She didn't tell her daughter that Cory Pearson was just about the same age her daddy had been that spring day when he'd met her eighteen-year-old momma on a Florida beach.


* * *

Jessie waited up for Tristan that night. And she didn't make the mistake of getting into bed to watch television this time, knowing if she did she'd probably fall asleep again. Instead, she took a long shower and shampooed her hair and did all the self-pampering, girlie things she used to do when she was a teenager getting ready for a date. She put on the diaphanous black nighty she'd bought in one of the hotel's boutiques, making herself blush and whisper, "Oh, my Lord…" Then, to cover it up and distract herself from the thoughts it provoked, she wrapped herself in the thick terry cloth bathrobe supplied by the hotel and gave herself a manicure. Then a pedicure. After that she paced, wishing she smoked so she'd have something to do while her heart thumped a monotonous tomtom beat and nervous shivers whispered beneath her skin.

This is good, she told herself. It's good he's with Cory Pearson. He needed this. This is good.

She'd been so glad when Tris had invited the reporter to join him and Jessie, Sammi June and Max for dinner after the White House reception. She'd been hoping he would. And she'd suggested they eat in one of the hotel's restaurants just so she'd be able to excuse herself afterward and give the two men a chance to talk together privately. She'd counted on Sammi June and Max having their own plans for the evening, but to her surprise both of them had elected to retire to their rooms early, after announcing their intention to visit the Air and Space Museum before catching their flight the next day.

Jessie had noticed that Sammi June seemed unnaturally subdued during dinner, barely saying a word and only picking at her blackened Cajun-style flounder. Her mother hoped to goodness she was just tired or coming down with some virus or other, but she had a sinking feeling that what was wrong with Sammi June wasn't anything that could be so easily cured.

Undercurrents…

It was nearing midnight when Jessie heard the card-key click in the suite's outer door. Her knees immediately went weak. Too late now to jump into bed and pretend to be asleep. Nothing to do but put on her best face and go to meet her husband. My husband…this man I barely know!

She didn't know what to do with her hands. Or her galloping heartbeat. Once, she would have known what to expect when her husband walked through the door. If he was tired or had had a difficult day, he could be counted on to put his arms around her and hold her and exhale gustily into her hair…then fill his lungs with her scent as if she were a drug he'd been without for too long. If he was feeling good about himself and things in general, he might hug Sammi June instead or tease her and play with her while a wink and his secret smile for Jessie hinted at intimacies to come. And if he'd been gone a longer time, like on deployments, he'd be frankly and openly hungry for her, his appetites lusty and impatient as a teenage boy's.

But this Tristan…coming into the bedroom in a tentative, almost guilty way, barely meeting her eyes…the set of his shoulders and jaw defensive, as if not quite certain of his welcome…this man she didn't have the first idea what to do with.

"You're still up," he said, as he had the night before.

But this night she wasn't sleepy enough to walk unthinking into his arms. Instead she stood rooted in the middle of the room, wrapped in her bathrobe, twisting her fingers together. "Hi," she said breathlessly.

"Sorry to be so late." With barely a glance at her he turned to the dresser and dropped his card-key on its top, then began to tug at his tie.

"That's okay…" He was unbuttoning his jacket. She drifted nervously closer and held the jacket for him while he slipped out of it. His body warmth and scent still clung to the jacket, and as she turned away to hang it in the closet she resisted the desire to bury her face in it and comfort herself in its familiar embrace. "Did you and your friend have a good visit?"

"It was good seeing Cory again. Seems to be doing okay…"

She could hear rustlings behind her as he took off his shirt. The back of her neck prickled with awareness, and the intensity of her wish that he would come closer…wrap his arms around her and bury his face in the curve of her neck.

"He sure seems nice. I'm glad I got to meet him." She turned and found him tugging his undershirt out of the waistband of his slacks. The two halves of his dress shirt hung loose at his sides. "Here, let me get that for you," she said huskily, and as she did she was moving close and easing the shirt over his shoulders and off. Then, daringly, she placed her palms on his chest and rose on tiptoes to kiss him. "Mmm," she murmured, licking her lips, "you taste like beer."

"Cory and I quaffed a couple." His tone was sardonic. She pulled back and saw his eyes resting on her, a mysterious light in their depths.

"Did you, now?"

"Mmm-hmm…but only a couple." His fingers had begun to toy with the collar of her robe, rubbing the texture as if he'd never felt its like before. She swayed toward him and was taken off guard when he backed away, towing her with him until he came against the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress and drew her closer by the lapels of the robe, like a fish in a net. "Nice robe," he murmured. "Is it the hotel's?"

She nodded. "There's one for you, too." Her tongue felt sticky; it was hard to form words. "His and Hers. If you put yours on we'd be a matched set."

"I'd rather take yours off," he said, and his voice was low and guttural. Her breath caught and her hands flew guiltily to the belt of her robe. His eyes kindled. "What've you got on under it? Come on, let me see."

"Nothing. I mean-not nothing-" Breath whooshed through her lips as he tugged the belt free. The two halves of the robe unfurled like a banner.

There was a moment of utter silence. Then he said in a disbelieving voice, "That's not nothing."

"That's what I was trying to tell you," Jessie said with a nervous gulp. "I bought it this morning. I thought…I was hopin' it might turn you on."

He didn't say anything for way too long. Seemingly oblivious to her discomfort, he was intent on watching his hands guide the terry cloth bathrobe over her shoulders. It fell in a snowy heap at her feet. His hands touched the nightgown's silky nothingness…it slithered coldly over her skin, and she began to shiver. His eyes trailed upward, searching the clouded outlines of her body. Then they snapped abruptly to her face. The fierceness in them made her gasp.

"Don't you know," he said harshly, "it's not your underwear that turns me on? You turn me on."

"Well-" she was trying for droll, but her voice was bumpy with shivers "-that's a relief."

"Take it off." Dazed and jerky, she hastened to obey, swaying a little, off balance with her arms lifted over her head. His hands on her waist held her steady. Totally naked, in an agony of self-consciousness, she endured the avid exploration of his eyes, and a silence that seemed to last forever. Then…

"God, Jess…it's been so long since I've seen…since I've seen you…like this." The raw emotion in his voice stunned her, speaking of so many long, empty years…of unfathomable longing and unspeakable suffering.

Only clenched teeth held back her instinctive cry of compassion. She reached for him, but he said thickly, "No…let me look at you…" and held her away at arm's length. Her hands had to be content to ride his as they traveled slowly, wonderingly over her body. "I remembered you…like this, but I didn't…" He shook his head like someone in a daze. His gaze clung, mesmerized, to the sight of his fingertips tracing the outline of her breasts. "Didn't really think you could be this beautiful. Thought…I had to be imagining you, that I'd been away from you so long, my mind had created some impossible ideal…"

Overwhelmed, she tried to laugh and failed miserably. "Oh, Tris…I'm not-"

"Shh…" His hands gently turned her. She stood with her head bowed, eyes closed, trembling…exposed…vulnerable…while his hands glided over her hips…buttocks…pelvic ridges, like a potter's hands shaping clay. When he kissed the nerve-rich spot above the base of her spine, she gasped, and her muscles contracted violently. Her knees buckled and she clutched at his forearms for support. Every part of her body had begun to swell and ache. In the protected, feminine places, she felt heat and throbbing pressure already building…building, pushing against the limits of her self-control. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her like this… Had anyone ever touched her like this?

She felt his mouth, his breath, his beard-roughed skin caress her buttocks, the small of her back, while his hands slid around her hips and his fingers wove their way into the thicket of hair between her thighs. "I'm going to fall," she whispered, but didn't think he heard her. She began to whimper softly.

He turned her again, his mouth dragging kisses across her belly, then lower…and lower still. His mouth was hot…humid…and so was she, and his tongue slipped into her, found her throbbing place and began to move rhythmically with the beat. Her body jerked and she gripped his shoulders, breathing in ragged sobs while his hands, cupping her buttocks, held her firm against the relentless stroking of his mouth and tongue.

She must have cried out…she may have screamed. If so, she didn't hear it. Her mind had left her body, but her body no longer belonged to her…it was only a clenching, quaking, sobbing, trembling mindless bundle of sensation, and he…Tristan…controlled it all. He played her body like an instrument, spinning out the sensations, holding on to the throbbings, making the quaking go on and on, refusing to let it die. Until she thought she surely would.