Wintergreen

Chapter 5

“Your old place was so small next to this,” Lorna said quietly, glancing around Matthew’s condominium as he took her coat and she found a place for her purse on the hall table. She descended two thickly carpeted steps into the sunken living room, the decor a stark white and black, the lighting hidden and the chrome gleaming. The interior decorator-obviously a professional had been at work here-had had an eye for luxury and elegance. The rich black carpeting and stark white couches were dramatic and masculine, with scarlet accents in the lacquered Chinese bar and a single high-backed chair.

“You don’t like it,” Matthew said from behind her.

“Of course I do.”

“Misha.”

“It’s perfectly dreadful. Where on earth do you read the Sunday paper?”

He chuckled and motioned her to follow him with a crook of his little finger. “Come on and I’ll show you where you can kick off your shoes. The room does work for entertaining…”

Entertaining women, she thought wryly. The couch was half the size of a bed. He led her down the hall, his palm in the hollow of her back, the only spot in her entire body that was warm after walking through the crisp snow from the car.

“More comfortable here?”

Slowly, she walked in ahead of him, deciding. She saw floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and his desk piled high with papers. Two long couches bordered the fireplace, both old and upholstered in brown tufted corduroy, faded a little and well worn. Wood was stacked in the hearth, which still held a bed of ash, and above the fieldstone fireplace was an oil portrait of a flutist.

The painting instantly captured all of her attention. A black man in rags held a gilded flute in his hands. His eyes were closed as he played, suggesting that he could block out the loneliness and poverty and other insurmountable problems in the richness of his music. Lorna stared, mesmerized, and could have suddenly sworn she heard the same music she had listened to all evening. Until her eyes caught the flicker of flame. Matthew was lighting the fire.

“Will you pour us both a glass of wine, Misha? It’s behind the desk there, in the credenza. I’m dying of thirst. I don’t know how the two of us could have sat in a nightclub for more than three hours without finishing a single drink.”

Obligingly, she moved behind the desk, glad to have something to do with her hands. “Who painted the portrait, Matthew?”

He glanced up at the oil painting. “An artist I met at a sidewalk sale at the art fair last summer. He was going to throw it away, said he didn’t know how to finish it.” He poked at a log, which tumbled over and sent a shower of orange sparks up the chimney. “I should have paid him a ton of money for it. I wanted to. But I was terrified that he would use it to go through art school and learn how to finish things.” He stood up, pulling a wrought-iron screen in front of the fire. “You like it?”

“I covet it,” she corrected wryly, as she poured wine from a decanter into two crystal glasses. “I feel I could walk down a crowded street and recognize the man in the portrait. Rich or poor, crook or saint, it wouldn’t make any difference,” she said whimsically, with just a trace of seriousness. “We all get desperate, day by day. Music helps me survive. At least, jazz does. Lets me forget absolutely everything else for a few minutes. Makes me feel free and in another world.”

Matthew stripped off his tie as he took the wine from her and leaned back lazily against the mantel. “A few other things work just as well,” he suggested, his dark eyes glinting on hers. She smiled softly as she settled in a corner of the couch.

“A good book?” she suggested, and watched that slash of a smile take over his face. She knew he’d meant making love, just as she knew he was about to make his first move. Wait, Matthew, she felt like saying. I know I came here of my own free will, but I really don’t know; I haven’t known anything since I walked into this house.

She needed a daisy, to peel off the petals and play the game. He was a stranger; he wasn’t a stranger. She’d felt so easy with him all evening; she could almost believe they’d just met, that there were no unhappy memories of other people intruding on how they felt about each other. Every tiny physical contact was like a spark tempting love to flare up, threatening to explode…at least for her.

But this was not the man she’d known nine years ago. The silvery sideburns added an air of distinction to his looks that hadn’t been there then; his whole apartment had a bachelor look to it that implied a man who played a sophisticated game of seduction. The Matthew she’d once known had been into work, day and night. She wasn’t at all sure how she felt coming into his home as other women had undoubtedly come over the years. Treated to wine and a fire and soft lighting, she was on her guard.

“Were you in court today?” she asked idly.

He nodded, finally moving away from the fire and settling on the couch across from her. “In court part of the day, at the police station the rest.” He smiled wryly. “At times I wish I’d have gone into corporate law, like Richard. At least those guys dress in suits and take regular showers. I’m looking into an embezzlement case-for the amount of money involved, you’d think the client could have afforded deodorant.”

Lorna’s eyebrows shot up as she smiled. “You’re spoiling your image as a glamorous criminal attorney.” He made a face. “You don’t even sound as if you think your client’s innocent.”

Matthew took a sip of wine and set his glass down, stretching his long legs in front of him. “He’s not-but he’s not guilty of all the charges against him, either. He was just a little cog in a wheel too big for him. There are times when I think half of all crime comes down to the same thing. People in over their heads and unable to find their way out…” He shook his head. “When I first started out in this business of the law, I wanted everyone to line up in neat little categories-guilty or innocent.”

“They don’t,” she suggested quietly.

He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly brooding, the atmosphere abruptly no longer conducive to small talk. “They don’t,” he echoed. “I work in the real world, Misha. Every day the line is drawn finer. There’s right and wrong, yes. But innocent people can commit an incredible number of moral crimes that aren’t punishable by law. And the guilty are often tried only because they saw no alternative to breaking the law…”

He stopped abruptly and stared into the fire, then back at Lorna. “And I couldn’t have my mind less on the law. Honey, I know damn well you’re still hung up on what happened with my brother.”

The unexpected change from theoretical law to their personal past threw her. She set down her glass. “Matthew…”

“You never committed a crime, Misha,” he said quietly. “I raised Richard, from the time our mother died. I knew him, and I loved my brother. That’s not to say I ever thought him incapable of making a mistake. He was in over his head, wanting success all at once, and he dragged you into that complicated maelstrom. I did the best I could by him, Misha, and I’ll be damned if I’ll acknowledge guilt for the way I feel about you now.”

“Matthew…” Her throat was suddenly dry.

“Please listen to me, Misha,” he grated, leaning forward. His expression was steely and his eyes were haunted, intensely pinning hers. “I don’t want the shadow of the past between us, Misha. I want to hear from you that it isn’t there. When I walked into my office and found you waiting there, I could see that you were expecting me to lash out at you, and I don’t understand why. I never judged you. It was a long time ago, and, honey, you’re not the only woman-or man-to make that particular mistake.” His voice softened. “Besides, you’ve paid a hell of a price over the years for being nineteen once upon a time. For being a little too beautiful, a little too young, a little too lonely.”

But he believed she had been unfaithful. Her stomach was suddenly churning with turbulent emotions. “Matthew, you think you understand-”

“No. Not understand. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t give a damn. It’s the past, unless it’s still affecting you now. You sought me out, Misha. And if that had anything to do with leftover feelings for my brother-”

“God, no.” Lorna jumped up from the couch, folding her arms slowly across her chest, turning away so he couldn’t see her rapidly blinking away tears. “I don’t still love or hate your brother, Matthew. That’s what you’re asking me? Not for a long time. It has nothing to do with why I came to see you.”

It was Johnny, she thought achingly. She had wanted the security of the Whitaker family for her son. That was the reason she had gone to see Matthew, but instead of solving the problem, her action had created a new one. Problem? It had always mattered so much what Matthew thought of her, that he not judge her harshly. And he saw with such compassion what she had been unable to forgive in herself, that she had been a too-young, too-lonely nineteen. He understood that, but not what counted to her. She closed her eyes, and then turned to face him. “Maybe what I feel now is crazy,” she admitted quietly. “Because I don’t believe you, Matthew. I want to, but I don’t believe that you’ve forgotten, that you don’t care. You still think I’m the kind of woman who would be unfaithful-”

He sucked in his breath and stood up restlessly. She saw a flash of something stark and brilliant in his eyes before she turned away to stare into the fire. From behind her, she felt his hands suddenly massage the nape of her neck, a gentle, soothing caress, his fingers intuitively discovering every knotted muscle. Only gradually did his hands leave her neck and trail down to her waist, pulling her gently back against him, his soft kiss on her cheek simple, slow and easy. “I’m not a boy,” he said quietly. “And you’re not that kind of woman, Misha. There would be no chance of your being unfaithful to me. Do you want me to show you?”

The fire was sending golden sparks up the chimney. There was no reason for the vulnerable little shiver that rippled through her body. “No,” she whispered.

He was behind her, but she could feel his smile, his amusement that she was suddenly shying like a fawn. His arms tightened around her, securing her in the cocoon of his embrace, a cherishing, protective embrace that touched off a thousand nerve endings. And confused her, totally. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, Misha. Let me touch you. Let me show you…”

She could not seem to turn around and face him. Matthew didn’t appear to care. His cheek nudged aside her hair so that his lips could find her soft skin. There, where the nape of her neck burned. Her throat, the hollow in her shoulder…she was not the kind of woman to go to bed with a man because of a simple attraction. She was not some wanton to whom vows of love meant nothing. She’d never been driven by libido in her life. It was terribly important that Matthew understand that, that he respect her, that he trust her…

“The minute I saw you,” he murmured, “I wanted to hold you, Misha. To touch you, to feel your touch. I wanted to hear your laughter. I wanted to watch you listening to music. I wanted to scold you for wearing sandals in the coldest weather. I wanted you beside me in the night…”

“Matthew…” She closed her eyes, arching her head back as his lips continued to tease and savor at the side of her throat. He leaned against the back of the couch, pulling her into the cradle of his thighs, his lips finding ample territory to explore in the flesh laid bare by the scoop neck of her sweater. Collarbone and throat, the silky hollow just below her ear, the fragile cords of her neck.

She suddenly felt as weak as a kitten, and strangely reluctant to open her eyes. Despair shot through her, mingled with desire. For Johnny’s sake, for her own, she knew she could not leave Matthew believing as he did. It mattered so much! She tried to think, and couldn’t. Her blood was singing in her veins, a song of blues and rhythm that was all she seemed to hear. She felt enfolded in velvet-encased iron, her back cradled against his chest, her bottom cradled into his thighs, his arms around her. His hands caressed the cashmere covering her abdomen, over and over, as restless as his lips at her throat. “Misha…”

It was like a low call from the back of his throat, a sweet whisper to follow him, his music, his magic. His hands slid up and crossed to knead the aching swells of her breasts. Her heart beat so loudly that she knew he could hear it. She opened her eyes and saw the shadows the fire was casting on the wall, saw his dark head bent over her. Her own head arched back in the curve of his shoulder as his hands moved over her body. She could smell cherry wood and leather and the dry wine from his lips, could smell Matthew…

“Misha,” he murmured again, and turned her, his lips sealing in a message of sweet, driving hunger. Her hands clutched his hair, forcing the kiss to deepen. She hurt. Deep in her loins she felt the most unbearable pain, so consuming it frightened her.

He pulled the sweater loose from the waistband of her skirt, and the touch of his warm palm on her abdomen seared, sent a shiver through her body. He seemed to love that shiver. She could feel the change in his breathing and the increase in fevered pressure on her mouth, in the dominating way he drew her closer, possessively wrapping his arms around her. He wanted her trembling. And it was so easy to give him what he wanted.

He unfastened the button on the waist of her skirt. The fabric slid lazily down her silk-clad hips. Her arms were already raised to his neck, and he easily slipped off the sweater. For just a moment, the black cashmere blinded her, going over her head, and for just that moment she groped for a fraction of sanity. “No,” she protested.

Matthew draped the sweater over the back of the couch and savored the look of her. The black slip was simple, lace-free, a smooth satiny fabric that molded itself to her figure. His eyes met hers, all black and fierce fire. “Nothing on earth could stop me from making love to you, Misha,” he whispered. “Nothing except you.”

She took a breath, her heart beating frantically, and stared at him. His hands were slowly moving up and down her sides, absorbing the feel and look of silk against her skin. Those hands were suddenly lazy, waiting. And Lorna had thousands of vocabulary words in four languages to choose from at the tip of her tongue. Nyet. Non. Nein. Please, Matthew…

Slowly, his hands shifted down from her waist, resting possessively on the curve of her hips. “Unbutton my shirt, Misha,” he whispered.

The buttons trembled beneath her fingers. “Matthew. Listen…” Would he settle for a brilliant discussion of world politics? Because somewhere in her head she knew this wasn’t right. It was too fast, too overwhelming, too unsettled… Yet another corner of her mind told her that nothing could be more right. No one else had made her feel like this. She’d said no to men for years because she had felt it wasn’t right. And Matthew was no stranger. Once friend…now lover. And when her hands climbed up the warm flesh of his chest, she could anticipate his shudder even before she felt it.

“Misha…”

The lazy sensuality in his eyes was replaced by something yet more compelling. She was still absorbing that look in his eyes as he lowered her to the carpet, a long powerful leg stealing between hers, pressing intimate flesh against intimate flesh. She closed her eyes as he removed her slip and unclasped her bra. He buried her low, guttural murmur in her throat with his lips on hers, draining her mouth of sound. The feeling of her bare breasts crushed to his chest touched off a summons in her soul, a burst of desire so consuming…

The fire was such a bright orange, licking flames up the flue. Matthew’s flesh took on the silk sheen of moisture; the fire was reflected in his eyes, which seemed to blacken to ebony at her fevered touch. She could not touch enough, as she watched the sheen of his teak skin, seeing the shadows of both of them in the movements of love, seeing the flames burn higher. Lovingly, they finished undressing one another, and she clasped his naked body to hers.

He whispered her name over and over as she took him inside her, trembling with that intimate intrusion, murmuring a sudden startled cry. She was someone else, a stranger, bursting with an aching, restless need so intense that she felt lost, frightened. For so long, she had trusted no one; for so long she had allowed no one to come close; never had she felt so vulnerable. She wanted Matthew so desperately. Too much. Love me, Matthew. Make it all right…

His hand brushed back her hair, over and over. “Easy,” he murmured. “I’m going nowhere without you, love. Nowhere. You know better. You’re going with me. Trust me…”

She barely heard the words, with his lips in her hair, but she could feel in his body language what he was trying to say. The tension had come from nowhere. A butterfly fleeing the sound of the wind; a wild creature that bolted from fear of being captured. And Matthew remained cleaved to her, his body part of her own. His warm weight absorbed her trembling; his hands moved slowly, with infinite tenderness; his lips made slow, patient, infinite promises. She could have sworn he understood her better than she understood herself. A long time ago, she had been deserted in a time of need she would never forget; in fierce, wild passion, she had forgotten that. Her soul hadn’t, not at the time when she was at her most vulnerable, when there could be no fulfillment without trust.

“Matthew…”

His touch, so tender, kindled fresh fire. His murmured words kindled more; the scent of him, the feel of his skin, the promise in his eyes… The complicated problems in her life suddenly seemed so simple. Every instinct told her he loved her. Every instinct responded to that promise. With touch, with love, with flame, she responded, and he gave back in kind. It was double what they had started out with. He had taken a wild, fiercely abandoned woman to a very special place, where no one could ever have heard such music, where no one could ever have been made so free.

Sleepily, she curled next to him. Matthew pressed kiss after kiss on her temples, in her hair, both of them exhausted in the aftermath of loving. “So warm, Misha, so incredibly lovely.” His finger gently nudged up her chin so he could look at her again. “You glow, did you know that? All giving…”

She shook her head, flushing faintly.

He smiled, just as faintly, bemused at her shyness.

“Can I tell you what a beautiful body you have?” he murmured teasingly.

She shook her head again.

“What an incredible lover you are? What I felt like when I was inside you? I never wanted to leave you, sweet. I never wanted it to end. It was as if I’d always known how it could be and I couldn’t stand to let go of you…”

She snuggled her cheek in the crook of his shoulder, her arms still loosely around his neck. He kissed her again, rubbing his face against her cheek until she smiled, feeling ticklish, forgetting her shyness.

“On the other hand…” He nudged up her chin again so he could look in her eyes. “I’m not too pleased at getting quite so carried away. There are four couches in this house and three beds, Misha. Would you like to tell me how we ended up on the carpet?”

That roused her, her lips irrepressibly curling up at the corners. “You’re a disgrace as a sophisticated bachelor,” she said gravely. “What good are all the recessed lights and the elegant couches if you’re really a teenager with a libido that gets ahead of you? Honestly, Matthew. What happened to all that formidable control, the authoritative decision-maker…”

“It’s all your fault,” he growled.

“Yours.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t think. It was your fault I couldn’t think.”

“That’s your business, thinking. Brilliantly outthinking criminals.”

“No, I outthink prosecuting attorneys.”

He chuckled and leaned over her, placing a languid kiss exactly between her third and fourth rib. “What’s criminal, Misha, is what you do to me. How you took fire…”

And she had, she thought fleetingly. But it had never been like that before. Never had she associated lovemaking with such intense passion, such abandoned fire, such desperate need, such perfect synchrony. She’d learned the rules with Richard a very long time ago, but had never played the game. At nineteen, she had known nothing about loving. She remembered suddenly how much she had lost then, and realized with frightening awareness how much more she could lose now.

She was falling in love with Matthew, and that made her more vulnerable than she had ever been in her life.

It was four in the morning; the fire had died; the air grew cool on her skin; and all she wanted to do was sleep. Instead, she admitted to herself that it was past time to go home.