Lucia in Love Read online

  If anyone deserved to be dead, Ryan thought dryly, it was Gino Lopez. But was he dead or not?

  He didn’t want to worry about Gino Lopez anymore. Not that night. Ryan leaped to his feet, found the white Bordeaux in the refrigerator and uncorked it, and headed for his bedroom and the shower. He paused, looking out at the night. The stars were rising high, and a half moon was out.

  He opened the sliding glass door to the balcony and stepped outside. Far below the surf was crashing against the seawall. The air was fresh and fragrant with the sea.

  He turned around, leaving the glass door open. He looked at the Jacuzzi and grimaced, then turned on the water to heat.

  You never could tell….

  Then he walked into his bedroom, determined to shower and dress quickly.

  Under the steady stream of water, he quickly relived the past night. It had been magic; it had been hard to believe. He hadn’t imagined that she might come near him. And he had never imagined that she might want him again.

  Especially since she had seen him with the blonde.

  Shelley. She was attractive, a nice woman, a school-teacher from Iowa. It had been nice to go to dinner with her; it had been nice to walk along the beach. But he’d hardly been able to touch her, because he’d hardly been able to get Lucia out of his mind for more than two minutes. No one compared with her. No one laughed so easily, and no one had such sensuous eyes.

  No one made love like Lucia.

  He looked at his hands; they were trembling, and he wondered which one of them had made it all go bad. Maybe he’d been just a little bit afraid of her from the first. From that first moment when he had seen her and thought that she was the one, the one he had been waiting for all his life. The first time he had held her, the first time he had kissed her, he had been afraid of losing her.

  She had meant so much to him from the very start that he had erected walls around himself, protective walls. And he hadn’t even realized it. He’d tried to tell himself that he didn’t want a commitment simply because he did want one, very badly.

  He’d asked her to move in. And then one night, when things had run late with the architects he’d been working with in Newport, he’d come home to find that she wasn’t in the least receptive to seeing him. He could remember it well, because she had promised him some fabulous Italian dish that night, and when he had tried to kiss her and ask about it, she had told him that he knew where the microwave was, and that he was welcome to help himself. Then she had curled up on a chair, watching television, not even looking his way.

  At first he had taken it slow. He had tasted the food and praised it lavishly. Then he had taken a seat beside her, but when she had tried to squirm away, he had held her there and demanded to know just what was wrong with her.

  She’d stared at him defiantly, wanting to know where he had been.

  “Working late.”

  “So I heard. I talked to the secretary.”

  “Dorothy?” He frowned. She was a nice, quiet, sophisticated woman. Once, years before, they’d had a brief affair. He’d gone back to Boston, and she’d gone back to the prizefighter she had dated earlier.

  “Dorothy,” Lucia agreed.

  “So?”

  “Did you take her to dinner?”

  No, he hadn’t taken her to dinner. Barry Smith, Ted Nyler, Dorothy and he had all had fast food in one of the conference rooms around five o’clock.

  He released Lucia, walking away from her. He poured himself a drink and stared into the fire. “No, I didn’t take her to dinner,” he said flatly, and walked into the bedroom.

  A half hour later she came in. He tensed, his fingers laced behind his head as he stared at the ceiling in the darkness. His heart had begun to beat hard, his blood to race.

  He heard her shed her clothing, and he felt her weight on the mattress. Slowly she climbed over him. Light flickered in from the hall, and his breath stopped. She was so beautiful. She straddled his hips, her head high and proud, her breasts full and round in the dim light, her hair falling softly around them. He held still, though, waiting for her to speak. Their eyes adjusted to the darkness and met, but she didn’t say a word.

  “I’m not the man for the third degree, Lucia,” he told her softly at last. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to forget that there had ever been a disagreement. He wanted to hold on tight for all his life, but he wasn’t sure how to do so, and he wasn’t at all accustomed to being questioned.

  “Did you have an affair with her?” Lucia asked.

  “Tonight? No.”

  “But…”

  “Years ago.”

  “Are you—”

  “Years ago, Lucia. At least six years ago.”

  “Ryan, just how many affairs have you had?”

  He stared at her, clenching his teeth together tightly. “What difference does it make? We’re together now.”

  “I can’t help—”

  “Lucia, I’m sorry. I worked late tonight. I don’t know what Dorothy said to you, but it was an innocent evening. I had to work late, just like I said. I thought we were here together because we wanted to be together, not because we were looking to put choke holds on each other.”

  “Choke holds!”

  She started to move away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back. Her eyes sizzled down into his. “Don’t worry about a choke hold, Dandridge. I will never put a choke hold on anyone. I’ve been married, remember? And getting out of that mistake took years. I don’t want to go through that ever again. But I don’t want to live with you, wondering where the hell you are all the time, either. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Lucia!”

  “Ryan?”

  It didn’t make sense to argue, so he didn’t let her do so any longer. He pulled her hard against him and kissed her, threading his fingers through the soft silk of her hair so that she couldn’t escape him. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and held her so that her breasts were crushed hard against his chest, and then he rolled her beneath him and tried to communicate his apology and his promise into his touch. He had ended the argument. The night had spun into fantasy, but later, while he had watched the patterns of dawn falling across the room, he had remembered her words. She wasn’t about to marry. He had known about her annulment; she always shuddered when she talked about it. But he had still thought that, living together, she would come to trust him.

  Only she didn’t trust him. Not at all.

  That hadn’t been the end of it. There had been an office party later that month, and lots of friends, his and Lucia’s, had been there. She had spent a great deal of the night dancing with a young sandy-haired Lothario. He had gotten mad and practically picked her up off the floor to drag her out, and the fur and feathers had flown as soon as they got home.

  She had no choke hold on him, which meant that he had no choke hold on her—that was her explanation for the evening. He told her that he couldn’t change the past, but she was certainly capable of changing her behavior in the present. He couldn’t remember ever being so angry in his life. And she had been furious, too.

  And still they had wound up in one another’s arms, and the volatility of their passion had been so great that it had left him trembling.

  But the next day, when he had come home, she had been gone. All that had been left was a letter explaining that she had a life of her own, and she needed to get back to it.

  The water still falling on his head, Ryan suddenly realized that the doorbell was ringing. He muttered an expletive, shut off the water and jumped out to dry himself. “Hold on! I’ll be right there!” he called.

  He ran into the bedroom and hobbled into briefs and a pair of chestnut trousers. He pulled a peach-colored knit cavalry shirt over his head, then paused, wondering if she had dressed up. He reached into his closet for a soft fawn-colored leather jacket, and decided he could be casual or dressy. He heard her knocking again. Barefoot, he started for the door, saw his wet hair sticking up in every direction and p
aused long enough to brush it. Then he flung open the front door, and she was there.

  She was in a sea-green dress that fell just short of her knees. It was long-sleeved, belted and had a tailored collar, and it should have been almost prim.

  It wasn’t. It was soft and glorious, and it hugged her body. When she moved, the dress moved with her. It hugged her form, and she swirled and curved and drifted elegantly.

  “Lucia,” he whispered. She was wearing just a bit of makeup that night, soft mauve eye shadow that made the best of her haunting dark eyes. She smiled, glad of his reaction, and swept by him. She set her little black bag on the hall table and moved toward the open glass doors, sighing softly.

  “Oh, Ryan, look at the night! It’s just glorious, isn’t it?”

  He came up behind her, putting his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck. “You are just glorious this evening, Lucia.”

  She laughed a little bit nervously, spinning from his hold. Then she smiled, pointing at his bare feet. “You look wonderful. You smell wonderful. The outfit is great, but…”

  “Hang on and I’ll get some shoes.” He laughed. “Pour yourself some wine—the bottle is on the counter.”

  By the time he came back she had poured them each a glass of wine and was in the process of breaking and washing the head of lettuce. He smiled at her, going to the microwave for the steaks.

  “You always did make the better salad,” he told her.

  “No, not really. You’re just too lazy to clean lettuce.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Um.” She set the lettuce down and lifted her wineglass. She seemed a little nervous, he thought. “This is delicious.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled again. “You always did do the best job of broiling the steaks.”

  “That’s because your attention span isn’t long enough to flip them over while they’re still rare.” He pulled the potatoes out of the oven and stuck them in the microwave, then slid the steaks under the broiler.

  “Well, I like that!” Lucia said indignantly.

  He stood up, laughing. She started to protest, but he pulled her into his arms. “Don’t you miss it?”

  “Miss what?”

  “Making love in the kitchen.”

  “We never made love in the kitchen.”

  “Want to try it now?”

  “Ryan!” She started to laugh. Her fingers moved over the soft lapels of his collar, and he felt the swell of her breasts and the soft feminine flare of her hips against him. The temperature in the kitchen seemed to be rising unbearably. Her eyes, dark, sensual, compelling were locked with his. They seemed to seek, to search. They made him feel alive and vital; they made his pulse beat at a frantic rate….

  She cleared her throat. “Ryan, you were talking about my attention span, remember? The steaks…”

  “Oh! Oh, damn!” He wasn’t going to get dinner made if he didn’t watch out. He quickly drew the steaks out, flipped them, seasoned them and shoved them back under the broiler.

  Lucia had gone back to the salad, patting the lettuce dry, then breaking it and tossing it into the bowl.

  “Seriously, don’t you miss this?”

  She cast him a stare from beneath the shadow of her lashes. “Moments like this? Yes.”

  “Then come back.”

  “Come back?”

  “Yes, come back and live with me again.”

  She was quiet as she found oil and vinegar and the proper seasonings and deftly measured them into the salad. He loved to watch her cook. She moved so competently. She never claimed that she did or didn’t love to do so, but everything that she touched was delicious.

  He loved to watch her do anything, he realized. Move, swim, run, walk…breathe. He just loved to watch her.

  “I can’t come back,” she said. “You aren’t even living where we were before, so how could I possibly come back?”

  “Come to Boston.”

  “I work in Atlanta.”

  “You can work wherever you want to work. I know that. Everyone who deals in antique furniture knows your name.”

  “And the entire architectural and building trades know your name,” she responded. “You could come to Atlanta.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “What?” She paused, startled, her eyes meeting his. She almost poured out too much olive oil, but she caught herself in time.

  “I said, is that an invitation?”

  She tilted her head warily. “Why? Am I to believe that you would come?”

  He grinned. “I really miss this.”

  “Making love in the kitchen?”

  “We never made love in the kitchen, remember?” he teased her. He picked up the bowl of salad. Slowly. He had to learn to go slowly.

  She watched him as he took the bowl out to the table. “Get the steaks,” he told her. “No, never mind. I’ll get the steaks and the potatoes. Want to light the candles? And put something on the stereo, please.”

  “Is this supposed to be a seduction?” Lucia called to him, lighting the candles.

  “I don’t know. Are you going to seduce me?”

  “Well, you keep talking about making love in the kitchen.”

  “You brought it up the second time.”

  “Oh, did I?”

  “Yes. Are you going to seduce me?” he asked her. He came out to the table with plates and silverware and napkins balanced beneath the plate with the steaks and potatoes. She ignored the question as she put something classical and quiet into the CD player. She came back to the table and helped him set everything out. She picked up her wineglass and met his eyes while she sipped slowly. “What was that?”

  “I said, are you going to seduce me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, her expressive eyes searching out his once again.

  He took the glass from her fingers and set it on the table. Then he kissed her lips with a lazy, leisurely sensuality, tasting her as if she were a part of the meal, ready to be savored. He felt the acceleration of her heartbeat as he touched her.

  “You really do want to make love in the kitchen,” she told him as he drew away slowly.

  He shook his head, his lips nearly brushing hers. “I want to make love in the Jacuzzi,” he said. She laughed, and for the moment the tension was broken. She moved away, and he pulled out her chair, then, like a French waiter, fixed her plate and poured her more wine.

  He talked about his newest project as they ate, a turn-of-the-century shopping village on the Cape. He intended to invest in the restaurant himself. She talked about some pieces she had seen that would be great for just such a place. “Rustic? Fishing village, that type of thing?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  As she became enthused about his work, his heart seemed to hurt suddenly, banging against the walls of his chest. It had always been like this. They were good for each other. They fed off each other’s enthusiasm. It was nice. No, it was more than nice.

  She kept talking, then paused, aware that he wasn’t really listening to her anymore.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Why did you leave me?”

  She swallowed and shook her head.

  “Lucia, why?”

  She reached across the table, putting her fingers against his lips. “Don’t, Ryan. This is just a dinner date, remember?”

  “Lucia…”

  She rose, and for a moment he thought she was going to leave. But she only walked toward the glass doors leading to the balcony, then she turned to him and smiled.

  “Did you say the Jacuzzi?”

  “What?”

  “The Jacuzzi,” she whispered. He didn’t answer her, because she was still smiling, as she unbuckled the belt to her dress and tossed it to the floor. Then she undid the buttons, one by one. The dress slid from her shoulders. She slipped out of her shoes, shoving them aside with her foot.

  She was in a sheer lace bra, panties, a garter belt and lace stockings. It w
as the most erotic outfit he had ever seen in his life.

  Her eyes fell from his, and she bent her head over, dark hair cascading around her, as she undid a garter and skimmed away a stocking. It floated softly to the ground, and she paused, looking up. Her breasts were nearly spilling over the lace of the cups. Her smile became slightly wry.

  “Well, it would help if you would kindly get naked, too. Striptease is not exactly my forte.”

  He stood, clearing his throat. “I don’t know. You’re doing pretty well as far as I can see.”

  She freed the other stocking and unhooked the garter belt, and it, too, fell upon the pile of clothing on the floor. Ryan slid out of his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head. She waited, watching him, smiling as his St. Christopher’s medal fell back against his chest as he stripped the shirt away.

  Then she slowly undid the front hook of her bra, and her breasts, honey-toned and full, the dusky nipples hard, spilled free. She slid her thumbs under the narrow strip of lace at her hips and peeled the bikini panties away.

  He was just staring at her. “Hurry,” she urged him.

  He groaned. “Hey, you’re the one who made me put the shoes and socks on.” But they were already off. He grappled with his belt and tugged off his trousers and briefs, then strode toward her. She laughed like a vixen when he neared her, and scurried away, climbing up the steps and plunging into the Jacuzzi.

  He followed her. They were in their own little world, enclosed by the balcony wall, the high rail and a latticework screen. He’d never felt so completely alone with her. The warm water sizzled and rushed around him. She was already seated on the circular ledge. He didn’t pause, but went straight toward her, pulling her down into his arms. They faced one another breathlessly, feeling the steam and the rush and the heat around them, part of them.

  He cupped and cradled her breasts, playing with them tenderly, passionately. She gripped his shoulders and closed her eyes, then pressed her lips to his.

  She ran her fingers against the length of him. She teased his chest with her knuckles, then moved her hand lower. She encircled him, and he groaned softly and caught her buttocks, drawing her even closer. Gently he stroked her thighs, opening them. Holding her, he thrust inside her, strong and hard and sure. She cast her head back, crying out, and gave way to the sensation.