Pressed together as we were, I couldn't help noticing the hard, almost scorching pressure of him against my thigh.
"Ignore it," Gage said.
That made me smile in spite of my fatigue. I brushed my lips furtively against his throat. The warm scent of him was all it took to start my pulse beating in a swift erotic tattoo. My toes delicately explored the hairy surface of his leg. "It seems like a shame to waste it."
"You're too tired."
"Not for a quickie."
"I don't do quickies."
"I don't care." I crawled over him with ardent determination, gasping at little at the flexing power of his body beneath mine.
A chuckle sifted through the darkness, and Gage moved suddenly, turning to pin me beneath him.
"Be still." he whispered, "and Til take care of you."
I obeyed, shivering as he eased the hem of the T-shirt upward, peeling it back over my breasts. The tender heat of his mouth covered a taut nipple. I lifted up to him with a pleading sound.
His lips crossed my chest in a sojourn of half-open kisses, while he crouched over me like a cat. He nibbled on the wing of my collarbone, finding the shallow depressions where my pulse stung, soothing it with his tongue. Lower, where the banded muscles of my midriff quivered at his touch, lower where every lazy exploring kiss turned to fire and I twisted to escape the indecent pleasure, and he held me there, still and tight, while sensation rushed and shattered all through me.
I woke up alone, swathed in sheets that held the incense of sex and skin. Huddling deeper beneath the covers, I watched the first rays of morning creep through the window. The night with Gage had left me feeling steadier, able to handle whatever lay ahead. I had slept against him all night, not hiding, just taking shelter. I had always managed to find strength in myself—but it had been a revelation to draw strength from someone else.
Getting out of bed. I went through the empty condo to the kitchen, and picked up the phone to dial the Travis mansion.
Carrington picked up on the second ring. '"Hello1?"
'"Baby, it's me. I had a sleepover at Gage's last night. I'm sorry I didn't call you—by the time I remembered, it was too late."
"Oh. that's okay," my sister said. "Aunt Gretchen made popcorn, and she and Churchill and I watched the silliest old movie with lots of singing and dancing. It was great."
"Are you getting ready for school?"
"Yes, the driver's going to take me in the Bentley."
I shook my head ruefully as I heard her casual tone. "You sound just like a River Oaks kid."
"I have to finish my breakfast. My cereal's getting soggy."
"All right. Carrington. would you do something for me? Tell Churchill I'll be there in about half an hour, and I need to talk to him about something important."
"About what?"
"Grown-up stuff. I love you."
"Love you too. Bye!"
Churchill was waiting for me near the family room fireplace. So familiar and yet a stranger. Of all the men in my life, I had known Churchill the longest and depended on him the most. There was no getting around the fact that he was the closest thing to a father I had ever known.
I loved him.
And he was going to let loose with a few secrets now or I would kill him.
"Morning." he said, his gaze searching.
"Morning. How are you feeling?"
"Fair enough. And you?"
"I'm not sure," I said truthfully. "Nervous, I guess. A little angry. A lot confused."
With Churchill, you never had to lead gracefully into a touchy subject. You could blurt out just about anything and he would handle it with no problem. Knowing that made it easier for me to walk across the room, stop in front of him, and let it roll.
"You knew my mother," I said.
The fire in the hearth sounded like a flag whipping and flapping on a windy day.
Churchill answered with astonishing self-possession. "I loved your mother." He let me absorb that for a moment, and then gave a decisive nod. "Help me move to the sofa; Liberty. The chair seat's digging into the backs of my legs."
We both took temporary refuge in the logistics of transferring him from the wheelchair to the sofa, more a matter of balance than strength. I fetched an ottoman, propped it beneath the cast, gave Churchill a couple of small pillows to wedge against his side. When he was comfortably settled, I sat next to him and waited with my arms wrapped tight around my middle.
Churchill fished out a slim wallet from his shirt pocket, searched through its contents. handed me a tiny ancient black-and-white photo with tattered edges. It was my mother as a very young woman, beautiful as a movie goddess, and there were words written in her own hand. "To my darling C. love, Diana. "