Нора Робертс - Vision in White

“Why did she betray him?”

“Because he loved her but didn’t see her. She ruined him so he would. I think.”

“So the three-legged cat could be a metaphor for his wounded soul, and his determination to live with the scars.”

“That’s good. You’d get an A.”

“Now, for the important question.” She leaned toward him. “Is there sex, violence, and adult language?”

“There is.”

“Sold. You need to finish it. Isn’t there that publish-or-perish business in your world?”

“It doesn’t have to be a book. I’ve got articles, papers, short stories published to keep that wolf from the door.”

“Short stories? Seriously?”

“Just small press. The sort of thing that doesn’t move out of academia. You should publish your photography. An art book.”

“I play around with it sometimes. I guess it’s like the novel. When it’s not what you actually do, it gets shuffled back. Parker’s idea is for us to put together coffee table books. Wedding flowers, wedding cakes, wedding photography. The best of our best kind of thing.”

“It’s a good idea.”

“Parker rarely has any other kind. It’s a matter of carving out the time to put it all together in a way that could be pitched to whoever publishes that kind of thing. Meanwhile we’ve got three events in three days, with our Saturday job a very thorny rose. You should come.”

“To . . . to someone’s wedding. I couldn’t. I wasn’t invited.”

“You’ll be staff,” Mac decided on the spot. “God knows we could use another man with a brain in his head for this one. I use a photographer’s assistant for some events—when I have to. For the most part I like not to. But I was going to for this one due to holding all that sweating dynamite. The couple of people I usually tap aren’t available. You’re hired.”

“I don’t know anything about photography.”

“I do. You’ll hand me what I ask for, do stand-ins, and play pack mule when necessary. Do you have a dark suit? That isn’t tweed?”

“I—yes, but—”

She gave him a slow, seductive smile. “There’ll be cake.”

“Oh, in that case.”

“Jack’s pinch-hitting as escort for the MOH, due to CBBM.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maid of Honor, Cheating Bastard Best Man. And Del’s helping out because Jack’s making him. You know them. You know us.” She ate another bite of potato. “And you’ll have cake.”

None of which turned the tide for him. But the idea of being with her instead of just thinking about being with her did. “All right, if you’re sure.”

“Three o’clock Saturday. It’ll be great.”

“And I’ll see you in your natural habitat this time.”

“Yes, you will. Speaking of cake, I don’t have room for dessert yet. I’ll work off this amazing meal by doing the dishes.”

“No, I don’t want you to bother.”

“You made dinner, twice. I’ll clean it up while you have brandy and a cigar.”

“I don’t have any brandy, or a cigar.”

She patted his shoulder as she rose. “An English professor ought to recognize a metaphor when he hears one. Have another glass of wine since you’re not driving.”

She poured it for him herself before stacking the plates. “I actually like doing dishes. It’s the only household chore I do like.”

She ran hot water in the sink, found the detergent in the under-cabinet and squirted it in for the pots and pans. He liked sitting there, watching her perform the basic, mundane chore. And he hoped she wasn’t saying anything important because his mind was blurring.

It had nothing to do with the wine, and everything to do with imagining her being there, tidying up the kitchen next week, next month. Next year. Imagining her sitting with him to share a meal.

Too far, too fast, he knew it. But couldn’t help it. Infatuation had taken a quick, hard turn on him so he was rushing down the steep road into love.

“Where are your dish towels?”

“What? Sorry?”

“Dish towels,” she said and opened a drawer at random.

“No, not there. Other side. I’ll get it.”

He rose, opened the right drawer and got out a towel. “Why don’t I dry the pans?” he began. When he turned, his stomach sank down to his toes.

She stood, head cocked, reading Bob’s list.

“You have a list.”

“No. Yes. It’s not mine. I mean to say, yes, it’s mine, but I didn’t write it. Make it. God.”

With a thoughtful expression, she continued to read. “It’s very detailed.”

“Bob. You met him. He’s a lunatic—I don’t believe I mentioned that in the introduction.”

“It has bullet points.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. He’s determined to play Cyrano. I mean—”

She looked over the paper, into his eyes. “I get the Cyrano reference, Carter.”

“Oh, of course. He got married a couple years ago, has a baby on the way.”

“Congratulations to Bob.”

“He has this idea stuck in his head about helping me, ah, in this area. He brought it over Tuesday. I told you he came over for dinner Tuesday, didn’t I?”

“For the draft.”

“Yes, exactly, for the draft. I should’ve thrown it away after he left, but I tossed it in the drawer. Just . . .”

“In case? Like backup.”

“Yes. Yes, and I have no defense. I don’t blame you for being upset.”

She shifted her attention from the list to Carter. “Do I look upset?”

“Ah . . . No, now that you mention it. You don’t. Which is good. Which is a relief. Would you say you’re . . . amused?”

“That would be one level,” she replied. “According to the List of Bob, we’re pretty much on schedule.”

“I didn’t go by that. My word on it.” He held up a hand, palm out as if taking an oath. “I have my own list. A mental list. Which I suddenly realize is equally stupid.”

“How are we doing on yours?”

She smiled, but he couldn’t quite read the meaning. There could be subtext. “Good. We’re fine. Maybe we could have cake.”

She shook a finger at him when he reached for the printout. “I see here we were merely to stack the dishes—unless, I note here in parentheses, you sense I’d feel that was sloppy. Bob believes—and we know Bob—that doing the dishes together, if necessary, could be employed as foreplay.”

Mortified, he closed his eyes. “Just kill me. Please.”

“Sorry, but that’s not on the list. The list says that after making sure you have the appropriate music on—Barry White is his considered suggestion—you dance with me. Kitchen or living room each are acceptable as venues. Slow dance, which proceeds into the seduction portion of the evening. He advises that you should be able to tell, at this point, whether I’m amenable to taking it upstairs.”

“Would you like me to kill him? I’ve thought about it.”

“I don’t hear Barry White.”

“I don’t think I have any . . . Even if I did, I wouldn’t have—Did I mention Bob’s a lunatic?”

“Here’s something I wonder, Carter.” Watching him, she set the list on the counter. “I wonder why you’re not dancing with me.” She stepped to him, lifted her arms to wind them around his neck.

“Oh.”

“We wouldn’t want to disappoint Bob.”

“He is an awfully good friend.” He rested his cheek on the top of her head as everything settled back into place. “I’m not a very good dancer. My feet are too big. If I step on yours just—”

She tipped her face up to his. “Shut up and kiss me, Carter.”

“I can do that.”

Swaying, he covered her mouth with his. Soft and quiet, to fit the moment. He circled, cautiously, while her fingers slid into his hair, and her sigh filled his mind with mists.

She turned her head to skim her lips along his jaw. “Carter?”

“Mmm?”

“If you’re paying attention you should sense that I’m amenable.” She kept her eyes open and on his when their lips met again. “Why don’t you take me upstairs?”

She stepped back, held out her hand. “If you want me.”

He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “It feels as if I’ve spent my whole life wanting you.”

He drew her out of the kitchen. At the base of the steps he had to stop, had to kiss her again. He wondered if the wine, the needs, the images swam in her head as they did his.

He led her up, his pulse thumping with every step.

“I thought about flowers and candles, in case,” he said as they walked into his bedroom. “Then I thought—and I’m not normally superstitious—that would be the way to jinx it. And I wanted you here, too much, to risk it. I wanted you in my bed.”

“Having you say that to me is better than candles and flowers, believe me.” Like the house, she thought, the room suited him. Simple lines, quiet colors, ordered space.

“I wanted to be here. I wanted to be in your bed.”

Walking toward it, she saw the photograph of the cardinal on the facing wall. Touched, she turned to look at him, and wanted him more than she’d imagined she could.

She reached up to undo the buttons of her shirt.

“Don’t. Please. I want to undress you. If you don’t mind.”

She dropped her hands. “No. I don’t mind.”

He reached over, turned the lamp beside the bed on low. “And I want to see you while I do.”

He stroked a hand down her cheek, ran both hands down her body as he drew her against him.

Then his mouth took hers.

HAD SHE BEEN KISSED LIKE THIS BEFORE? SO THAT THE MEETING of lips, of tongues vibrated through her entire body? Had she ever been seduced so completely, as much by words as by that single, dazzling kiss?

How had the tables turned on her? She’d thought to seduce

him, to tease him upstairs, and into bed. She’d thought to keep it light and easy, as the evening had been—for the simple and basic purpose of releasing the ball of lust that gathered inside her when she was around him.

It should be simple, basic.

But it wasn’t.

He touched his lips to her cheeks, her brow, then those quiet blue eyes watched her as he unbuttoned her shirt. He barely touched her, and still the breath backed up in her lungs. He barely touched her, and still the control passed from her hands to his.

Standing in that quiet light, his eyes on hers, she didn’t care.

With the shirt open, he trailed a fingertip along her collar-bone, then down over the swell of her breasts. Just a whisper, barely a graze. But it set her skin to humming.

“Are you cold?” he asked when she trembled.

“No.”

And he smiled. “Then . . .” Slowly he nudged the shirt off her shoulders, let it slide to the floor. “Pretty,” he murmured, skimming his thumbs over the lacy cups of her bra.

Her breath released, hitched, caught again. “Carter, you make me weak.”

“I love your eyes. Magic seas.” He traced his fingers down her torso, up again, down, leaving little paths of shimmering sensation in their wake. “I’ve wanted to watch them when I touch you. Like this.”

Patient, steady, he explored. Swells and dips, curves and angles. While her body quivered in response, he flipped open the button at her waistband, eased down the zipper.

Once again he ran his hands down the sides of her body, inch by inch. Her pants slipped down her hips, her legs.

“Here.” He took her hand. “Step out.”

She obeyed like a woman in a trance, and felt her pulse scramble as he ran his gaze down her as he had his hands. Slowly. His lips curved. “I like your boots.”

She looked down, saw the thin-heeled ankle boots she now wore with only her bra and panties. “It’s a look.”

Smiling, he hooked his fingertip in the waist of the panties. She managed an “Oh, God” as he tugged to bring her body to his again.

This time, his mouth met hers like a fever, a flashpoint of heat. Even as she melted in it, he turned her, drawing her back against him. His teeth nibbled at the curve of her throat as her head fell back.

He let his free hand roam, over smooth skin, angles and curves, while he undid his own shirt. When they were skin to skin, her arm hooked around his neck, and her body began to move sinuously against him.

Not too fast, he reminded himself. He wanted to savor every moment, every touch, every breath. He had Mackensie in his arms.

Her heart hammered under his hand, and he thought that alone a miracle. She was with him, she felt him, wanted him. And tonight, at last, the dreams of the boy, the longings of the man would both be eclipsed by the reality of the woman.

He toed off his shoes, indulging himself with the taste and texture of the back of her neck. He caught the strap of her bra in his teeth, nudging it aside so he could free the lovely, lovely curve of her shoulders.