Made For Each Other Page 11

  Nick solved her dilemma for her, for when she came out of the bathroom that evening dressed in a shimmering white lace and satin nightgown, the lights were out, and Nick, sprawled on his stomach on his side of the immense bed, seemed to be asleep. She lay between the cold sheets thinking how much better it must have been in Elizabeth’s and her own grandmother’s day when couples were forced to sleep together in much narrower beds, touching, feeling, hearing the soft breathing of their loved ones. She would willingly have bet that it was extremely difficult under those conditions to stay angry . . . or indifferent.

  Yet she could hardly call Nick indifferent Christmas Day. If anything, he was attentive. He built a roaring fire in the fireplace and helped in the kitchen as she prepared the Christmas dinner. Once, as she bent over the open oven to test the duck she was roasting, Nick’s hands encircled her waist to pull her back against him. Her head tipped backward on his shoulder. She was afraid to move, to break the spell, as Nick’s teeth played gently with her ear and his hands ran slowly, tantalizingly, over her hips to press against the taut muscles of her abdomen.

  “You know, Mrs. Raffer,” he said lightly, “you tempt me to forgo that savory duck dinner in lieu of other delectable treats.”

  She twisted in his arms so that she was facing him. “And you tempt me, Nick,” she said bravely. She met his searching gaze unflinchingly. “You know you’ve made me want you, even when I swore I didn’t. You’ve won. Isn’t that what you wanted from me?”

  “It’ll do for a start,” he said and, taking the spatula from her hand, set it on the counter. He untied the bow of her apron, letting the apron flutter to the floor at their feet.

  One by one his fingers loosed the buttons of her silk print blouse. When his hands slipped around her rib cage to free her breasts from her bra, she knew she was lost. By the time Nick made her his, she knew he would have no doubt of her love for him.

  But I’ll make certain your brain and body burn with the memory of our lovemaking, Nicholas Raffer, she silently vowed.

  With deliberate leisureliness, she unbuttoned Nick’s shirt. Nick’s brows raised ques- tioningly, as though to ask her if she understood the implications of what she was doing.

  Her hand reached for the snap of his slacks, her fingers deftly loosening the catch. Still Nick did not move. His eyes scorched her face. Her fingers halted at the zipper, and she stood on tiptoe, her hands splaying against his chest for balance, and kissed the carved lines of his lips before playfully teasing them with her tongue.

  “Dinner can wait,” Nick growled. He reached behind her to switch off the oven, then gathered her up in his arms. She could hear Nick’s heart thudding furiously in tempo with her own. When he went to lay her on the bed, she pulled him down with her. Tonight she would play the siren!

  Her hands cupped the squared-off lines of his jaw, and she drew his lips down to hers. Nick’s tongue explored her mouth with a thoroughness that left her yearning for more when his lips at last deserted hers to travel down the smooth column of her neck.

  Her fingers entwined in his hair as his lips flicked the hard buttons of her breasts. “The morsels you offer are much more tempting than the roast duck,” he whispered against the soft mound.

  The realization slowly dawned on her that no longer was she the seducer. Nick had swiftly turned the tables, and it was she who lay trembling, waiting for him to make her complete. He came to her then, gently, tenderly, patiently. And when it was over, she buried her head in the hollow of his shoulder, so he would not see the ecstasy, the love, that she felt surely must shine in her eyes. “Sleepy?” Nick asked, nuzzling her temple with his chin.

  She shook her head, afraid even to speak. She wanted the intimate, loving feeling between them to continue, to flow like a river out of their lovemaking into every corner of their lives, the way the love her parents shared completely filled their lives.

  But the ringing of the telephone shattered the brief, ecstatic moment, and Nick cursed beneath his breath. He raised on one elbow and looked at her with a grin. “If it’s that Dee Morley, I swear I’ll get a bill passed to prohibit gossip columnists from using telephones.”

  “Should we just let it ring?” she asked uncertainly.

  Nick sighed and unwillingly withdrew his gaze from the sight of her breasts. “No,” he said, rising from the bed; “it must be something important for whoever it is to call on Christmas Day.”

  Her eyes followed his lean, muscle- corded body across the shadowy room. Her own body felt bereft now that he had left her, and she mentally cursed the telephone herself.

  Nick turned to her, his eyes hard as stones, and held out the receiver, saying, “It’s for you.” She looked from the receiver back to him, and he added harshly, “It’s Jim Miller.”

  She gathered the rumpled sheet about her and crossed to Nick, taking the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Julie,” Jim said, “I hate to disturb you, but I wanted to catch you before you took off for somewhere, and I was unable to reach you yesterday. We’re going to have to do a New Year’s special edition on ‘New Mexico—Its Wealth and Its Waste.’ Do you think you could come in for a couple of days and work up a piece for me on the state’s political issues?” She looked to Nick, who was calmly shrugging into his knit shirt. Perhaps she had mistaken the anger she had seen on his face for irritation. “Of course, Jim, I’d love to.”

  “Great! I’ll fill you in on the slant I want you to take tomorrow.”

  She hung up the receiver. She hoped Nick would question her about the call so she could explain to him about Jim, but he showed no curiosity at all. “Nick,” she began hesitantly, “Jim wants me to do some articles for the Sun. It’s a rush job, or he wouldn’t have bothered—”

  “Fine,” Nick said evenly. He kissed her briefly on the forehead and said, “Let’s eat. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on.”

  Whatever intimacy she had hoped to establish was gone, and Nick returned to the cool, detached man who had rescued her and taken her to his mountain cabin. If he resented the hours she spent working late with Jim, hedid not show it. In fact, he seemed to stay as busy as she.

  She often feared that someone else had taken her place in Nick’s arms, for he did not seek her out at all now. She half expected him to tell her he was ready to put an end to their marriage and wondered if her empty threat to get even with him through her column kept him from it.

  Yet somehow she didn’t think her threat would stop Nick if he decided to end their mockery of a marriage. And then there was the fact that she occasionally had caught his lazy gaze on her as she moved about the house—which gave her hope that she still might have the power to arouse his interest.

  Late one night that same week she awoke to the blustery roar of one of winter’s northers that would sometimes descend on Santa Fe with sudden and rapid violence. She lay huddled on her side of the bed, unable to sleep and wishing fervently for the warm comfort of Nick’s arms.

  The winter storm must have awakened him also, for a few minutes later she heard him shift and saw the flare of a match. She said nothing, but when he ground out the cigarette stub, he turned to her and drew her into his arms, pressing her head against his shoulder. “Try and get some sleep, love,” he said. “The storm will soon pass by.”

  She fell asleep, cradled in Nick’s arms, with hope in her heart... a hope that was dashed the next day when Nick told her of the invitation they had to attend a special exhibition of one of New Mexico’s Indian artists that Sheila Morrison was sponsoring.

  Julie paused in brushing her hair. She looked in the mirror at Nick’s reflection. “Do we have to go?” she asked, forcing a lightness to her voice. “I really don’t know that much about art.”

  “It’d be a good chance to learn,” Nick said, loosening the knot in his tie. “Besides, part of my platform when I ran for senator was to support Indian involvement in our state, and I feel it’s my duty to attend the function.”

  She tried to tell hers
elf she was making something out of nothing . . . that until Nick came to her and told her he no longer wanted her as his wife, she had a chance to make him love her.

  Still, it was with a sense of foreboding that she prepared for the exhibition Saturday afternoon. She donned a toast-colored crepe skirt with a matching blouse that frothed about the neck and wrists. She studied her face in the mirror as she applied a faint touch of blusher and decided she looked attractive. But was she attractive enough to compete with Sheila’s stunning beauty?

  She dreaded so much another confrontation with the beautiful, sophisticated woman that she was hardly aware of the drive along Santa Fe’s historical streets. And when Nick stopped the car in the ancient plaza for a tourist who was photographing the Palacio, the oldest public building in the United States, she almost pleaded a headache so that she might forgo the dreaded meeting with Sheila.

  The exhibition was being held at a gallery located on the winding, tree-shaded Canyon Road where fine old adobe homes rubbed elbows with art studios and quaint restaurants. A little bell tinkled when Nick opened the door of the two-story art gallery. Although they were early, there were already half a dozen people viewing the artist’s paintings or milling around the elaborately decorated table set with a punch bowl, champagne glasses, and dishes of cheese wedges.

  To her relief Sheila was nowhere in sight, and she could only hope Nick would not want to stay long. As usual, Nick knew several of the people there and was introducing Julie to an older couple who shared an opera box next to his when she saw Sheila descending the stairs. With her was the Indian artist, Paul Htchapi.

  The short young Indian, who wore a red flannel band around his long hair and a khaki shirt with military trousers, should have been the center of attention, since it was his paintings that were being exhibited. But it was Sheila who caught everyone’s admiring gaze. She had swept her tawny mane atop her head in an elegant knot, and the blue-green chiffon designer’s dress, which matched her eyes, swirled about her lovely long legs. Julie estimated the dress had to have cost the woman a tidy sum.

  She felt Nick’s hand at her elbow as Sheila, with Paul at her side, moved across the room toward them. “I was so glad you could come this afternoon,” Sheila said, taking Nick’s arm. Her hungry gaze caressed Nick’s spare, sun-browned face. “Your presence here, Nick, will do a lot to support your upcoming campaign.”

  For the first time Sheila looked at Julie. “Have you two had any champagne yet? Paul, do be a doll and get Julie a glass while I talk to Nick about his campaign.”

  Helplessly Julie let Paul propel her toward the punch table as Sheila possessively took Nick’s arm and led him'away. “Are you interested more in my abstracts—or maybe one of my portraits, Mrs. Rafter?” Paul was asking, and she forced her attention back to the young Indian.

  She hardly tasted the champagne he handed her and only half listened as he pointed out some of his favorite paintings. The downstairs lobby was rapidly filling, and she was beginning to feel lost. She knew none of the people, and, to make matters worse, Paul was starting to make calf eyes at her.

  Where was Nick? And Sheila?

  Quietly Julie excused herself from Paul’s smitten attention. She really was developing the headache she had almost feigned earlier. She didn’t know if it was the champagne she had drunk or an empty stomach or just the sight of seeing Sheila with Nick that made her head throb so, but she was ready to go home.

  She made her way through the press of people, looking for Nick, but he was nowhere on the lower floor. The second floor, which contained an array of paintings not currently on exhibition, was darkened and deserted, and she had almost turned back to the staircase when she saw a light from a room toward the rear of the gallery floor. It was with a sick feeling in her stomach that she made her way toward the light. She wanted to turn back, afraid of what she might find, but her footsteps took her ever nearer.

  The door was partially open, and she had nearly knocked when she heard Sheila’s sultry voice. “With me at your side, Nick, the governor’s mansion is ours. But that little country hick of yours will only stand in your way. Oh, darling, I can’t imagine whatever made you want to marry her!”

  There was a silence that hurt her worse than Sheila’s words ever could have, for she could only too well imagine Nick holding Sheila in his arms at that moment, his mouth bruising Sheila’s in a passionate kiss. Then Nick’s voice, husky with laughter, broke the long silence. “Let me tell you about my little country hick, Sheila . . .”

  But Julie did not wait to hear. The pain in her heart was great enough as it was. She fled down the stairs and pushed herself through the crowd in the lobby. Outside, she leaned against the pink stucco building and gulped great quantities of air, trying to choke back the sobs that rose to her throat.

  Why had she not admitted sooner that Sheila and Nick were made for each other? As Sheila had pointed out, she would only stand in the way of Nick’s rising political career. But, dear God, she loved him so much! It would be so hard to give him up!

  A young couple getting out of a cab looked at her strangely as they entered the gallery, and she knew she must be making a spectacle of herself with the tears streaming down her face. Quickly she hailed the vacated cab, wanting only to get away, to run from Nick and Sheila’s mocking laughter.

  “Where to, miss?” the cabbie asked.

  Where, indeed? Where could she go? What would she do? She knew she could no longer stay in the same vicinity as Nick. It would be too heart-wrenching to see his name in the newspapers, to hear it on the radio, and to see his wickedly handsome face on the television.

  She would see his face often enough the rest of her life in her dreams. Every waking hour would be filled with thoughts of Nicholas Raffer.

  Chapter Eleven

  Julie laid her forehead on the top of the computer screen and took deep breaths. Soon, she told herself, the nausea would pass. Her fingers trembled so much that she had hit all the wrong keys. And one finger was bare of a wedding ring.

  Her mother came into the bedroom. “Julie, are you feeling all right?”

  She looked up at her mother’s concerned face, which was finely sculptured like her own but framed by short, stylishly cut brown hair streaked with gray. She managed a smile. “I guess I’m just tired, Mom. I stayed up late last night, trying to finish the third chapter of the book.”

  Mary Dever’s brows knitted in worry. “Are you sure that’s it?” She crossed over to the desk and sat on Julie’s bed across from it. “You haven’t been yourself, Julie. In the six weeks you’ve been here, you’ve been walking around the house like someone who’s been told she has only a month to live.”

  She had to smile, though she indeed felt as if she had died six weeks before. She had returned home—Nick’s home, she reminded herself—half in fear of Nick’s returning before she could pack her luggage. Within half an hour she had quickly loaded the few belongings she possessed in her station wagon.

  It had been difficult to drive away without a backward glance, without hoping that Nick would suddenly materialize and order her to stop. But she had done it; she had driven straight through to Little Elm, Texas, a twelve-hour trip.

  “No, Mom, I’m not dying,” she reassured her mother.

  Mrs. Dever put out her hand to touch Julie’s. “Honey, whatever argument you and Nick had can’t be as terrible as all that. The love you two have can bridge anything.”

  Julie looked out her second-story bedroom window. A late February snow blanketed the lawns outside and decorated the trees that were as barren of leaves as her heart was barren of hope. She knew she would have to tell her parents sometime. They deserved that much.

  Her gaze moved back to her mother’s face, with its fine lines of age about the eyes put there by years of joy, sorrow, disappointment, and laughter. “Mom, Nick—when he married me, well... he didn’t really . . .” She sighed. “I guess I had better begin again. It starts with an accident I had last year.”

/>   A faint smile touched her mother’s lips. “And Nick rescued you?”

  She gave her mother a suspicious glance, but the woman’s soft face wore a serene, patient look. Encouraged, she proceeded to tell her mother the entire story, holding nothing back. “So you see, Mom,” she finished, “Nick married me to save my honor. And his,” she added bitterly.

  After a moment her mother said, “Do you really think that Nicholas married you to keep you from writing any further disparaging articles? I’m sure that as a politician in the public eye he has faced scurrilous attacks before and will again, no doubt.”

  “You don’t understand Nicholas Raffer. He’d stop at nothing to have his way.” she sighed again. “But it makes no difference. We disliked each other before we ever met. And now—now he thinks I’m interested in another man.”

  “And are you?”

  “Of course not! There could never be an¬one but...”

  “Then you’re in love with Nicholas Raffer, aren’t you?”

  She rested her head on the computer screen again. She had never felt so miserable in all her life. “Yes,” she admitted at last. “I love him. But I’m not right for him, Mom,” she whispered. “There’s another woman.”

  “Oh?” she thought her mother would be shocked, but she merely said, “Do you know that he has been seeing her since your marriage?”

  “Well, no—not exactly.”

  “Has he told you that you’re not right for him?”

  She raised her head. “No—but, Mom, I have my pride. I wasn’t going to wait around for him to tell me to leave.”

  “Pride—such a foolish thing for God to give us humans! I don’t suppose you’ve told Nicholas how you feel? I think you owe it to him, Julie. He not only helped you out of the accident and took care of you afterward, he married you. You owe it to him to tell him you love him.”