Who Will Take This Man?

“It is called the Fruit of Paradise, and throughout history it has been cited in the myths and legends of many different cultures and civilizations, as well as in art and literature.”

“Actually, I first heard mention of one in Romeo and Juliet,” she said. “A lark’s song tells Romeo that morning has come and he must leave his love. But Juliet tells him, ‘Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree; believe me, love, it was the nightingale. ’”

“Yes, I recall that passage. She assured him it was the nightingale rather than the lark… because she did not want him to leave. You enjoy Shakespeare?”

Speak. Talk. Say something, anything to dispel this unbearable tension. “Yes. And Romeo and Juliet is my favorite. I’ve always loved losing myself in a book, shutting out everything else and being immersed in a story that transported me to another time and place…” Her voice trailed off as an image of herself at age twelve flashed in her mind. Someone had left a book at the house, and she’d found it. Romeo and Juliet. She’d immediately added it to her precious hoard of reading material. That night, as she had so many other nights, she’d hidden in the cupboard under the stairs and read by candlelight, this time whisked back in time to Verona and the heartbreaking love that would never be. The beautiful words drown out the noises she did not want to hear, allowing her to escape, for a few hours, all that from which she so desperately longed to escape.

“Meredith… are you all right?”

His softly spoken question yanked her back to the present. She blinked to dispel the lingering cobwebs of the past. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You looked very sad.”

She forced a smile. “Romeo and Juliet is a sad story.” Not wishing to dwell on stories of impossible love, she asked, “How do you eat a pomegranate? Like an apple?”

“No. You cut it open and eat the seeds.” Still holding the fruit, he handed her a small china bowl filled with tiny, red, pearl-like seeds. “The inside is filled with such an abundance of these seeds, the pomegranate has long been a symbol of fertility, bounty, and eternal life. Ancient Egyptians were buried with pomegranates in the hope of rebirth.” Reaching into the bowl, he withdrew one seed. It looked like a miniature red teardrop resting on his fingertip. He brought it to her lips. “There’s a tiny seed within this kernel that is edible. Taste.”

After a brief hesitation, she accepted the offering, her lips brushing against his fingertip like a kiss. His eyes darkened, and he dragged his finger over her bottom Up as he moved his hand away. Lips tingling, Meredith gently bit down on the seed. A tiny burst of flavorful juice touched her tongue, and her eyes widened.

“Deceptive, is it not?” he asked with a smile.

“Indeed. I didn’t expect something so small to contain so much flavor. It’s tart and sweet at the same time.”

He held out another seed for her on his fingertip. “Do you like it, Meredith?”

Her name, said in that husky, deep voice, touched her like a caress. The question in itself was simple enough, but by the heat simmering in his gaze, there was no mistaking that he was asking if she liked more than the taste of the fruit. He wanted to know if she liked being with him like this, being fed by him, feeding him. Touching her fingers to his lips, tasting his fingers against her mouth. As much as she wished it otherwise, there was only one answer-to all those questions.

But should she admit it? She could pretend to misunderstand the deeper meaning behind his question. She should pretend. Yet the air of intimacy surrounding them, the opulent decor, the delicious food and wine, the personal, vulnerable details of his life he’d shared with her, the desire all but emanating from him, all served to cast a hypnotic spell upon her that blurred the lines of what she should and should not do… of what was wise and unwise. Yes, she should pretend. But she could not.

“Yes, Philip. I like it.”

His eyes darkened further at her whispered reply.

Without a word, he took the china bowl from her, setting it and the pomegranate back on the platter. He then rose.

Before she could shove aside her disappointment and search for the relief she should have felt at this obvious signal that their meal was over, he stepped around her, then lowered himself to sit on her pillow, directly behind her.

“Straighten out your legs, Meredith.” His soft request brushed by her ear, shooting a shiver of pleasure down her spine.

She did as he bade, then sat ramrod-stiff, afraid to further move lest she encourage-or discourage-him. Behind her, he adjusted his position, shifting closer, and stretching out his long legs on either side of hers. The inner part of his legs touched the outer part of hers, from her hips downward, while his chest brushed her back. A shiver raced down her spine, raising goose bumps on her flesh, inexplicable, as she was not in the least bit cold. Indeed, she’d never felt less chilled in her entire life. She felt surrounded by him, the heat of his body enveloping her as if he’d wrapped her in a warm, velvety quilt.

“After the meal,” he said, the words tickling over the back of her neck, “relaxation is essential.” He began rubbing her shoulders with a gentle yet firm kneading motion that shot delight through her. “You’re very tense, Meredith. Relax.”

Relax? With him touching her? Yet even as she thought it impossible to do so, she suddenly found she could not maintain her stiff posture against the muscle-weakening magic his strong hands wrought upon her.

“Much better,” he said. “This is how a silk-clad princess was pampered… fed upon pillows, then stroked until her body released all its tension.” His fingers slowly worked their way up her neck, then started to gently slip the pins from her hair. She lifted her head, her mind trying to summon a protest, but her lips refused to voice the words. Released from the confines of the pins, her hair fell about her shoulders and down her back.

“Seeing you like this, surrounded by silks and satins, your hair falling down, you could be Queen Nefertiti herself.” The words whispered against her nape, his lips and warm breath caressing the vulnerable skin there. A desire-filled shudder vibrated down her spine.

“Do you know what ‘Nefertiti’ means, Meredith?”

Incapable of speech, she shook her head.

“It means ‘the beautiful woman has come.’ Ancient Egyptians celebrated such feminine charms in lyrics they composed to the objects of their affections. I translated several such lyrics I discovered during my travels. One was particularly lovely. Would you like to hear it?”

Again, she merely nodded. She felt him lean closer, his chest pressing against her back. Her eyes slid closed, absorbing the sensation. Soaking in the pleasure. With his lips hovering a hairbreadth from her ear, he whispered:

She looks like the rising morning star.

At the start of a happy year,

Shining bright, fair of skin,

Lovely the look of her eyes,

Sweet the speech of her lips…

With graceful step she treads the ground,

Captures my heart by her movements,

She causes all men’s necks

To turn about to see her;

Joy has he whom she embraces,

He is like the first of men.

His arms came about her waist, drawing her back against his chest, his warm lips nuzzling the side of her neck. “Meredith.” He breathed her name so softly. Kissed her neck so gently. Desire and passion coursed through her veins, awakening needs and longings she’d fought so hard to suppress. Arousing her unbearably, yet confusing her. How was he able to make her feel this way by barely touching her? Everything she’d ever witnessed, seen, and heard had led her to believe that what occurred in the dark between men and women involved rough, groping hands and coarse language. She knew she could resist that.

But this soft caressing, this aching tenderness, shattered her defenses, rendering her unable to resist the