Page 18 of A Man for Amanda
When I called to him, he spun around. In his face I could see the mirror of my own joy. There was laughter, mine and his, as he rushed toward me.
His arms went around me, so tightly. My dreams had known what it would be like to finally be held by them. His mouth fitted truly to mine, so sweet, so urgent.
Time does not stop. As I sit here and write this, I know that. But then, oh then, it did. There was only the wind and the sound of the sea and the sheer and simple glory of being in his arms. It was as if I had waited my entire life, sleeping, eating, breathing, all for the purpose of that single precious window of time. If I have another hundred years left to me, I will never forget an instant of it.
He drew away, his hands sliding down my arms to grip mine, then to bring them to his lips. His eyes were so dark, like gray smoke.
“I’d packed,” he said. “I’d made arrangements to sail to England. Staying here without you was hell. Thinking you would come back, and that I’d never be able to touch you nearly drove me mad. Every day, every night, Bianca, I’ve ached for you.”
My hands moved over his face, tracing it as I’d often longed to. “I thought I’d never see you again. I tried to pray that I wouldn’t.” As shame crept through my joy, I tried to turn away. “Oh, what you must think of me. I’m another man’s wife, the mother of his children.”
“Not here.” His voice was rough, even as his hands were gentle. “Here you belong to me. Here, where I first saw you a year ago. Don’t think of him.”
He kissed me again, and I could not think, could not care.
“I’ve waited for you, Bianca, through the chill of winter, the warmth of spring. When I tried to paint, it was your image that haunted me. I could see you standing here, with the wind in your hair, the sunlight turning it copper, then gold, then flame. I tried to forget you.” His hands were on my shoulders, holding me back while his eyes seemed to devour my face. “I tried to tell myself it was wrong, that for your sake if not my own, I should leave here. I would think of you, with him, dancing at a ball, attending the theater, taking him into your bed.” His fingers tightened on my shoulders. “She is his wife, I would tell myself. You have no right to want her, to wish that she would come to you. That she could belong to you.”
I lifted my fingers to his lips. His pain was my pain. I think it will always be so. “I have come to you,” I told him. “I do belong to you.”
He turned away from me, the struggle between conscience and love as strong in him as it was in me. “I have nothing to offer you.”
“Your love. There is nothing else I want.”
“It’s already yours, has been yours from the first moment I looked at you.” He came back to me to touch my cheek. I could see the regret, and the longing, in those beautiful eyes. “Bianca, there is no future for us. I cannot and will not ask you to give up what you have.”
“Christian—”
“No. Whatever wrongs I do, I will not do that. I know you would give me what I ask, what I have no right to ask, then come to hate me for it.”
“No.” Tears came to my eyes then, bitter in the cooling wind. “I could never hate you.”
“Then I would hate myself.” He crushed my fingers against his lips again. “But I’ll ask you for the summer, for a few hours when you can come here and we can pretend winter will never be.” He smiled and kissed me softly. “Come here and meet me, Bianca, in the sunlight. Let me paint you. I’ll be content with that.”
And so tomorrow, and every day during this sweet, endless summer I will go to him. On the cliffs above the sea we will take what happiness we can.
Chapter Four
“Well, hello.”
At the husky greeting, Sloan looked up from his notes on the billiard room to see a willowy gypsy in a flowing flowered robe. Long cables of red hair streamed down her shoulders and back. Dreamy green eyes assessed him before she glided into the room like a woman who had all the time in the world and was willing to spend it generously.
“Hi.” Sloan caught the elusive scent—like crushed wildflowers—before she offered a hand.
“I’m Lilah.” Her voice was as lazily flirtatious as her eyes. “We’ve missed each other the past couple of days.”
If there was a man who didn’t get a jolt from this one, Sloan thought, he was dead and buried. “I’m real sorry about that.”
She laughed, then gave his hand a companionable squeeze. First impressions ranked high with Lilah, and she’d already decided to like him. “Me, too. Especially now. What have you been up to?”
“Getting a feel for the place, and the people in it. How about you?”
“I’ve been busy trying to figure out if I was in love.”
“And?”
“Nope.” She moved her shoulders gently, but he caught the wistful look in her eyes before she turned to move around the room. “So, what’s the plan here, Sloan O’Riley?”
“Elegant dining in a turn-of-the-century atmosphere.” He kicked back in the Windsor armchair he’d been using and gestured toward the papers spread over the library table. “We take out part of that wall there, open up into the adjoining study, add a couple of glass pocket doors, and we’ve got a lounge.”
