Sandra Marton - Claiming His Love-Child

That was how he’d felt that night after he’d taken Marissa to bed. Holding her in his arms, feeling her warm and soft against him until she’d suddenly stiffened, started to pull away.

“I have to go,” she’d said, but he’d drawn her close again, kissed her, touched her until she moaned his name and then he’d been moving above her, inside her, holding back, not letting go because she wasn’t letting go, because he had the feeling she’d never flown free before and the first time it happened, it was damn well going to be with him…

“Damn,” he said softly.

Cullen’s eyes flew open. He put his seat up, folded his arms and glowered into the darkness.

So much for feeling nice and relaxed.

This was stupid. Worse than stupid. It was senseless. Why was Marissa in his head? He hadn’t seen her since that night. She’d left his bed while he was sleeping, hadn’t shown up to take him to the airport, hadn’t answered her phone when he called. Not that morning, not any of the times he’d tried to reach her after he was home again.

He always got her answering machine.

You’ve reached Marissa Perez. Please leave a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

His last message had been brief, all right, even curt.

“It’s Cullen O’Connell,” he’d said. “You want to talk to me, you have my number.”

She’d hadn’t phoned. Not once. Her silence spoke for itself. They’d slept together, it had been fun, and that was that. No return visits, no instant replays. End of story.

Fine with him. The trouble with most women was that you couldn’t get rid of them even after you explained, politely, that it was over.

Cullen? It’s Amy. I know what you said, but I was thinking…

Cullen? It’s Jill. About what we decided the other night…

Marissa Perez took an admirable approach to sex. A man’s approach. She took what she wanted and shut the door on what she didn’t. That didn’t bother him. It didn’t bother him at all.

Why would it?

For all he gave a damn, she could have slept with a dozen men since that night with him. After all, he’d had several women in his life since that weekend. Okay, he hadn’t taken any of them to bed, but so what? He’d been working his tail off. Besides, a short break from sex was a good thing. It only heightened the pleasure in the future.

Tomorrow, he’d phone the blonde he’d met at that cocktail party last week. Or the attorney from Dunham and Busch with the red hair and the big smile. She’d come on to him like crazy.

Definitely, he’d celebrate his homecoming with a woman who’d be happy to take his calls and happy to see him. And he’d sleep with her, make love until crazy thoughts about Marissa Perez were purged from his mind. Surely, his memories of that night were skewed.

Cullen muttered a couple of raw words under his breath as he sat up and switched on his overhead light. To hell with what time it was in New York. The blonde from last week was a party animal. This hour of the night, she was probably just coming in the door.

He dug his address book and his cell phone from his pocket, tapped in her number. She answered after two rings, her voice husky with sleep.

“H’lo,” she said. “Whoever you are, you’d better be somebody I really want to talk to.”

He smiled, turned his face to the window and the night sky. “It’s Cullen O’Connell. We met last—”

“Cullen.” The sleep-roughened voice took on a purr. “I’d started to think you weren’t going to phone.”

“I had things to clear up. You know how it is.”

“No,” she said, and gave a soft laugh, “I don’t know how it is. I guess you’ll just have to show me.”

Cullen felt the tension drain away. “My pleasure,” he said, imagining her as she must look right then, sleep-tousled and sexy. “How about tonight? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I already have a date for tonight.”

“Break it.”

She laughed again and this time the sound was so full of promise that he felt a heaviness in his groin.

“Are you always this sure of yourself?”

He thought of Marissa, of how she’d slipped from his bed, how she’d ignored his phone calls…

“Eight o’clock,” he repeated.

“You’re an arrogant SOB, Mr. O’Connell. Luckily for you, that’s a trait I like in a man.”

“Eight,” Cullen said, and disconnected.

He put away his cell phone, sat back and thought about the evening ahead. Dinner at that French place. Drinks and dancing at the new club in SoHo. And then he’d take the blonde home, take her to bed, and exorcise the ghost of Marissa Perez forever.

September: Boston, Massachusetts

THE end of summer always came faster than seemed possible.

One minute the city was sweltering in the heat and the Red Sox were packing in the ever-faithful at Fenway Park. Next thing you knew, gray snow was piled on the curbs, the World Series was only a memory and the Sox hadn’t even made it to the playoffs.

Cullen stepped out of the shower, toweled off and pulled on a pair of old denim shorts.

Not that any of that had happened yet.

It was Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer with the real start of fall still almost three weeks away. Cold weather was in the future, and so was the possibility, however remote, that Boston could rise from the ashes and at least win the division championship.

Cullen strolled into the kitchen and turned on the TV in time to catch the tail end of the local news. The Sox had lost a tight game yesterday; nobody had much hope they’d do any better today, said the dour-faced sportscaster.

“Wonderful,” Cullen muttered as he opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water and uncapped it.

The sports guy gave way to the weatherman. Hot and humid, the weatherman said, with his usual in-your-face good cheer. Saturday, 10:00 a.m. and the sun was blazing from a cloudless sky, the temperature was pushing ninety with no break in sight from now through Monday.

“A perfect holiday weekend,” the weather guru said as if he’d personally arranged it.

Cullen scowled and hit the off button on the remote.

“What’s so perfect about it?” he growled. It was just another weekend, longer than most, hotter than most. Long, hot, and…

And, what was he doing here?

Nobody, but nobody, stayed in town Labor Day weekend. Driving home from his office yesterday, traffic going out of the city had been bumper to bumper. He’d felt like the only person not heading off for one last taste of summer.

He should have been among them. He’d intended to be.

Cullen lifted the bottle to his lips and drank some water. He’d certainly had enough choices.

Las Vegas, for the usual O’Connell end of summer blast. Connecticut, for the barbecue Keir and Cassie were throwing because Cassie was too pregnant for the long flight to Vegas. He had invitations to house parties in the Hamptons, on the Cape, on Martha’s Vineyard and half a dozen other places, and there was always the lure of three days at Nantucket.

Instead, he was here in hot and muggy Boston for no good reason except he wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere.

Well, except, maybe Berkeley…

Berkeley? Spend Labor Day weekend on one of the campuses of the University of California?

Cullen snorted, finished off the water and dumped the empty bottle in the sink.

Back to square one. Wasn’t that the same insane thought he’d had flying home from Fallon’s wedding in July? It made no more sense now then it had made then. You thought about the West Coast, you thought about San Francisco. Or Malibu. Maybe a couple of days at Big Sur.

But Berkeley? What for? Nothing but college kids and grad students, protesters and protests, do-gooders and doomsayers. Maybe that vitality was part of why he’d loved the place as a law student, but those years were a decade behind him. He was older. He’d changed. His idea of a great party involved more than take-out pizza and jugs of cheap wine. And, except for a couple of his law school profs, he didn’t have friends there anymore.