The Player:Moorehouse Legacy(27)

After propping the flap doors open to help air the place out, she walked around the other public rooms of the house. The study was her favorite. Wallpapered in hunter green and black, filled with old books and Victorian knickknacks, the small space had always seemed like some kind of forest refuge. In the summer, you could open wide the diamond-paned windows and catch a fragrant breeze of lilacs and fresh water. In the cold months, there were usually logs ablaze in the fireplace, the smell of wood and leather filling the air.

Joy went over to the mahogany mantelpiece and inspected a collection of precious and absurd family heirlooms: silver trophy cups from crew races long since won; a stuffed bird of prey that had been rescued and cherished as a pet in the 1920s; a gnarled root from an oak tree that bore an astonishing resemblance to Elvis's profile. She fingered the objects, remembering her father having done the same thing.

Outside, the wind came up from the lake and rattled the house's shutters. On impulse, she lit the logs set in the hearth, watching as flames licked up the squat oak lengths. Sitting in her father's favorite leather wing chair, she felt the past wrap around her like a blanket, fond memories offering her gentle comfort.

She thought of how she'd dreaded coming back while she'd been on the train. Now, though, the city seemed far, far away. And as she imagined returning to Manhattan, she felt lost, caught somewhere between the new Joy and the old one.

It must have been an hour later when her stomach growled. She went into the kitchen, took a pan down from the hanging rack and got out some of Nate's stew to be reheated. Firing up the new stove was a trial. With the number of dials on the damn thing, she figured she could have landed a jet plane with all the options she had.

When the flame was finally set as low as it could go, she went back to check on the fire. She was putting another log on when she heard what sounded like a pounding noise in the back of the house.

Wiping her palms off on her blue jeans, she jogged to the kitchen door. There was a dark shape looming on the other side and she flipped the exterior light on before unlocking anything.

"Gray!" She fumbled with the knob. When she threw open the door, the cold wind came in with him. "What are you doing here?"

He looked exhausted, his pin-striped suit wrinkled, his collar open, his tie hanging loose. With tired eyes, he stared down at her face as if it had been ages since they'd parted.

"I had to see you," he said.

On impulse, she put her arms around him, feeling his body stiffen only briefly before he returned the embrace. He smelled divine. Just as she remembered. Sandalwood and cedar and … Gray.

"I was just sitting in front of the fire," she said. "Would you like to warm up a little?"

"Sounds ideal. And I'd love a drink. Traffic out of Albany was horrible."

She fixed him a bourbon, finding it hard to believe he'd come all the way to see her, and they headed into the study. He went straight to the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece, sipping the drink while staring into the flames. As she sat back down in the wing chair, she measured his tense profile.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked softly.

He jerked as if she'd startled him and then turned around. After a hesitation, he set down his drink and removed his suit jacket. As he laid it on the back of a chair, he took something out of the pocket. A small cloth bag.

"I've brought you a present." He came over to her. "Hold out both your hands."

She cupped her palms together as he undid a string and tipped the bag over. A sprinkling of shiny, black beads fell out.

No, they were buttons. Antique, jet buttons. Probably from the Victorian era.

"Gray, these are exquisite! Where did you find them?" She fingered the glittering jumble. There were at least twenty, enough to run down the back of a dress.

"I was down in the garment district this week and passed a button store. I thought of you when I saw these in the window. Figured maybe you could use them on something."

She looked up at him. "Thank you."

He nodded. And then reached out, brushing her cheek with his forefinger.

"Gray, what's going on?"

Abruptly he sank to his knees in front of her. "Can I hold you?"

"Of course-"

He put his hands on the insides of her knees and gently separated her thighs. Then he nestled his big body against her, wrapping his arms around her back and putting his cheek against her breastbone. She felt his breath leave on a low sigh.

Not knowing what else to do, she stroked his hair.

Even though she didn't want him to be upset, she was grateful that he was letting down his guard a little. That he'd come to her. She figured when he was ready, he would talk, and until then she was content to just hold him.

Joy pressed her lips to the top of his head, running her hands across his shoulders, feeling the fine cotton of his business shirt like silk over his muscles.

Oh, she was so content just to hold him.

* * *

GRAY LET HIMSELF sink into Joy, thinking he'd never had a haven, a place to go when he was exhausted with life. Usually when things got overwhelming, he went out with O'Banyon or other friends of that ilk, business leaders who drank hard and talked tough because they were hard, tough men.

On the whole, it had been a damn good strategy for staying sharp. Self-medicating with bourbon and testosterone had kept him from dwelling on his weaknesses, the things that frightened him, his anxieties about the future or the present or the past. And he'd liked that lack of self-reflection. Or rather, he'd liked its result. Sticking his head in the sand had kept him away from his self-doubts and created an illusion of invincibility even he had come to believe.

Trouble was, having hard-asses as therapists wasn't quite as appealing as it had been.

This afternoon, when he'd left Roger Adams's office in a funk, he'd only thought of Joy. He'd tried to shrug off the need to see her, but in the end, he'd lost the fight. Telling himself he was nuts, he'd boarded a plane headed for the Albany airport, not JFK. Then he'd rented a car and hopped on the Northway.

He took a deep breath, caught the scent of her shampoo and tried to get a little closer by bringing her hips forward in the chair. Her body was so small compared to his, but the strength he drew from her was immense. She was like a balm, her hands deep in his hair as she smoothed the tension from his head and neck. He rubbed his cheek against her sternum, liking the feel of the soft knit turtleneck and the warm woman beneath.

"I went to see someone today," he said, figuring he had to explain himself. "A man I've known for years."

She made a soft noise, encouraging him without prying.

"He and his wife have been married for two decades. It was a great marriage, or at least I always thought so." He paused, having trouble coming up with the right words. "They were friends with Cass and her husband, too."

Joy's hands went down to his shoulders, rubbing over his muscles in a circular motion.

God, if he could have crawled up inside of her, he would have.

He cleared his throat. "I've always thought marriage was a bad idea. My parents didn't have a healthy one, and the older I've become, the more I've seen in the way of ugly relationships. But this couple, they were in love. They were happy. They were the exception that proved the rule."

Gray pulled back a little and looked at Joy. They were so close, he could see each one of her eyelashes. The darker rim around her iris. The pale freckles that dusted her nose.

"Today, the man confirmed that he's been cheating on his wife. And the woman he picked is a reporter who's probably only been using him in hopes of getting information." Gray shook his head. "The guy threw out his marriage vows to get laid by someone who doesn't give a damn about him. I just don't get it, but you know what's worse? I'm not even sure he knows why he did what he did."

Staring into her face, he found himself wanting to say more. "This guy …  He's been trying to find a way to talk to his wife. He's chewed himself raw about coming clean, not that I have any pity for him. She's going to be heartbroken when he tells her."

Joy leaned down and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "I'm sorry."

"Frankly, I wanted to hit him, I really did." Gray shrugged. "But the really disturbing thing is, I don't think the whole mess would have bothered me as much before … "

"Before what?"

"You."

Her eyes flared.

"I-uh … " Feeling awkward, he moved back, bracing his palms on his knees and leaning into his shoulders. "Talking to this guy today reminded me why my lack of faith in marriage is justified. But instead of feeling vindicated, I got … depressed. Uh, hell. I don't know."

He felt like an idiot all of the sudden. A spastic, exposed idiot.

He was not used to talking about emotions, wasn't big into the whole sharing thing. Hell, he was the last man on the planet likely to be confused with a sensitive, New Age guy.

But here he was, babbling. On his knees, for God's sake.

He glanced up at Joy, feeling uneasy. Her legs were still spread wide open, her hands resting on her thighs. For some crazy reason, he wanted to go back to the warmth she offered so generously.

"Come here," she said softly, holding her arms up to him.

She didn't have to ask twice.

"Am I freaking you out?" he asked as he gathered her against him and dropped his head onto her shoulder.

"No. Why would you?"