Linda Howard - Sarah's Child

Rome stared at the linen jacket in his hands, and his mouth tightened. Didn’t Sarah realize what a challenge she was to men? She was so cool and pale and distant, so complete unto herself. She was devoted to her career, and she made it pretty plain that she didn’t need a man for anything beyond casual companionship. It had been rumored for years that she’d been the mistress of the chairman of the board, but Diane hadn’t thought so, and he trusted Diane’s judgment. Instead Diane thought that Sarah must have had a love affair that had gone sour, but as she’d said more than once, Sarah was deep and kept a lot of things to herself.

He remembered the first time he’d wanted Sarah; it had been at his own wedding. He’d been impatient to leave with Diane, and then he’d seen Sarah, standing a little alone as she so often seemed to be, her white-blonde hair twisted up on top of her head, her pale face wearing a polite mask. Was she never hot or mussed, he had wondered. Never fidgety? He’d thought of how she’d look if he’d had her in bed with him, that pale hair tangled by the wildness of their passion, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses, her slim body dewy with perspiration. His own body had suddenly become taut, swollen with need, and he’d had to turn away to disguise his condition. How he’d resented her, because even at his wedding to Diane, he’d been lusting after Sarah.

The years hadn’t changed the situation. She was always aloof, cool to him, and she never stayed around if he came home while she was visiting Diane. He loved Diane and was faithful to her, totally satisfied with her in bed, but there always remained, in the back of his mind, the knowledge that he wanted Sarah. If she’d given him the come-on, would he have remained faithful to Diane? He wanted to think so, but he couldn’t be certain; look what had happened the first time he’d kissed Sarah! He’d been ready to take her right then, on the floor, but he’d had a moment’s concern for her soft skin and he’d lifted her to the bed, a break in his concentration that had eventually stopped him. But she hadn’t been cool and reserved in his arms; she’d been warm and responsive, and her legs had parted for him without hesitation. Her cheeks had been flushed, and a few fine tendrils of hair had escaped their confinement to curl enticingly around her temples.

That was how he wanted her: with that neat, aloof image of hers shattered. He’d come home early from a trip once, and she’d been in the pool with Diane and the boys. She’d been laughing and frolicking like a child herself, her long hair loosened for once and floating around her like a fairy cloud. He’d changed into his own swimsuit and gone out to join them, and as soon as he’d appeared, Sarah had stopped laughing. She’d been very casual about it, but she’d made her excuses to Diane, hauling herself out of the water, and swiftly dried off before pulling on a ragged pair of denim shorts that only accentuated her long lovely legs. The sight of her in a pale yellow bikini had so aroused him that he’d had to take a fast dive into the water, and when he surfaced, she was already walking swiftly away.

A man couldn’t have asked for a better wife than Diane, or a more loving one. But as much as he loved her, as much as he still ached for her, he still wanted Sarah. It wasn’t a question of love at all; the finer emotions didn’t enter into it. His attraction to her was purely physical. He’d lashed out at her because, with her, sex would be more of a betrayal than it had been with those other nameless, faceless women. They’d been only bodies, without personality. But he knew Sarah, and he couldn’t wipe her identity out of his mind. He wanted sex with her; he wanted to watch her when she went wild beneath him, he wanted to hear her call his name during the throes of passion. And she was Diane’s best friend.

Hours later Sarah curled numbly in bed, her tears finally exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. She felt battered, her insides torn apart with hurt. When the phone rang, she was tempted to ignore it, because no matter who it was, she didn’t feel like talking to them. But any call at two o’clock in the morning could be an emergency, and finally she reached over to lift the receiver. When she said hello, she winced at the sound of her own voice, which was still thick with the tears she’d shed.

“Sarah, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she interrupted, the sound of that deep voice shredding the fragile control she’d gained over her emotions, and she began to weep again. The soft sobs were evident in her voice despite her efforts to hide them. “I may not know anything about men, but you don’t know anything about me! I don’t want to talk to you anymore, do you hear?”

“God, you’re crying.” He groaned softly, a harsh, masculine sound that filled her with equal portions of pain and longing.

“I said I don’t want to talk to you!”

He somehow divined her intentions and said “Don’t hang up on me!” in sudden wrath, but she did anyway, then buried her face in the pillow and cried until her eyes were dry and burning.

“You don’t know anything at all about me,” she said aloud into the darkness.

It was a good thing the next day was Saturday, because after a horrible night spent alternately crying and staring at the ceiling, Sarah slept late and rose still feeling tired, her eyes heavy-lidded, her movements slow. She forced herself to do her routine chores, then that afternoon flopped down on the sofa, too tired and uninterested to tackle anything else. She needed to shop for groceries, but simply couldn’t face the hassle. A quick mental inventory of her cabinets reassured her that she wouldn’t starve, at least not for a couple of days.

The doorbell rang, and she got up, answering the summons without thinking. As soon as she opened the door and looked up into Rome’s dark face, a feeling of despair settled on her shoulders. Why couldn’t he have waited until Monday? She’d have recovered by then and wouldn’t be at such a terrible disadvantage. She didn’t even have the comfort of being properly dressed. Her long hair was loose and hanging down her back; her jeans were old, tight, and faded; and the oversize jersey she wore probably revealed the fact that she was braless. She fought the urge to cross her arms protectively over her chest, even when his eyes dropped to survey her from her feet, clad in blue socks, all the way up to her face, which was bare of even a trace of makeup.

“Ask me in,” he commanded, his voice even deeper than usual.

She didn’t extend a verbal invitation; she couldn’t. Instead she stepped back and opened the door, and he moved past her into the room. He was dressed casually, in well-cut tan slacks and a blue pullover shirt, but he still made her feel like something found in the city dump. “Have a seat,” she invited, finally controlling her voice enough to speak. He sat down on the sofa, and she seated herself across from him in an oversize armchair, unable to make polite chitchat, just waiting for him to break the tension by speaking.

Rome wasn’t aware of any tension; he had been taken too much by surprise by her appearance, and he was having difficulty dealing with this startling new aspect of her character. He’d expected her to be dressed in heels, sleek black pants, and a silk blouse, her coldness firmly in place as a barrier between them. Instead she looked very young, very relaxed, and very sexy in those comfortable old clothes. She had the sleek, aristocratic grace of form and carriage that made it possible for her to wear anything, even an old football jersey, with casual elegance. He knew that she and Diane had been the same age, so that made her thirty-three, but there was a freshness about her bare face that took at least ten years off her age. This was how he’d often imagined seeing her, or at least a variation on the theme. The remote poise he’d expected was gone, and he realized that he had her at a disadvantage. With relish, he looked her over again, his eyes lingering on the obvious freedom of her breasts beneath the jersey, and to his surprise and intensified desire, a warm blush heated her cheeks.