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the gate. He called out to her the minute she stepped inside.
“Back in the kitchen.”
Now wasn’t that homey, she thought, amused at both of them. The little woman home from work and the man in the kitchen. It was a bit like playing house, she supposed, and tried not to worry that the house, and the game, wasn’t for either of them in the long run.
He was at the stove, which amused her. He could cook, as he’d demonstrated at that first breakfast. But he wasn’t one to make a habit of it.
“Want some soup?” He stirred at the little pot, sniffed. “It’s canned, but it’s food. I was stuck on the phone all night and missed dinner.”
“Thanks, no. I managed to get some of Shawn’s lasagna, which I can promise tasted better than that will. If you’d called, I’d have brought you some.”
“Didn’t think of it.” He turned to get a bowl out of the cupboard. One look at her, and he wanted to grab her. “You’re later than usual,” he said, keeping his tone casual as she set a bag on the counter. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it tonight.”
“We were busier than usual. I shouldn’t say ‘usual,’ ” she corrected and rolled the ache from her shoulders. “We’ve been packed every night this week. Aidan wants Shawn to take on some help in the kitchen, and you’d think Aidan had brought his manhood into question. Such a ruckus. They were still going at it when I left.”
“Aidan’s going to need another man at the bar.”
“Well, I won’t be the one to say so, as he’ll have the same reaction as Shawn. I’m not having my head bit off.”
She got the kettle to fill as Trevor leaned back against the counter, spooning up soup where he stood. “I’ll have some tea to keep you company. Since you’re eating, you might want to have what’s in the bag with your tinned soup.”
“What is it?”
She only smiled and turned on the tap. Trevor set down his bowl, peeked in the bag. When his hand darted in, like an eager boy’s into a pond after a prize frog, she laughed.
“Bagels?”
“Well, we couldn’t have you pining, could we?” Delighted with his reaction, she carried the kettle to the stove. “Shawn made them, lest you think I’ve been baking—and believe me you’re better off I haven’t. He wasn’t pleased with the first batch or you’d have had them a couple of days ago. But he’s well satisfied with these, so I think you’ll enjoy them.”
Trevor only stood there, the plastic-wrapped bread in his hand, staring at her as she turned on the burner under the kettle. It was ridiculous, insane, but something was stirring inside him. Warm, fluid, lovely. In defense, he struggled with a joke.
“A full dozen, too. I guess I owe you twelve hundred dollars.”
She glanced back, her face blank for a moment, then it filled with humor. “A hundred a piece. I forgot about that. Damn, I suppose I’ll have to split it with Shawn.” She patted his cheek, then reached for the tea. “Well, no charge this time. I thought you’d enjoy a little bit of home.”
“Thank you.”
His voice was so serious, she glanced back, saw his face. His mouth was serious as well, and his eyes were dark and fixed on her. Her pulse scrambled, so she covered it with a shrug. “You’re very welcome, but it’s just a bit of bread after all.”
No, it wasn’t. She’d thought of it. Without even realizing how much the small gesture would mean, she’d thought of him.
He set the bag down, stepped to her, turned her. And laid his mouth on hers.
Soft, lush, long and deep. That something that stirred inside him swelled.
He drew back, half believing he’d see what it was, what it meant, in her face. But her eyes were clouded. Deep blue smoke blurring whatever was behind them.
“Well.” She was sinking, sinking without meaning to have stepped into the bog. “I can’t wait to see what happens after you taste—”
But he silenced her. Another kiss, luxurious and tender. She was trembling, he realized, and had trembled against him before. But it was different, for both of them somehow different. The crackle of power that always snapped between them was only a low humming now, steady and true. The blood that always raced ran thick, almost lazy.
“Trevor.” His name circled in her head, slipped through her lips. “Trevor.”
He reached behind her, switched off the burner, then lifted her into his arms. “I want to make love with you.” And saying it, he knew it would be the first time.
She pressed her lips to the side of his throat as he carried her out. It was like sliding into a dream, she thought, one she hadn’t known she had pooled inside her. Being granted a wish she hadn’t known slept in her heart.
She felt . . . treasured.
When he carried her up the stairs, the romance of it made her heart ache. Music drifted through her head. Harps and flutes both low and sweet. He stopped, looked at her, and she thought he must hear it as well. Such moments were made for magic.
The bedroom windows were open, so the wind danced through the curtains and brought with it all the damp and mysterious scents of night. The moon shimmered through in silver dust.
He sat her on the bed, then moved around the room to light the candles that had been set out for practicality and never used. Their flames swayed and tossed soft shadows, a softer fragrance. From the tall bottle on the table by the bed he took one of the flowers she had picked from the cottage garden and put there. He handed it to her.
Then he sat beside her, lifted her into his lap and held her. The way she curled into him as if she’d been waiting made him wonder how they had missed this step. Why they had both rushed to reach the peak, time after time, night after night, without once lingering over the journey.
This time, he promised himself. This time. When he touched a hand to her cheek, she lifted her face, lifted her mouth to meet his. Time spun out, lost importance in this new and sumptuous mating of lips. The love hidden inside her heart poured into it without shame or fear, and still continued to rise inside her as if from a well that never ran dry.
Here was the compassion neither thought they needed, the tenderness both had shrugged aside, and all the patience they’d forgotten.
He pressed his lips to the center of her palm. Her hands were elegant, he thought, silky of texture. They might have belonged to a princess in a castle. No, there was too much strength in them for a princess. A queen, he decided, kissing her fingers one by one, who knew how to rule.
He brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist, and felt her blood beat there.
Music whispered on the wind as he laid her back on the pillows. Her arms came up, her fingers skimming over his face, into his hair, as gentle as his had been. Her eyes weren’t clouded now, but clear.
“There’s magic tonight,” she said, and drew him down to her.
They touched, as if it was the first time, as if there had been no others before or would be no others after.
Innocence reaching for intimacy. For that night at least, she knew it was true and gave herself to it. To him. Through the glow of candlelight and moonbeams, they gave to each other.
He tasted and she whispered. She stroked and he murmured. Sounds of pleasure twined together. Without rush, they undressed each other and savored the magic.
His skin was tones darker than hers. Had he noticed that before? Had he paid enough attention to how like silk she was, or how passion, the gradual, glorious build of it, gave that lovely white skin a flush of rose?
The taste of her, there, just at the underside of her breast. Nothing else had that delicacy of flavor. He thought he could live on that alone for the rest of his life.
And when his tongue slid over her and she shivered,he was sure of it.
Even when warmth simmered toward heat, when breaths became gasps and murmurs moans, there was no hurry. She crested on a long, gentle wave, her body flowing up to his. She felt golden, rich with sensation, each one somehow separate and shining even as they merged together.
Love mad
e her selfless, nudged her to give back the glory. She rose over him, slid down to him, her lips warm and tender. Her hands skimmed over him, tough muscles that quivered at her lazy strokes, smooth skin that delighted her.
Now, she thought, now before greed could sneak back and steal this time from them. She clasped his hands with hers and took him into her.
Slowly and silkily, with urgency only a pulsebeat away. He filled, she surrounded.
The light danced over her skin, her hair, into her eyes, bewitching him. He remembered the painting of the mermaid with her face, that gorgeous arch of body, lovely thumble of hair. She belonged to him now, fact and fantasy. He’d have followed her, if she’d asked, into the sea. Into the heart of it.
Her eyes closed, her head tipped back, her body bowed. Nothing he’d ever seen was more beautiful than that moment when she lost herself. The shiver ran down her and into him. He swore he could feel it, feel her, in every cell.
He came up to meet her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat. And it was there, holding each other, that they let go of everything else and sank under the surface, and toward the heart, together.
In the dark, wrapped around him, her mind sliding toward sleep, Darcy closed a hand over the silver disk that lay on his heart. She assumed his Irish-loving mother had given it to him, and that he wore it touched her. “What does it say?” she murmured, because the words were faded and unclear to her.
But when he told her she was already drifting, so his voice floated like out of a dream. Forever love.
Later, when they slept, he dreamed a dream of blue water shot through with sunlight like bright jewels,tipped by white waves that spewed drops like tears. Beneath the surface, where silence should have reigned, was music. A celebration of sound that quickened the pulse and fed the spirit.
He went toward it, searching shadows and light for the source. The golden sand beneath his feet was littered with gemstones, as if some carelessly generous hand had strewn them like bread crumbs.
A silver palace rose up into the blue light, its towers glinting and a banquet of flowers spread at its feet. The music swelled, seduced, became female. A woman’s voice raised in song. A siren’s call that was irresistible.
He found her beside the silver palace, sitting on a hill of rich blue that pulsed like a heart. There she sat and sang and smiled at him in a beckoning way.
Her hair, dark as midnight, flowed around her, teased the milky skin of her breasts. Her eyes, blue as the hill, laughed.
He wanted her more than he wanted to live. The wanting made him feel weak, and the weakness infuriated him. Still he couldn’t stop himself from going to her.
“Darcy.”
“Have you come for me, then, Trevor?” Her voice wove spells, magic threads winding even when she spoke. “What will you give me?”
