She hadn’t looked very carefully when she had explored the first day, simply noticing the air of unfrilly masculinity before she’d shut the door again. But now it had taken on an entirely new dimension. It belonged to Patrick, the enigma, and as such was endlessly fascinating.
His bed was high and wide, at least three and a half feet off the floor, the kind of bed where babies are born and old people die. The kind of bed to found a dynasty in, if one was so inclined. She ran a hand over the beautiful quilt, and wondered whether she had shared any unforgettable moments in this enticing bed. If so, she had obviously forgotten them.
She could imagine Patrick’s long, lean body, tossing and turning in so large a bed, and she felt a queer little twinge in her stomach. Of longing? Or nervousness? Or both? She couldn’t truthfully answer.
She placed the sweater on the bed with great care, then moved to the dresser, noting the silver-backed combs with his initials engraved on them, the loose change lying around. The photograph of a young girl standing in a field, her head thrown back, laughing from sheer joy.
Molly’s hand was trembling as she reached out and took the picture. She knew that face, that moment. It was a picture of her, not that old, and she could almost remember, almost grasp...
“What the hell are you doing in here?” His voice was rough, shocking, sending whatever she was about to remember flying into a million pieces. She stared at him numbly.
He shut the door behind him and moved closer. He’d unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it free from his jeans, obviously on the way to a shower, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes away from his chest.
She had to have seen men’s chests before. She had to have seen this particular one before, and she was being an utter fool to stand there, speechless. So he was tanned, even at the end of winter. So he was lean, and strong, with a triangle of hair that arrowed down toward his jeans. So it was a very nice chest indeed. There was still no need for her to suddenly find herself unable to breathe.
He moved closer, and there was just the hint of a threat in his movements, and a sinuous grace that made her look around helplessly for means to escape.
“What are you doing with a picture of me on your dresser?” she countered, trying to divert him from whatever he had in mind.
“It’s not you,” he said flatly. “It’s a girl I once knew, but she’s been gone for years. Leaving you in her place.” His voice was contemptuous as he surveyed her, and then he shrugged, never slowing his determined progress toward her as she stood guiltily in the corner of his bedroom. “Call it an old weakness,” he added slowly. He stopped, directly in front of her, so close she could feel his body heat, so close she could see the tiny fan of lines around his stormy blue eyes.
Her reaction made no sense to her. She wanted to run away, and she wanted to touch him. She wanted to reach out and run her hand down that lean, muscled chest, but something, some innate wisdom, stopped her. Despite the fact that she must have done that, and much more, in the past, she knew she shouldn’t do it now. No matter how much she wanted to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her hand.
“You know, Molly,” he said in a low, sinuous voice, “you should have told me you wanted to visit my bedroom. I would have invited you long ago.”
Quite casually he reached out and took her by the shoulders, drawing her unresisting body towards him. “It’s amazing that you still have some effect on me.” His voice was rough, and his mouth covered hers with a sudden force that left her shocked, stunned, paralyzed. He held her in an unbreakable grip as he caught her chin in his hand and continued to kiss her, with slow, contemptuous deliberation, refusing to allow her to escape, until she was a shaking, trembling mass of confused reactions, reactions she was powerless to control. And then his mouth softened, and it was no longer punishment but a reward, and she kissed him back, sliding her arms around his waist, pressing up against him with helpless longing she hadn’t quite understood.
She needed to be here. Locked tight against him, his mouth on hers, demanding nothing but complete surrender. She made a quiet little sound in the back of her throat, and surrender it was.
He pulled away, suddenly, moving back from her as if she’d suddenly become contagious. “Damn you,” he said in a low, furious voice. “Get out of hare.”
She stared at him through the twilight room for a moment, shaken, shocked to the very core of her being. And then she ran from the room without a backward glance. Ran from him as she had run before, five weeks earlier, in the same blind panic.
When she reached her room she slammed the door shut behind her and locked it with a loud, satisfying click. Leaning against the door, she trembled in the aftermath of his touch. She had surely never been kissed like that before. She couldn’t have forgotten such a torrent of emotions. As a matter of fact, she could have sworn that she’d never been kissed at all—the feel of a hot, wet mouth against hers had been a startling revelation.
But that was absurd. She was twenty-three years old, and married. Her mind must be playing even more sadistic tricks on her.
She moved through her darkened room and threw herself onto the bed. She wouldn’t go down to dinner, she promised herself. She couldn’t face him after...that...that.
She would lie there and starve.
“Molly? Molly, dear, open up. Open up right now!” An imperative voice broke through Molly’s sleep-numbed mind, and she sat up dazedly. It took her a moment to remember where she was, and what had happened. Patrick’s mouth on hers, the too-brief moment that had burned into her brain.
Unfortunately nothing else had disrupted her blank memory. She probed, looking for answers, ignoring the incessant pounding at her door. Still nothing.
“Who is it?” she finally called out groggily, switching on the light.
“Your Aunt Ermintrude, of course. Now open the door immediately.”
What a tyrant, she thought. “What can I do for you?” she called out with deliberate calm.
“What do you mean, what can you do for me? Do as I say immediately, Molly, or I shan’t answer for the consequences.” Her deep contralto voice rose to a tiny squeak of rage.
“Then don’t,” Molly answered mildly enough, glad to have an instinct confirmed. She couldn’t stand dear Aunt Ermy. “I’ll open the door when I’m ready to, and not before. Go away and leave me alone.”
There was an outraged silence beyond the oak door, and she could picture a rather Wagnerian lady bristling with indignation. After a moment or two she heard angry, stomping footsteps walk away and she chuckled, inordinately pleased that she had managed to rout some member of her hostile family at last.
“Molly.” Mrs. Morse’s soft voice broke through her pleased reverie, and she sprang up. The woman darted into the room as soon as Molly unlocked it, with a furtive glance over her shoulder to make sure she was unobserved.
