Wintergreen

looks that hadn’t been there then; his whole apartment had a bachelor look to it that implied a man who played a sophisticated game of seduction. The Matthew she’d once known had been into work, day and night. She wasn’t at all sure how she felt coming into his home as other women had undoubtedly come over the years. Treated to wine and a fire and soft lighting, she was on her guard.

“Were you in court today?” she asked idly.

He nodded, finally moving away from the fire and settling on the couch across from her. “In court part of the day, at the police station the rest.” He smiled wryly. “At times I wish I’d have gone into corporate law, like Richard. At least those guys dress in suits and take regular showers. I’m looking into an embezzlement case-for the amount of money involved, you’d think the client could have afforded deodorant.”

Lorna’s eyebrows shot up as she smiled. “You’re spoiling your image as a glamorous criminal attorney.” He made a face. “You don’t even sound as if you think your client’s innocent.”

Matthew took a sip of wine and set his glass down, stretching his long legs in front of him. “He’s not-but he’s not guilty of all the charges against him, either. He was just a little cog in a wheel too big for him. There are times when I think half of all crime comes down to the same thing. People in over their heads and unable to find their way out…” He shook his head. “When I first started out in this business of the law, I wanted everyone to line up in neat little categories-guilty or innocent.”

“They don’t,” she suggested quietly.

He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly brooding, the atmosphere abruptly no longer conducive to small talk. “They don’t,” he echoed. “I work in the real world, Misha. Every day the line is drawn finer. There’s right and wrong, yes. But innocent people can commit an incredible number of moral crimes that aren’t punishable by law. And the guilty are often tried only because they saw no alternative to breaking the law…”

He stopped abruptly and stared into the fire, then back at Lorna. “And I couldn’t have my mind less on the law. Honey, I know damn well you’re still hung up on what happened with my brother.”

The unexpected change from theoretical law to their personal past threw her. She set down her glass. “Matthew…”

“You never committed a crime, Misha,” he said quietly. “I raised Richard, from the time our mother died. I knew him, and I loved my brother. That’s not to say I ever thought him incapable of making a mistake. He was in over his head, wanting success all at once, and he dragged you into that complicated maelstrom. I did the best I could by him, Misha, and I’ll be damned if I’ll acknowledge guilt for the way I feel about you now.”

“Matthew…” Her throat was suddenly dry.

“Please listen to me, Misha,” he grated, leaning forward. His expression was steely and his eyes were haunted, intensely pinning hers. “I don’t want the shadow of the past between us, Misha. I want to hear from you that it isn’t there. When I walked into my office and found you waiting there, I could see that you were expecting me to lash out at you, and I don’t understand why. I never judged you. It was a long time ago, and, honey, you’re not the only woman-or man-to make that particular mistake.” His voice softened. “Besides, you’ve paid a hell of a price over the years for being nineteen once upon a time. For being a little too beautiful, a little too young, a little too lonely.”

But he believed she had been unfaithful. Her stomach was suddenly churning with turbulent emotions. “Matthew, you think you understand-”

“No. Not understand. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t give a damn. It’s the past, unless it’s still affecting you now. You sought me out, Misha. And if that had anything to do with leftover feelings for my brother-”

“God, no.” Lorna jumped up from the couch, folding her arms slowly across her chest, turning away so he couldn’t see her rapidly blinking away tears. “I don’t still love or hate your brother, Matthew. That’s what you’re asking me? Not for a long time. It has nothing to do with why I came to see you.”

It was Johnny, she thought achingly. She had wanted the security of the Whitaker family for her son. That was the reason she had gone to see Matthew, but instead of solving the problem, her action had created a new one. Problem? It had always mattered so much what Matthew thought of her, that he not judge her harshly. And he saw with such compassion what she had been unable to forgive in herself, that she had been a too-young, too-lonely nineteen. He understood that, but not what counted to her. She closed her eyes, and then turned to face him. “Maybe what I feel now is crazy,” she admitted quietly. “Because I don’t believe you, Matthew. I want to, but I don’t believe that you’ve forgotten, that you don’t care. You still think I’m the kind of woman who would be unfaithful-”

He sucked in his breath and stood up restlessly. She saw a flash of something stark and brilliant in his eyes before she turned away to stare into the fire. From behind her, she felt his hands suddenly massage the nape of her neck, a gentle, soothing caress, his fingers intuitively discovering every knotted muscle. Only gradually did his hands leave her neck and trail down to her waist, pulling her gently back against him, his soft kiss on her cheek simple, slow and easy. “I’m not a boy,” he said quietly. “And you’re not that kind of woman, Misha. There would be no chance of your being unfaithful to me. Do you want me to show you?”

The fire was sending golden sparks up the chimney. There was no reason for the vulnerable little shiver that rippled through her body. “No,” she whispered.

He was behind her, but she could feel his smile, his amusement that she was suddenly shying like a fawn. His arms tightened around her, securing her in the cocoon of his embrace, a cherishing, protective embrace that touched off a thousand nerve endings. And confused her, totally. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, Misha. Let me touch you. Let me show you…”

She could not seem to turn around and face him. Matthew didn’t appear to care. His cheek nudged aside her hair so that his lips could find her soft skin. There, where the nape of her neck burned. Her throat, the hollow in her shoulder…she was not the kind of woman to go to bed with a man because of a simple attraction. She was not some wanton to whom vows of love meant nothing. She’d never been driven by libido in her life. It was terribly important that Matthew understand that, that he respect her, that he trust her…

“The minute I saw you,” he murmured, “I wanted to hold you, Misha. To touch you, to feel your touch. I wanted to hear your laughter. I wanted to watch you listening to music. I wanted to scold you for wearing sandals in the coldest weather. I wanted you beside me in the night…”

“Matthew…” She closed her eyes, arching her head back as his lips continued to tease and savor at the side of her throat. He leaned against the back of the couch, pulling her into the cradle of his thighs, his lips finding ample territory to explore in the flesh laid bare by the scoop neck of her sweater. Collarbone and throat, the silky hollow just below her ear, the fragile cords of her neck.

She suddenly felt as weak as a kitten, and strangely reluctant to open her eyes. Despair shot through her, mingled with desire. For Johnny’s sake, for her own, she knew she could not leave Matthew believing as he did. It mattered so much! She tried to think, and couldn’t. Her blood was singing in her veins, a song of blues and rhythm that was all she seemed to hear. She felt enfolded in velvet-encased iron, her back cradled against his chest, her bottom cradled into his thighs, his arms around her. His hands caressed the cashmere covering her abdomen, over and over, as restless as his lips at her throat. “Misha…”

It was like a low call from the back of his throat, a sweet whisper to follow him, his music, his magic. His hands slid up and crossed to knead the aching swells of her breasts. Her heart beat so loudly that she knew he could hear it. She opened her eyes and saw the shadows the fire was casting on the wall, saw his dark head bent over her. Her own head arched back in the curve of his shoulder as his hands moved over her body. She could smell cherry wood and leather and the dry wine from his lips, could smell Matthew…

“Misha,” he murmured again, and turned her, his lips sealing in a message of sweet, driving hunger. Her hands clutched his hair, forcing the kiss to deepen. She hurt. Deep in her loins she felt the most unbearable pain, so consuming it frightened her.

He pulled the sweater loose from the waistband of her skirt, and the touch of his warm palm on her abdomen seared, sent a shiver through her body. He seemed to love that shiver. She could feel the change in his breathing and the increase in fevered pressure on her mouth, in the dominating way he drew her closer, possessively wrapping his arms around her. He wanted her trembling. And it was so easy to give him what he wanted.

He unfastened the button on the waist of her skirt. The fabric slid lazily down her silk-clad hips. Her arms were already raised to his neck, and he easily slipped off the sweater. For just a moment, the black cashmere blinded her, going over her head, and for just that moment she groped for a fraction of sanity. “No,” she protested.

Matthew draped the sweater over the back of the couch and savored the look of her. The black slip was simple, lace-free, a smooth satiny fabric that molded itself to her figure. His eyes met hers, all black and fierce fire.