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“No,” she admitted with a trace of wistfulness, “I really can’t. But, dotryto be civil.”
“If that’s what you want,” he conceded. “But for the life of me, I don’t understand why.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her toes. “It won’t kill you,” she pointed out.
“No, I suppose not. But watching him drool over you might.”
“You’re imagining things.” She kissed him lightly on the lips.
The muscles in his body reached out to hers. She felt his thighs straining against hers, his chest flattening her breasts, his arms pressing against the small of her back. “The kinds of things I imagine with you are very private. They have nothing to do with your ex-husband.” His lips brushed against hers and his tongue rimmed her lips. “Let’s get rid of him and put the kids to bed early.” Sheila laughed against his mouth. “Somehow I don’t think Sean would take kindly to going to bed at six thirty.”
“Spoilsport.” Slowly he released her.
She started toward the door, but paused to look over her shoulder at him and give an exaggerated wink. “Later,” she promised throatily.
The rest of the evening was uncomfortable but tolerable. Jeff stayed for dinner and looked stiff and ill at ease with Noah, Sean and Emily. His perfectly pressed suit had become wrinkled, his hair unruly and his eyes begged Sheila to find some excuse to get him away from Noah’s intense, uncompromising stare. Noah was polite but quiet, and his blue eyes very rarely strayed from Sheila’s ex-husband. It made Jeff uncomfortable; the man’s stare bordered on the eerie.
Jeff made his excuses, begged off dessert and was back on his way to Spokane long before eight o’clock. Even Emily seemed relieved that she didn’t have to go back to her father’s sterile apartment and persnickety old wife, Judith, at least for a few more weeks.
For the first time in over a week the dark cloud of argument between Sheila and Noah had disappeared, and they made impassioned love without the shadow of Jeff Coleridge hanging over their heads.
Chapter Twelve
The end of Noah’s stay came much too quickly for Sheila. The fact that he hadn’t been clear about his decision concerning the status of the winery worried her. She knew that he wanted to rebuild the west wing—the construction crew that had been razing the old structure was proof enough of that—but still he was hesitant. It was as if he were keeping something from her. She could feel his reluctance whenever she would broach the subject of the fall harvest. As far as she could tell, it had to be something to do with the fire.
It was morning on Noah’s final day at Cascade Valley when Sheila summoned the courage to bring up the fire and Anthony Simmons’s report. Over the past week Noah had managed to dodge the issue, but this morning Sheila told herself she had to have answers—straight ones.
The first rays of dawn filtered through the terrace doors to bathe Sheila’s room in a golden aura of dim morning light. Dewdrops clung to the underside of the green leaves of the clematis that grew against the glass doors, and the chill of the mountain night hadn’t disappeared.
Noah was still asleep, his face pressed against the pillow. Sheila slowly extracted herself from his embrace, and while still lying near to him on the antique bed, stared at his sleeping form. The dark profile of his face, etched in relief against the ice blue sheets, seemed innocent in slumber. The powerful muscles were relaxed, the corners of his·eyes soft. His near-black hair was unruly and would seem almost boyish if it hadn’t been for the contrast of his shadowy beard.
Sheila felt her throat tighten at the sight of him sleeping, oblivious to any of the anxieties that aged his face. He seemed incredibly vulnerable, and it touched the deepest, most feminine part of her. She wanted to smooth back his hair and comfort him.I love him, she thought to herself. I love him too much. This is the kind of blind love that can be dangerous, the kind of self-sacrificing, unreturned love that can only cause pain. It’s a love that causes dependency and inspires jealousy, like a drug addiction. More than anything else in the world. I want to be with this man, to be a part of him. I want my life to blend with his, my family to be one with his, my blood to run in his body.
She bent over and kissed him softly on the forehead. I know he cares for me—he says he loves me—but I know that he is hiding something from me. He won’t let himself trust me.
She drew herself away from him and got out of the bed. After snuggling into the downy folds of a cream-colored velour bathrobe, she once again sat on the edge of the bed, content to watch the even rise and fall of Noah’s chest as he lay entwined in the sheets. Why won’t you tell me, she wondered. Why won’t you tell me everything about the fire? What are you hiding from me?
Noah rolled over onto his back and raised an exploratory eyelid against the invading morning sunlight. His dimpled smile slowly emerged as his gaze focused on her. “God, you look incredible,” he growled as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her down beside him on the bed.
“Noah,” she whispered, trying to ignore the deliciously warm feel of his lips against her throat. “We have to talk.”
“Later.” His fingers found the zipper on her bathrobe and slowly lowered it.
Against the yearnings of her body, she put her hand over his to impede the zipper’s progress. “Now.”
“Let’s not waste time with talk,” he grumbled as he kissed the exposed tops of her breasts. The zipper slid lower, and the downy robe parted. “This is my last morning here,” he murmured against her bared skin. Sheila felt her pulse jump and the blood begin to heat in her veins.
She attempted to clutch the robe together. “Precisely why we have to talk now.” She tossed her hair away from her face and looked him steadily in the eye as she disentangled herself from his persuasive grip. Her breath was uneven as she eased her body off the bed.
After somewhat shakily taking a seat in one of the chairs near the terrace, she nervously ran her fingers over the open neckline of her robe. Noah propped himself on one elbow, raked his fingers through his dark hair and stared at her with amused, but smoldering, blue eyes. The sheet was draped across his body, exposing the hard muscles of his chest and leaving his lower torso covered. “All right, Sheila, out with it.”
“What?” She really didn’t know where to begin.
“The inquisition.”
“You’re expecting one?” She was surprised.
“I’d have to be a fool not to know that before I went back to Seattle, you and I would have a showdown about the fire. That is what this is all about, isn’t it?”
