Wintergreen

He seemed to handle a great many things well. Her temples, for instance, where a headache raged tense and tight; his thumb rubbed caressingly back and forth, soothing away the pain she had never even mentioned to him. And her lips, for another. When his mouth sank deliciously on hers, she felt something give inside her that had been knotted up for hours. Feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, a residue from the past she thought she’d managed to get rid of; the wounds that had seared open again after her encounter with his father.

Her hands rippled through his hair, and her aching breasts nuzzled deliberately against his chest as she curled closer to him. He tasted so sweet; she wanted to lose herself in that sweetness. Before, she had forgotten everything else when he touched her; she courted that kind of explosive passion now, her hands rippling down his shoulders and arms, then to the front of his shirt, suddenly in a desperate hurry to get past buttons.

Buttons? To get past pain, past thought, past this strange aching ball of hurt inside her that refused to ease. She wanted to love Matthew, to promise him that she would never make him suffer, to wrap him up in silk arms and satin smoothness. She could feel his dark, soft eyes watching her, and paid no attention. Her already turbulent emotions had been set on a roller coaster. There was no getting off. She felt panic at the thought of getting off. She needed Matthew so badly, now, this minute, instantly, an hour ago…

Her lips pressed fierce kisses on his throat, down into the furred mat on his bare chest. Her leg curled between both of his, firing his arousal. In some other world she felt his hands smoothing back her silky hair, his feather-light kisses trying to soothe. She didn’t want to be soothed. She kneaded the flesh of his back, willing every other thought to fade in her head, willing that drumbeat of desire to flood her ears, block out everything but Matthew. It could happen; she knew it could. She felt his body respond to her, his muscles tightening in promise, his skin taking on warmth, his breath shortening. Yet when her hands reached for his belt buckle, she found her fingers stolen by his, her arms placed around his neck.

His mouth reached for hers, in a single dominating kiss meant to stop her frantic movements. It did. He cradled her head in his palms to touch her lips again, his dark eyes gentle on hers. “Stop crying,” he whispered. His thumbs lightly brushed away the moisture beneath her eyes that she hadn’t even known was there.

“I want you to make love to me,” she whispered back fiercely.

“Do you?” He pulled her close, once more raining kisses on her closed eyes, on her cheeks, on her temples. For no reason at all, she was suddenly trembling all over, gasping to keep from crying. “Dammit. Tell me, Misha.”

She shook her head.

“Tell me,” he insisted beseechingly.

She closed her eyes painfully, feeling more vulnerable than spun glass. “I’m sorry. I…”

“Just tell me.”

With her head still cradled in the crook of his shoulder, Matthew shifted both of them, so that by the time she’d brushed away those few mortifying tears she was cradled on his lap and held in a protective cocoon. Or were those arms steel bars? Because he was not letting her get away.

“He wasn’t in any way…unkind, Matthew,” she said miserably, needing to reassure him immediately of that. There was no reason for either of them to say Mr. Whitaker’s name out loud; they both knew what was wrong. “I never expected him to believe me about Johnny, anyway. I never even expected he would be as…civil as he was. It was just…”

“It was just that you wanted him to acknowledge his grandson,” Matthew said softly. “Or did you, very badly, want to hear from him that he just might have been very wrong about you, Misha? Can you dare acknowledge such feelings?”

“I…” She took a breath, then another, her whole body still violently shaking. “You just don’t know…what it was like. Being condemned without a trial. Without even a hearing. Feeling judged, feeling guilty and ashamed when it wasn’t like that… I went to see him back then, to ask him for help, and he treated me with such contempt…”

The words spilled out, one after another. Words she had never spoken out loud before, feelings she had never expressed. What Ron Stone had really been like, her inability to cope with the situation at the time, that awful afternoon, Richard’s reaction, then his father not even making the attempt to listen…

“But I would have listened, Misha,” Matthew scolded fiercely. “I tried to talk with you. You shut me out. Why couldn’t you let me help you?”

“Because…” But she didn’t know why. She had been ashamed at the time, embarrassed, mortified, proud. Because Matthew had controlled a strange little corner of her life, even then. His respect had always mattered. All of it. None of it. She didn’t know why.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he murmured, and held her close until the need to cry eased and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. “There’s more, I think, Misha. There’s more that you have to let go of. But not now. Not now,” he repeated, brushing his fingers through her hair over and over. “Just let it be with my father,” he murmured gently. “It will happen, sweet, about Johnny. If you want to know the truth, I think my father knows already that Johnny is Richard’s son. I watched him when he first set eyes on the boy… I see the Whitaker in Johnny more and more, and my father isn’t obtuse, either. He simply finds it hard to admit that he could conceivably make a mistake. My brother never could admit such a thing.”

She heard the slight trace of bitterness in his voice. Lorna looked up at him, wanting to respond, but he gave her no chance. Kissing her gently on the forehead, he stood up and set her on her feet, pausing long enough to hug her close yet again. “I don’t want you worrying about it anymore. You, Misha,” he whispered, “you matter. When you’re troubled, tell me about it. You had to bridge that silence with my father alone, but that’s done now. The rest we can handle together. Make no mistake about one thing-you’re not going to elude me, love. I want you, all of you… I love you, more than those three words can express…”

She looked up into his eyes. He was so sure, so absolutely sure; she saw love, strong and determined, and possession. A love so deep it almost frightened her. He wanted her; he loved her. She was the one who had erected barriers, which he seemed to understand more than she did herself. And if she wasn’t going to work on pulling down those fences herself, he would force her into action, so he could have what he wanted.

Had she ever really thought he might only want an affair? This man wanted to possess, body and soul.

When she awoke in the morning, she sensed that something was different. Before Lorna even opened her eyes, she tested out that feeling. Early-morning brightness came in the appropriate window; she recognized the faint, familiar scent of Johnny’s gift cologne, and the kind of silence that existed only in the morning before her son was awake. The room was on the cold side, exactly the way she liked to sleep, the comforter tucked around her just so. Absently frowning, she readjusted her pillow and closed her eyes again for one more tiny catnap.

Something hard and small brushed her cheek. She was thinking of Matthew. He’d put her to bed last night because she was exhausted, only by then she hadn’t been exhausted. Nor had she wanted to be separated from him. He was a bewilderingly complex man. He’d stopped her from making love so they could talk, but they’d stopped talking just as abruptly so he could make love to her…a slow, lazy seduction that began on the way to the bedroom. His caresses had been deliberately arousing, leaving her sleepy and wanting him and loving him. It had slipped out then, so naturally. “I adore you, Matthew. I never thought I could love as I love you…”

Those beautiful brooding eyes had captured hers. “That’s all I’ve been waiting for, Misha…”

But they hadn’t made love. He had left. It made no sense… She stirred again, and felt an odd, sharp little scrape on her cheek. Grudgingly opening her eyes, she squinted down at the offending object, and her heart stilled as she stared at her finger.

There was something different this morning. A ring. She wore no rings to commemorate her commitment to Richard. Certainly not a single brilliant marquise diamond, set exquisitely in antique gold. Certainly not on that finger. But she wore it now…

“Let’s see it once more,” Freda insisted.

The mall was packed with throngs of tired people returning presents and hustling toward the after-Christmas sales. It just wasn’t that easy to stop every five minutes, readjust all the packages and find enough space so they could both stare at the ring again.

“It’s probably the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen in my life,” Lorna said absently.

“I’m not sure we need to go that far,” Freda began.

“Should have such taste.”