Jennifer Greene - Conquer the Memories

Twisting the corkscrew, she opened the wine with a pop. A moment later, she handed Craig his glass, licking her fingers as she grinned at him. “I love Chablis.”

“You love cherry soda pop, too,” he teased.

“I crave cherry pop,” Sonia said feelingly. “Probably because Mom refused to buy it when I was a kid. It’s so nice to be married. One can indulge in all the forbidden vices…”

“Like cherry pop.”

“That heads the list, but there are a few others. You probably think I married you for all the mature reasons, like being in love with you, wanting to have your kids, knowing I had to spend the rest of my life with you.” Sonia flopped down next to him, her hand expressively dismissing those issues as trivial. “Marrying you was strictly an indulgence, an excuse to give in to all my vices.”

“Are you calling me a vice?” Craig demanded.

“Definitely.” She regarded her vice with a critical eye. He was wearing old jeans and a shirt she’d twice tried to sneak from his closet to throw in the rag bag. He probably loved the old frayed thing because he knew it made him look like a sex object. The worn blue cotton was soft, stretching across his chest, showing off solid sinew and all that lean toughness that was part of Craig.

“I see when it really counts, talk’s cheap. I’ll cook dinner, you said, and instead you’re just standing there looking sexy and I’m bending my poor cracked ribs.”

She flushed and hurried forward, delighted he was joking about the injury. “Would you like another one or two?”

“Cracked ribs? If you’re in a wrestling mood, woman, I’m certainly not going to disappoint you.” He gave her a threatening look, all dark, thunderous brows. “I’ll go in for finger wrestling right after dinner. If I get a handicap.”

Chuckling, Sonia ordered him down to the blanket and started cooking dinner. It was pitch-dark before the fire was really crackling, shooting up tiny orange sparks to the sky as the Cornish hens crackled and browned on the makeshift spit. The wind, as Sonia had promised, died completely by the time they were both pulling off bits of succulent meat with their fingers, devouring their dinner with relish. The knives and forks she’d brought were forgotten; it was too much fun playing Tom Jones.

They rinsed their hands in the river afterward, and both sank back on the blanket, too replete to move. Total silence surrounded their mountain valley. The river picked up the reflection from the dying fire-picked it up and magnified it in a series of repeated images on its black surface.

“Why did we buy that gas grill?” Craig wondered aloud.

“I haven’t any idea. We never use it.” Sonia curled on her side with her head resting in the palm of her hand. Craig was stretched out, a second blanket bunched up beneath his head. “Everything tastes better by a fire down here,” she said contentedly.

He stretched out an arm and motioned. With a chuckle, she edged closer, careful of his battered ribs, finding a home for her cheek in the crook of his shoulder. “Are you hurting?” she whispered.

“No.”

She gave him a wry look, tilting her face up at him, her features golden by firelight. “Now, don’t get touchy. I haven’t asked you once all day.”

“You’ve tried forty-nine times. Sonia…” His thumb gently traced the line of her cheekbone, his eyes suddenly grave. “You’ve lost a pound or two, haven’t you? You’re still thinking about what happened.”

Her answer came swift and light, determined that he would stop obsessing on the subject of muggers and nightmarish encounters! And if she’d lost a pound or two worrying over him, he’d be the last person alive to know it. “I have been trying to lose a pound or two, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She shook her head, her fingers sliding loosely around his waist. “Obviously, because I was getting a little…chunky.”

“Chunky?” A rumble of laughter erupted from his chest, echoing in her ear. “You haven’t got a chunky bone in your entire body.”

“I have, too.”

“Where?” He rose up just a little, to investigate her claim. Her thighs certainly didn’t have an ounce of fat on them. Her upper arms and shoulders were slim, small-boned. Her tummy was certainly softer than butter beneath the white satin blouse, but there wasn’t an extra roll to be pinched. “I can’t find any chunks,” he murmured, “but I did find something else.” He nuzzled the top of her curly head with his chin. “You’re not wearing a bra, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“I must be.”

“I’m quite sure.”

“I’m just as sure I put one on.”

“I’m quite positive you didn’t.”

“Must have completely slipped my mind,” she said lazily, and closed her eyes. He undid a button, then another, his knuckles softly grazing her smooth flesh. Cymbal crashes and drumrolls promptly vibrated through her bloodstream.

Two weeks without that ultimate physical intimacy, she thought wistfully. Craig had been so badly hurt. She would have slept in the spare room if he’d let her, wanting him to get his rest, lovemaking the last thing on her mind.

Now, just his teasing touch was enough to make her blood pressure zoom. The problem was that she’d been spoiled. It was so nice being spoiled. Craig was still friend, husband, mate…but she missed her lover.

And that thumb of his, flicking slowly back and forth over her nipple, delighting in its responsive tightening, told her that Craig missed her as well. His palms cradled the undersides of her breasts. Cradled, then molded, then kneaded, and a whispered sigh escaped her lips as she arched beneath him.

Craig suddenly tensed, aching in need for her. His lips pressed hard in her hair, then shifted to her temples, exerting enough pressure so that she lifted her face to his, all innocence in loving, her features vulnerable and softly flushed.

An image flashed in his head, an image of her face, contorted with horror and fear, sick with terror. Terror because he’d put her in a position where she could be hurt…where she could have been more than hurt. Why hadn’t he been alert to the dangers lurking about? The only thing in his head had been the selfish desire to make love with her. Like now. Guilt clawed inside him, so deep and painful that he wrenched his arm free.

“What’s wrong?” Sonia took one look at his face and jerked up. “Your ribs, Craig? Oh, darling…” Selfish, selfish, selfish, she chided herself. He’s hurting like hell and you’re going around braless like some hormone-happy harpy.

“The ribs are fine. Sonia…”

The fire snapped. They both glanced up. The sky had dropped; swirling masses of charcoal clouds hung just above them. A drop of water splashed down, then another. Both Sonia and Craig bolted up, snatching the tray and blanket and glasses. By the time they started to run for the house, the sky had parted and was dousing them with buckets of water.

By the time they reached the house, they were both soaked, and laughing. “At least give me credit,” Sonia complained. “You notice it didn’t rain a drop until we were finished with dinner. I suppose you thought that was nature’s doing?”

Craig deposited the tray in the kitchen and, after a quick, token cleanup, led her toward the bedroom. “You’re dripping, my talkative one. As soon as you get warm and dry, you can tell me all about your powers over the skies.”

“Skeptic. All my life I’ve been surrounded by skeptics.” Sonia groped in the dark for the bedside lamp. Peeling off her wet clothes, she tossed the soaking garments into the bathroom helter-skelter, then pulled on a multicolor caftan that trailed the floor. Her shivers promptly stopped, and she picked up a brush from the dresser.

“Under the covers,” Craig ordered.

Muttering about overbearing men, she threatened him with the brush, but dived rather meekly for the blankets, hunching the pillows behind her. “I’m hardly going to catch cold from one little rain.”

“Who said anything about your catching cold?” Craig stopped unbuttoning his shirt long enough to press a kiss on her forehead. “I’m just keeping you in your place.”

“Bed?”

“Bed,” he agreed.

“You think I’m going to put up with that kind of talk?”

She leaned back, watching Craig remove the rest of his clothes. The skin around his ribs was still bruised and discolored, and she saw white strain lines under his eyes that she hadn’t noticed in the darkness outside. Tugging the covers up to her chin, she again felt angry with herself for being so insensitive as to initiate lovemaking when he clearly wasn’t well yet.

He wandered into the bathroom, and Sonia picked up a magazine from the bedside table, but didn’t open it. Her eyes roved restlessly over their bedroom. The ceilings were tall and beamed; a stone fireplace took up one corner. The white stuccoed walls had a Spanish flavor; the burnt-orange carpet added a warmth and quiet to the room; and the wall hangings were mixed Sioux and Navaho, in wood-browns and muted oranges and creams, with a hint of pale blue. The room pleased her-it had a rich sensual quality that reflected, she thought with a warm rush, exactly what had always gone on within it. Loving. Not just sex, but affection and closeness, and an intimacy too joyous for laughter, too deep for tears. Sonia relaxed. Occasionally over the past two weeks, she’d been haunted by the specter of the man who had so badly frightened her in Chicago; yet the longer she was home and around Craig, the easier she found it to put the incident in perspective. However horrible it had been, that episode of less than an hour’s duration could not permanently mar the life she had with Craig.

He returned from the bathroom stark naked-but then, he always slept stark naked. He slipped between the sheets next to her, readjusted the pillows behind her as if she weren’t perfectly comfortable the way she had them, and picked up a magazine from his own bedside table. “Are you warm enough?”