from the hallway. She pretended to be oblivious to what else might be going on as she entered the living room. “I think your carpet is safe, but—” she timed her glance up, so she could pretend surprise at seeing her mother and Bart “—oh. What are you two doing here?”

They looked as if they were back from an upscale bowling tournament, both dressed in matching gold designer sweat suits. Of course, her mother wore at least a pound of gold jewelry that sparkled and jangled with her every move. Her strawberry-blond helmet hair was almost as bright.

“Evening, sweetheart,” Bart replied, rubbing his index finger along his nose and keeping his gaze on the hard-wood floor. “Sorry for the interruption, but you know your mother.”

After elbowing her dashing silver-haired husband in his ribs, Sydney arched a finely plucked eyebrow at her. “What on earth have you done to that lovely suit, dear?”

“Don't worry about the carpet,” Marshall said before Genevieve could answer. “It's my fault. After all, I bumped you.”

She went weak with relief that he caught on so quickly. “Only because I was crowding you to see where you meant to hang those photos.” Was that too much explaining? By her writer-mother's speculative expression, she was sure it was, but it was too late. Shrugging, she said to them, “Marshall had unfinished packing tonight
and asked if I had some time to help him place some pictures.”

Sydney peered around the dimly lit room at the bare walls. “Starting in the bedrooms?”

Ignoring her, Genevieve gestured with the washrag. “Excuse me, have you all already handled introductions?”

“As awkwardly as nosy neighbors can,” Bart drawled.

“Oh, Bart, really,” Sydney muttered. “Does a mother not have a right to worry about her only child?” To Genevieve she said, “When we were heading to Polly and Sam's to play forty-two, we saw you still working at the office. And here we are on the way home and you're still at it.”

Obviously, that was Marshall's cue and he offered a brief, formal bow. “I did and do feel guilty for adding to her workload, Mrs. Sawyer.”

“Conway,” Bart said on a sigh. “Sawyer is just her stage name.”

As Bart won another withering look from his wife, Genevieve decided her mother had humiliated her enough.

“Don't play to that performance,” Genevieve told Marshall. “Bart got it right.” She plucked at the clammy and stained material. “You know what? This suit feels equally uncomfortable. I'm going to get my keys and get home. Maybe I can still save this outfit if I start soaking it soon enough.”

Wholly unruffled, Sydney said, “Come to the house, darling. You know there's never been a stain that could resist my ministrations, and I'm sure you can find
something in my closet since we wear the same size in most things.”

“Except in muzzle,” Bart offered to Marshall.

Equally embarrassed at her mother's unveiled compliment to herself, Genevieve sent him a grateful smile before telling her mother, “Thanks, but this is Bart's night for your undivided attention, isn't it, St. Bart?”

“Bless you, my child. Once a week I know what it's like to go to sleep with my wife beside me,” he explained to Marshall. “Otherwise it takes a power outage to tear the woman from that damned computer.”

As Sydney began, “Now, Bart, really…” Genevieve hurried to the kitchen, where she dropped the washrag in the sink and grabbed her keys. Back in the entryway, she touched Marshall's arm, but only made fleeting eye contact. “I hope the suggestions helped. Mother, Bart, 'night.” She added a kiss to her stepfather's cheek as she passed.

Hurrying to her vehicle, she knew this was not over—neither for her mother nor Marshall. Regarding her mother, Genevieve would have plenty to say herself, so the woman who had given birth to her had better rethink calling tonight. As for Marshall…what had she done?

Once in her SUV, she could barely get her key into the ignition, her hands were shaking so much. Of all the humiliating experiences, she thought—and not just because of her mother and Bart's inopportune arrival. What had possessed her to let things go that far with Marshall?

That was the point—he'd possessed her.

For the entire drive home, she stressed. She'd let him take her as if she was the town tramp. How could she
ever look him in the eyes again without turning as red as if she was sun-scorched?

By the time she pulled into her driveway, her BlackBerry was going berserk. Her mother and Marshall were taking turns jamming up her connection. She was nowhere near ready to deal with either of them. She needed a shower. She was radiating Marshall's scent and the insane thing was that it was arousing her again!

Once parked in her garage, she collected her things and hurried inside. With the BlackBerry continuing to go strong, she felt hunted, so she turned it off.

Before she could strip and step into the shower, her house phone began to ring. Of course, Marshall had this number, too. She always gave her best and favorite clients all three numbers. For the first time, she regretted that.

No, you don't, you're just scared of yourself more than him.

True. Stepping under the hot spray, she couldn't touch her own body without trembling from the reminder of his touch, of how it felt to have him inside her. Turning the spray to its sharpest, she welcomed the liquid pummeling willing it to beat her numb.

So wrong…so wrong.

Her landline was ringing again when she turned off the water and wrapped herself in her white terry-cloth robe and her dripping hair in a towel. Knowing she would have him on her doorstep if she didn't answer, Genevieve crossed the bedroom to reach for the phone beside the bed.

She confirmed the number on the phone's screen, and her first words were hardly an apology. “I needed to shower.”

“I'd hoped that's what you were doing, but considering the hour and you living alone—I was worried.”

His tone was gruff as though he'd been verbally berating himself since she left, but his concern was sweet. Yet that just created all the more conflict for her. “That's—Thank you.”

“How are you, Genevieve?”

When he lowered his voice to that deep decibel, Genevieve remembered when he'd uttered, “Need me.” She had to bite back a moan because she felt it at her most sensitive parts. “Oh, that's not a good question to ask at the moment. How long did Mother and Bart stay?”

“About two minutes at the most. He pretty much tugged her out the door telling her that he would never let her drive home again. I like him.”

“So do I. But, Marshall, this won't stop now. She senses something and she's been ringing whatever number you're not using since you started calling. I had to turn off my BlackBerry.”