“I know. You never do.” She’d sighed. “I suppose I failed you. If I had it to do over, if I had the wisdom then that I do now . . . oh, bother.” She managed a frail, pale-lipped smile meant to disguise the pang of despair that shadowed her eyes.
He’d felt like a heel.
“Well, we’ll just make the best of things, won’t we? But . . .” she’d hesitated and fiddled with the tie of her robe. “I just feel that there are things going on here that . . . well, I don’t understand. Alexander, he’s been so withdrawn and Marla . . . oh, the problems with that girl . . .” Eugenia had worried her lip with her teeth as she’d thought. “I suppose all marriages have trouble, their ups and downs. I certainly know that from my own experience. Your father, he . . . oh, well, I loved him. Far more than I should have, I suppose.” For a second she was lost in her memories, then her eyes focused on Nick again. “You’re a lot like him in many ways, Nicholas. Self-righteous. Smart. And yet you’re very different in other ways.” She’d squared her shoulders. “I just wanted to say thanks for coming.”
“I’ll be staying until my job’s d
one. Then I’m out of here,” he’d reminded her.
She’d smiled as if she knew her second-born far better than he knew himself.
“We’ll see,” she’d said, starting for the elevator.
“I have a life in Oregon.”
“Do you?” she’d asked, lifting a disbelieving eyebrow and leaving the question hovering in the air before disappearing into the elevator and returning to her room.
“Yes,” he said to himself as he considered Alex’s stash of liquor two floors below.
Nick figured he owed himself a drink. He took the time to place a call to Ole to find out that Tough Guy was doing all right, then with thoughts of the simple life at Devil’s Cove at odds with the complicated mess here in San Francisco, he headed downstairs.
Fortunately Alex had left the key in the liquor cabinet. Nick found a bottle of Scotch and searched for a glass. Outside the wind rushed, while inside the only sounds were the tick of the grandfather’s clock in the foyer, the soft drone of the ancient furnace and the creak of hundred-year-old timbers. A far cry from his cottage at the Oregon coast, he thought as he poured himself a stiff shot. Tiny, compact, with a roof he’d shingled himself, furniture that was old or purchased secondhand through the classified ads, and a three-legged dog who was a security system and best friend all rolled into one. Nick had enough money stashed in the bank and stock market set aside and enough income from his investments in apartments and office buildings he’d bought when he’d lived in Seattle to keep him happy. He could afford a more lavish life style. He didn’t want one. It was just too much trouble.
Alex’s life was testament enough to that sorry fact.
Yeah, Nick had a life, a life he wanted, a life that was his, a life of freedom.
So what the hell are you doing here?
He added a couple of ice cubes to his glass, then walked to the fireplace, where embers of a recent fire glowed in the ashes. Yet the room seemed cold. Sterile. Not the least bit warm or inviting. Like the rest of this damned house. Like his family. Like his life before he’d moved away after his affair with Marla. In his mind’s eye he remembered how she’d kissed, as if she’d never stop, soft little moans escaping her throat. When he’d touched her, his fingers running up her bare arms, she’d lowered her eyes to half-mast, so that her seductive green irises were hidden beneath a fringe of dark lashes. She had trembled in his arms, whispered that only he could make her feel so wanton, touched her tongue to his ear and in a throaty voice had whispered, “Please, Nick, give me more . . . I want so much more . . .”
Now, he slammed his eyes shut and took a long gulp of his drink. He’d come full circle, leaving San Francisco because of Marla and returning for the same damned woman. And though she’d changed, he still felt that incredible pull to be near her and he was even considering crossing the line, stepping over the edge of decency and morality to the dark, inviting seduction of the woman. She was different, yes. So very different. She was kinder, gentler, her sense of humor more complete and though he sensed a toughness deep within her, she was vulnerable as well, a woman he couldn’t resist. It was so odd, as if he was falling in love again, more deeply this time, and with a different, deeper woman. Children had made her less self-involved, more playful, more caring about those around her. The things that had bothered him about Marla all those years ago had faded with the years and yet, beneath her beautiful skin, and deep into her psyche and libido, lay the same female animal who had made him lose his mind, his common sense, all reason, for a few stolen moments of sheer, sensual pleasure.
Their trysts, always alone and secretive, had been romantic and wildly erotic. There hadn’t been anything she hadn’t done, nothing she wouldn’t experience, no boundaries. Her arms had been open wide, her mind leaping ahead to the next sensual pleasure, her skin so hot his sanity had melted whenever he was around her, and her shimmering mischievous eyes, oh, such sweet, dangerous invitation. The feel of her wet mouth on his skin as her tongue explored all the indentations of his muscles left him weak and wanting. No woman since had come close to Marla.
He would have walked through hell for five minutes of lovemaking with her. And one day, she’d met him, kissed him chastely upon his cheek, tossed him a bright, I-know-you’ll-forgive-me smile, and told him it was over, that she’d met someone. The someone just happened to be his brother.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled and tossed back his drink in one gulp. What the hell was he doing here, falling for her all over again. He should have his head examined—better yet he should be shot. He walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another over the ice cubes that hadn’t yet melted. As he took a sip, he heard the gates hum open and walked to the window. Headlights flashed. Alex’s Jag shot through. Nick’s stomach tightened. He drained half his drink. Within minutes, the elevator rumbled and he started up the stairs. Glass in hand, he met his brother and wife at the landing of the bedroom floor. Marla looked like hell. Pale, her jaw swollen, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets, she tried to call up a smile for Nick, but failed. His heart wrenched, but he clamped his jaw tight.
“So you really moved in,” Alex said as he held the door open to their suite for his wife. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”
“I considered it, but didn’t want to disappoint,” Nick drawled. Marla sent him a quick look, then made her excuses.
“Forgive me, but I’ve really got to lie down,” she said and there was a pained, haunted quality to her gaze that got to him. Frail and uncertain, so unlike that bold sexual creature who had wrapped her fingers around his soul.
Despite all else, Marla Cahill had been through hell tonight.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
A tiny spark of humor flickered in her eyes. “That depends on what you consider okay. Compared to being run over by a steamroller, I’m in pretty good shape, but otherwise . . .” she waggled her hand to indicate indecision “. . . I’ve had better days.” She leaned against the door and chuckled without any humor. “I just can’t remember many of them.”
“You will.”
“Let’s hope.” She glanced at the railing and the spot in the carpet where she’d thrown up. Aside from a dark water stain, all traces of her ordeal had been cleaned away. She visibly shuddered. “I owe you a big thanks, Nick. If you hadn’t been here . . .”
“Someone else would have stepped in.”
“No, no, Marla is right,” Alex said stiffly. “Thank God you were here.”