Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“You don't mind then? I mean, I never even thought…” She blushed. “Although I suppose I should have. But-if I am, do you mind?”

“Mind?” He took a deep breath, then released it slowly, his eyes filling with tears. He'd be here this time for the first smile and the baby's first unsteady steps, for the first soft cooing word and the first day of school-all the precious milestones he'd missed with Carrie. “I thought I'd never have children of my own,” he said in a whisper, “and now, Honeybear, you're going to give me two. Mind?” He swallowed hard and wondered how to fully express the sweeping scope of his joy. “Let me give you the universe wrapped in a silver bow,” he said, jubilation in the rich timbre of his voice.

“I don't want the universe, I only want you.”

“Ask for something.” He was elated, dizzy with rarefied happiness. “Everyone always asks for something.” That he fully accepted. “Diamonds at least or a villa.”

“I don't want to hear about everyone, Carey Fersten.” Molly's lush lapis eyes began smoldering with flashes of heat.

How disarming, he thought, and sweetly cruel to be reminded a portion of the world practiced sincerity. “Retracted love,” he replied, intent on accord, his sensibilities attuned to every nuance, every desire, every whim she might fancy. “The world of sycophants and glitter have jaded my more whole-some instincts. It's been too many years. I forget there are people who aren't always expecting something.”

The incipient anger faded in Molly's eyes, and she saw Carey in a different light. Although he'd meant it as a simple declaration of fact, she hated the thought that people had always demanded something of him. “Let me,” Molly murmured, brushing the strong line of his jaw with one finger, “give you something instead.”

“You have already,” he replied with a quiet intensity. “I need you passionately, desperately.” He inhaled deeply. “Without reason or pride.”

“You have me,” she whispered, touched by his admission. A veil of restless moodiness seemed to descend immediately after his disclosure. He was a man of both reason and pride, formerly untouched by love, and disquieted by this new vulnerability. “And you have Pooh, too.”

He smiled then, the hint of melancholy erased by the sound of his daughter's name.

“And maybe a son next time, so think of it as not only having me to drive you mad on a daily basis, but two more hungry mouths to feed.”

He grinned. “In that case, I'll buy another cow and plow up the north forty.”

“Somehow I can't picture you milking a cow.”

“Perhaps I should do what I do best then. Have my steward hire a couple of nannies, a decorator for the children's rooms, one governess for Pooh,” he looked at her quizzically, read her expression correctly and said, “no governess, right. We'll hire a trainer for Pooh's riding, instead. What have I forgotten?”

“Don't ask me, I've never seen a nanny in my life. I was thinking more along the lines of leaving our schedules open enough to take care of the children ourselves.”

“Children.” He said the simple word with reverence, and his hands were trembling when he pulled her close. “Do you know how far away that word makes the jungles of Vietnam?” He looked down at her but really didn't see her for a moment, transfixed by memories. She could see him returning to the present, and his hands closed more tightly on her shoulders. “And whether the baby's a boy or girl, Honeybear, it doesn't matter. So you have to marry me now. I knew I'd get you one way or another.” He grinned.

“Scheming villain.”

“Right.” He lifted one dark brow in a leer. “And you're the pure and innocent young milkmaid. A very hot one, I might add.”

“We try to please the villains of our choice.”

“How nice. I look forward to act two. Is that the wedding?” He smiled then, a faint, teasing curve of his mouth. “You say the word, darling, large, small, extravagant, simple-whatever kind milkmaids prefer-it's yours.”

“And what about the milkmaid's business,” Molly asked quietly. It was her second thought after realizing she'd marry Carey anywhere, anytime.

“Let's not talk about it now,” he replied, bending down to kiss the tip of her nose, “and spoil all this grand, undiluted joy.”

T hey should have food sent up, he said, scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast maybe, something light for her stomach, and champagne to celebrate. He added with a grin, “I'll drink yours.”

And he ordered flowers, baskets of white roses.

Too many flowers, she anxiously said, watching a parade of young men carry in the white wicker baskets. But Carey only shrugged, took off his jacket, pulled off his tie, and asked, “Would you like mousse for dessert? I'm trying to think of digestible foods. Or a sorbet or maybe a fruit… strawberries?”

“Okay,” she said, and he knew she was feeling better.

“All three,” he told the waiter, who stood at attention, his pen poised. “And maybe some ribs, for me,” he ordered, with a smile at Molly. “And steamed fish for you?” He looked at her for confirmation and nodded. Dropping into the chair beside her, he leaned over to kiss her lightly on her cheek. “I'm going to adore watching you get fat,” he murmured. “We need a vegetable,” he asserted, as if remembering the additional food group like a dutiful father, “for junior or juniorette,” he whispered in Molly's ear.

“Do you have asparagus?” he asked the waiter.

“Green or white; sir?”

“Green, we're trying to be healthy.”

“That's enough,” Molly cautioned. “You're beginning to sound like a nutritionist. I can't eat all that.”

“Humor me,” he said, his voice low, cheer radiating like sunbeams from his eyes. “This is my first baby.” And he kissed her again.

“The waiter,” Molly murmured, not accustomed to living her life as Carey did, with servants continually around.

“He doesn't mind.”

“Please?”

“That'll be it,” Carey said to the waiter. He smiled then, to mitigate his crisp dismissal and said, “Thanks a lot… appreciate your patience.” Rising from his chair, he followed the man out into the small hallway. “She's having my baby,” he quietly told the waiter, holding the door open, “so she's a little touchy.”

“Congratulations, sir,” the young man said. “I understand.”

“Oh, and bring up some rice pudding. She likes it.”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”

“No rush… really.”

“Yes, sir, I understand, sir,” the waiter immediately interpreted. “We won't hurry.”

“Thanks. It's a great day, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir, I know what you mean, sir. It certainly is.”

“Now let's get your dress off,” Carey said as he reentered the sitting room. “Hey, altruistic motives only,” he went on, his arms out, his smile wide. “I just thought you might like to-ah, send that to the cleaners.”

They showered. Wrapped in the hotel robes, they lay on the satin-covered bed and smiled and talked and lightly kissed. Carey apologized for the decor; Molly said it didn't matter a bit. He promised her the real thing-rococo palaces in France and Bavaria-as soon as they left on their honeymoon. She said a tent in the backyard would be palatial, if he were beside her.

He said he'd be happy to arrange it. Her backyard or his? He didn't mention, cautious to keep the dialogue discreetly removed from controversial facts, that his backyards were in California, Tahiti, London, and Greece.

She only wrapped her arms around his neck and languorously murmured, “Mmmm.” The literal translation was hazy, but her meaning was clear. He smiled into her warm blue eyes and whispered his undying love for her.

When the food came, the very first thing Molly said was, “Rice pudding? How did you know?” Her eyes were wide in wonder.

“My gypsy blood,” he teased, but in truth he'd remembered she'd mentioned it once years ago and it had come to him like some flashback as he was standing in the hall talking to the waiter. She'd always eaten it at her grandmother's, she'd told him then.

“I love you,” she said, her heart filled with inexpressible affection.

Carey arranged the food on the bed, and they tasted everything, kissing between bites, feeding each other a spoonful or forkful if a flavor particularly appealed to them.

Carey stopped eating first and lounged on one elbow, watching her. The whiteness of her robe heightened the fairness of her hair, its simplicity enhanced the clarity of her beauty-her small, straight nose, the pink opulence of her well-formed mouth, the Scandinavian classic purity of her cheekbones and her eyes, heavily lashed and blue as a summer sky. If he wasn't so selfish, he'd put her in one of his movies; but he was, and he had no intention of sharing her with the world.

She reached over for a strawberry, and her robe fell open slightly, the fullness of her breasts briefly revealed; the creamy texture of her skin a subtle contrast to the immaculate whiteness of her robe. White but not white, warm and soft and touched with rosy iridescence. He felt his erection rise. When she put the strawberry in her mouth whole, he experienced a rush of heat racing through his veins.

“Are they good?” he asked, content and happy, knowing he would touch her lush creamy skin, feel its smooth warmth, and feel himself inside her.

Molly turned to him and nodded, her mouth still filled with strawberry. Her smile was an upcurving of red lips damp with strawberry juice.

He couldn't resist. Stretching up, he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. “They are good,” he agreed a moment later. He returned to his lazy sprawl, the pulsing of his arousal keeping time with his heartbeat.

“Aren't you hungry anymore?” Molly asked, tiny flutters of desire distracting her own appetite.