Sarah's Child

Still, the summer when she’d invited Diane to the company picnic she hadn’t expected him to take one look at Diane’s vibrant beauty and claim her for his own. But it had happened, and Diane and Rome had married five months later. Three months after their first anniversary Justin had been born, and two years later Shane. Two beautiful little boys, with their mother’s looks and their father’s determination, and Sarah had loved them because they were Rome’s children.

She’d remained as close to Diane as before, but she’d always been careful not to infringe on the time Rome spent with his family. He traveled a great deal, and Sarah limited her visits to the days he was out of town. She couldn’t say just why, but she sensed that Rome disapproved of her close friendship with Diane, though to her knowledge he’d never said anything. Perhaps it was that he simply didn’t like her, though she’d never done anything to earn it. She’d tried to stay out of his way, and she’d never, never told Diane anything about how she felt. There was no point in it; it would only have distressed Diane, and hurt their friendship.

Sarah had dated, and still did, but only casually. It wouldn’t have been fair to some other man to encourage a closer relationship when there was no way she’d be able to return any love offered to her. Everyone who asked, teasingly, when she was going to marry, had received the same reply: She loved her work too much to wash dirty socks for some man. It had been a lighthearted, stock answer, and it had served the purpose of protecting her vulnerable heart, but it had been a lie. She’d never wanted a career, but it was all she had left, so she’d given it her best. The charade had fooled everyone but herself.

Rome had been devoted to Diane and the boys. The freeway accident, almost two years before, had almost destroyed him. It had destroyed the laughter in him, the fierce-burning fire in his eyes. Diane had been driving the boys to school, and a drunk weaving his way home in the early-morning traffic had crossed out of his lane and hit them head-on. If he hadn’t been killed immediately, Sarah felt that Rome would have choked the man with his bare hands, he’d been so insane with grief when he’d been told. Justin had been killed on impact; Shane had died two days later. Two weeks after the accident Diane had died without ever regaining consciousness or knowing that her sons were gone. During those two weeks, Sarah had spent as much time as she could at her friend’s bedside, holding the limp hand and trying to will her to live, but fearing that Diane wouldn’t want to wake up from her death sleep. Rome had been a permanent fixture on the other side of the bed, holding the hand that bore his ring, his face gray and drawn, locked inside himself. Diane had been his only hope, his only remaining bit of sunshine, and her frail light had flickered and gone out, leaving him in darkness.

Gently Sarah went through all of the snapshots, seeing herself and Diane in various stages of their childhood and adolescence, mixed in with photographs of the boys as babies, toddlers, and rowdy little boys. Rome was in some of those pictures, romping with the boys, washing the car, mowing the grass, doing all of the normal things that fathers and husbands do. Sarah lingered over a picture of him lying on his back in the grass, wearing only a brief pair of denim shorts, holding Justin dangling over his head. His strong brown arms were steady as he held the toddler up, and it was evident that the child felt secure in his father’s hands. Justin had been shrieking with laughter. On the grass beside them, Shane had been trying to climb to his baby feet, and one tiny plump hand had clutched the hair on Rome’s chest in an effort to pull himself up.

“See anything you want?”

The question startled her, and she jumped, dropping the picture back into the box. She realized that he was asking in general and hadn’t noticed her staring at his picture with sick longing, but her shadowy green eyes were wide and wary as she scrambled to her feet, smoothing her skirt.

“Yes. I’ll take the box. There are a lot of pictures in here of Diane and the boys…if you don’t—”

“Take them,” he said curtly, walking into the room. He stopped in the middle of the floor and stood looking around, as if he’d never been there before, but his eyes were bleak, and his mouth looked as if it would never smile again. He did sometimes smile, Sarah realized, after a fashion, but it was merely a polite movement of his lips rather than an expression of humor. Certainly the smile never reached his eyes and lit the dark fires that had once smoldered there.

He jammed his hands into his pockets, as if he had to do something to keep them from knotting into fists. His shoulders were tense, braced against the impact of memories that this room must bring to him. He’d slept in that bed with Diane, made love to her, wrestled with the boys on early Saturday mornings when they came running in to wake him up. Quickly Sarah leaned down to pick up the box, turning her gaze away from him to keep from witnessing his anguish.

The anguish was as much in her as it was in him. She loved him enough to wish Diane back for him, so he could smile again. He would always be Diane’s anyway, because her death hadn’t stopped his love for her. He was still grieving for her, still hurting from her loss.

“I’m finished in the boys’ room,” he said remotely. “Everything’s packed up. I…I—” Suddenly his voice broke, and Sarah’s heart broke with it. He drew a ragged breath, his chest heaving with the effort it took to control himself.

Suddenly his face twisted with rage, and he whirled to slam his fist against the dresser, rattling the bottles of perfume and cosmetics that still littered the top. “Dammit, it was such a waste!” He cursed violently, then groped for the dresser as his body sagged under the weight of his anger and grief. He’d never known defeat until his family had been taken from him. Death was final, permanent, striking without warning and destroying the life he’d built for himself.

“In some ways, losing the boys was worse than losing Diane,” he said in a muffled tone. “They were so young; they hadn’t had a chance at life. They never knew what it was like to play high-school sports, or go to college, or kiss their girlfriends for the first time. They hadn’t made love, or seen their own children born. They never had a chance.”

Sarah clutched the box to her breast. “Justin kissed his girlfriend,” she said shakily, a tiny smile breaking through in spite of the pain. “Her name was Jennifer. There were four Jennifers in his class, but he told me very firmly that his Jennifer was the `pretty one.’ He kissed her right on the mouth and asked her to marry him, but she got scared and ran away. He told me that he ‘spected she just wasn’t ready for marriage yet, but he’d keep his eye on her. That’s practically verbatim,” she added, laughing a little. She’d imitated Justin’s way of talking, drawling and tough for a seven-year-old, and Rome’s mouth twitched. He glanced at her, and suddenly his dark brown-black eyes were dancing with golden lights. He made a choking sound, then he was laughing, throwing back his dark head on the deep healthy sound.

“My God, he was a tough little nut,” he chuckled. “Poor Jennifer wouldn’t have had a chance.”

Neither had poor Sarah. Justin had received all of his tough charm straight from his father.

Her heart jolted at his laugh, the first genuine laugh she’d heard from him in two years. He hadn’t talked about the boys, or Diane, since the accident. He’d bottled up all of his memories with the pain, as if he had to keep them locked away in order for him to function on even a basic level.

She shifted, still clutching the box. “These pictures…if you ever want any of them, they’re yours.”

“Thanks.” He shrugged his wide shoulders, as if trying to ease the tension in them. “This is rougher than I thought it would be. It’s still…almost more than I can handle.”

Sarah ducked her head, unable to answer or look at him without crying. This was so traumatic for her that she was beginning to doubt her ability to get through it, but she couldn’t do anything to make it any harder for him. If he started to cry, she’d probably die on the spot. Part of the agony she’d felt after the accident had been for Rome, knowing how he was suffering. She hadn’t even been able to put her arms around him at any of the services; he’d held himself stiffly erect, his face utterly white and withdrawn, sealed off by his grief from everyone around him. Rome had been alone, unable to share his pain.

When she looked up again, Rome was sitting on the bed where he’d slept with Diane, her silk nightgown in his strong hands. His head was bent, and he pulled the silk through his fingers over and over again.

“Rome—” She stopped, not knowing what to say to him. What could she say?

“I still wake up at night and reach for her,” he said in a rough tone. “This is the nightgown she wore the last night we spent together, the last time I made love to her. I can’t get used to her not being there. It’s an empty pain that won’t go away, no matter how many women I take.”

Sarah gasped, her Nile-green eyes widening and becoming shuttered; he glanced up, his eyes bitter. “Does that shock you, Sarah? That I’ve had other women? I was faithful to Diane for eight years, never even kissing another woman, though sometimes when I was on a trip I’d lie awake all night, wanting a woman so much that I hurt all over. But no one else would do; it had to be her. So I’d wait until I came home; then we wouldn’t sleep that entire night.”

Sarah’s throat tightened, and she retreated from him as an unexpectedly savage pain slashed at her. She didn’t want to hear this. She’d always tried not to think of him in bed with Diane, trying not to envy her friend, eternally striving to keep jealousy from ruining their friendship. She’d succeeded while Diane was alive, but now Rome’s words were tearing at her, forcing images into her head that she didn’t want to see. She turned away from him, her face averted as she tried to avoid hearing his words. The bed squeaked as he left it; then suddenly his hands were gripping her arms with a hard grip, jerking her around to face him. His face was white and full of rage, a muscle jerking in his temple. “What’s wrong, Saint Sarah? Are you so buried in that mental convent of yours that you can’t stand hearing about normal people who enjoy the sinful activity of sex?” He was snarling at her, and Sarah was frozen in his grasp, stunned by the anger that had erupted in him. Dimly she realized that he wasn’t angry at her as much as he was angry at the fate that had taken his wife from him and left him with only emptiness in his arms, but still, Rome in a temper was a man to fear.

He shook her, as if he wanted to punish her for being a warm, living woman, when Diane was forever gone. “I still can’t sleep with another woman,” he rasped in a voice harsh with pain. “I don’t mean sex. I had sex with another woman only two months after Diane died, and I hated myself for it the next morning…hell, as soon as it was finished! It felt as if I’d been unfaithful to her, and I felt so guilty that I went back to my hotel room and threw up. I didn’t even particularly enjoy it, but I did it again the next night, so I’d feel guilty again. I tried to make myself suffer, to make myself pay for being alive when she was dead. There’ve been a lot of women since then; every time I…need sex, there’s always a woman who’s willing to lie down with me. I need sex and I’ve been taking it, but I can’t sleep with them. When it’s over, I have to leave. In my mind, I’m still Diane’s husband, and I can’t sleep with any woman but her.”

Sarah felt suffocated, suspended in time by his hard grip on her arms, his hot breath on her cheek, and his enraged face so close to hers. She wrenched away from him, her hands tightened into fists. She couldn’t hear about his intimacies with another woman, with any number of other women. She gave Rome a wild, desperate look, but he didn’t notice. With a groan, he sank to his knees on the floor, burying his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.

There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room; she gasped at it, feeling her restricted lungs strain in an effort to drag enough air into her body. Her senses whirled, as if she might faint, but she didn’t. Somehow she found herself on her knees beside him, and she put her arms around him as she had longed to do so many times. Instantly his strong arms locked around her, holding her in a grip that threatened to crack all of her ribs. He buried his face against her soft breasts and cried, harsh sobs that tore out of his body in great shudders. Sarah held him, stroking his hair, letting him cry; he was entitled to it, and he’d gone for too long without letting someone else share in his grief. Her own face was wet, but she didn’t notice the hot tears that blurred her vision. All that mattered was him, and she rocked him gently back and forth, with no words, but only her presence to shield him from the bitter loneliness that had turned his heart into a winter land of desolation.

Gradually he quieted, and he moved closer to her, his hands moving up her back. She felt the deep breaths he was taking as they expanded his chest, then the warmth of the expelled air on her breasts. Her nipples tightened in automatic, shameful response, hidden beneath her silk shirt and lacy bra, and she clenched her fingers in his hair in a movement that was beyond her control.

He lifted his head, his eyes still damp, and the darkness of his pupils had become so total that there was no brown in them at all. He stared at her, then reached out and tenderly wiped the moisture from her cheeks with his thumb. “Sarah,” he said on a whispering sigh, and touched his mouth to hers.

She went still, all breath suspended in her body, as thousands of her prayers were answered in that light touch of his lips. Her hands moved to his shoulders, the nails digging into the layers of muscle that corded his frame. It was just a simple kiss of thanks, but the bottom dropped out of her stomach and the blood rushed from her head, so intense was the pleasure that assailed her. She sank against him, her soft body melding to his from shoulder to thigh, as they knelt there on the floor. Automatically he supported her, his hard arms around the female curves of her body, holding her to him.

He drew back and looked at her again, and now the expression in his eyes had sharpened to a look of glittering awareness. He was too much of a man not to recognize her feminine response. His gaze dropped to her tremulous, generous mouth, her lips softly parted, and instinct drove him to dip his head to drink from her sweetness again. This time there was nothing light about the touch of his lips; it was a kiss that was man-hungry and fiercely demanding. She gasped, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth with masculine need and command, an intimate kiss that almost shattered her with delight, and she whimpered softly into his mouth. His arms cradled her to him, his body controlling hers as he took her down to the floor.

Her senses reeled; it was so like the few forbidden dreams she’d had that she forgot where they were, forgot everything but the man who leaned over her, his mouth hot and tasting of passion. Her digging nails telegraphed her response to him, her body warming and arching to his, seeking the intoxicating heaviness of his weight.

There was no sense of time or location, nothing but the spiraling physical need that had flamed between them, unexpected and out of control. She felt his hands on her body, touching her breasts, dipping down beneath her skirt to rub her thighs and stroke intimately between them, wringing a wordless cry of need from her lips. No word of protest surfaced in her mind. She let him do as he wanted, mindless of everything but the delight his knowledgeable hands were bringing to her. He knew women, and his expertise made her wild. She offered her slim body for his delectation with no conscious thought of anything except how sweetly, hotly satisfying it was to be in his arms, to know his kisses and his caresses.

He surged to his feet, lifting her in his arms, her slight weight no trouble at all for his powerful muscles. In a few swift steps he was at the bed, lowering her onto it, coming down to join her with a low growl on his lips as he pulled her under him, spreading her legs with his and settling himself against her in a movement as natural and as basic as breathing.

Sarah clung to him, dizzy with the need he was arousing in her, her mouth tender and fervent under his. She’d loved him for so long, and at the moment she felt as if all of her wishes on falling stars were coming true. She was willing to let him do anything with her, and she knew what he wanted. She could feel the virile hardness of his body as he pressed against her. The layers of clothing between them were too much, unbearable barriers that kept their fevered flesh apart.

Then suddenly heaven ended. He stiffened on top of her, then rolled away and sat up on the edge of the bed, bending over to drop his head in his hands. “Damn you,” he said thickly, his voice full of disgust. “You’re supposed to be her friend, but you’re rolling with her husband, in her bed.”

Dazed, Sarah sat up and straightened her clothing, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She heard the accusation in his voice and found that she couldn’t get angry with him; she understood how guilty he was feeling, and how emotionally vulnerable he was after the emotional storm he’d just experienced. “I was her best friend,” she said shakily.

“You’re not acting like it!”

She slid off the bed, standing on wobbly legs. “We’re both upset,” she said to his bent head, and her voice was wobbly too. “We both went a little out of control. I loved Diane like a sister, and I miss her too.” She began to retreat, unable to stand there any longer, feeling as if she’d borne all she could for one night, and her tongue was out of control, babbling without her choosing the words she’d say. “There’s no need to feel guilty about it; there wasn’t anything really sexual about it. It was just that we were both so upset—”

He shot off the bed, his face wrathful. “Nothing sexual, hell! I was between your legs! Another minute, and we’d have been having sex! What would you have called it then? Would we have been `comforting’ each other? My God, you wouldn’t know sex if it bit you on the leg! You’re too much of an iceberg to know anything about men, or what they want!”

Sarah spun around, her face white, her green eyes stricken. Her generous mouth trembled. “I don’t deserve that,” she whispered, and bolted for the door, flying down the stairs before he realized that she was leaving. With a roar, he started after her.

“Sarah!” he yelled furiously, reaching the front door just as she turned the ignition key and started her little red fireball of a car, jerking it into gear and reversing out of the drive with the squeal of rubber on pavement. He stood in the doorway, watching the red glow of the taillights until they disappeared around the corner; then he slammed the door shut and cursed violently for several minutes. He noticed that she’d left the jacket to her suit, and he picked it up. Damn! How could he have said that to her? She was right; she hadn’t deserved it. He’d lashed out at her because of his own guilt, not just over what had happened that night, but over the years he’d spent looking at her and wanting to take her to bed, even though she was Diane’s best friend.

Rome stared at the linen jacket in his hands, and his mouth tightened. Didn’t Sarah realize what a challenge she was to men? She was so cool and pale and distant, so complete unto herself. She was devoted to her career, and she made it pretty plain that she didn’t need a man for anything beyond casual companionship. It had been rumored for years that she’d been the mistress of the chairman of the board, but Diane hadn’t thought so, and he trusted Diane’s judgment. Instead Diane thought that Sarah must have had a love affair that had gone sour, but as she’d said more than once, Sarah was deep and kept a lot of things to herself.

He remembered the first time he’d wanted Sarah; it had been at his own wedding. He’d been impatient to leave with Diane, and then he’d seen Sarah, standing a little alone as she so often seemed to be, her white-blonde hair twisted up on top of her head, her pale face wearing a polite mask. Was she never hot or mussed, he had wondered. Never fidgety? He’d thought of how she’d look if he’d had her in bed with him, that pale hair tangled by the wildness of their passion, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses, her slim body dewy with perspiration. His own body had suddenly become taut, swollen with need, and he’d had to turn away to disguise his condition. How he’d resented her, because even at his wedding to Diane, he’d been lusting after Sarah.

The years hadn’t changed the situation. She was always aloof, cool to him, and she never stayed around if he came home while she was visiting Diane. He loved Diane and was faithful to her, totally satisfied with her in bed, but there always remained, in the back of his mind, the knowledge that he wanted Sarah. If she’d given him the come-on, would he have remained faithful to Diane? He wanted to think so, but he couldn’t be certain; look what had happened the first time he’d kissed Sarah! He’d been ready to take her right then, on the floor, but he’d had a moment’s concern for her soft skin and he’d lifted her to the bed, a break in his concentration that had eventually stopped him. But she hadn’t been cool and reserved in his arms; she’d been warm and responsive, and her legs had parted for him without hesitation. Her cheeks had been flushed, and a few fine tendrils of hair had escaped their confinement to curl enticingly around her temples.

That was how he wanted her: with that neat, aloof image of hers shattered. He’d come home early from a trip once, and she’d been in the pool with Diane and the boys. She’d been laughing and frolicking like a child herself, her long hair loosened for once and floating around her like a fairy cloud. He’d changed into his own swimsuit and gone out to join them, and as soon as he’d appeared, Sarah had stopped laughing. She’d been very casual about it, but she’d made her excuses to Diane, hauling herself out of the water, and swiftly dried off before pulling on a ragged pair of denim shorts that only accentuated her long lovely legs. The sight of her in a pale yellow bikini had so aroused him that he’d had to take a fast dive into the water, and when he surfaced, she was already walking swiftly away.

A man couldn’t have asked for a better wife than Diane, or a more loving one. But as much as he loved her, as much as he still ached for her, he still wanted Sarah. It wasn’t a question of love at all; the finer emotions didn’t enter into it. His attraction to her was purely physical. He’d lashed out at her because, with her, sex would be more of a betrayal than it had been with those other nameless, faceless women. They’d been only bodies, without personality. But he knew Sarah, and he couldn’t wipe her identity out of his mind. He wanted sex with her; he wanted to watch her when she went wild beneath him, he wanted to hear her call his name during the throes of passion. And she was Diane’s best friend.

Hours later Sarah curled numbly in bed, her tears finally exhausted, but she couldn’t sleep. She felt battered, her insides torn apart with hurt. When the phone rang, she was tempted to ignore it, because no matter who it was, she didn’t feel like talking to them. But any call at two o’clock in the morning could be an emergency, and finally she reached over to lift the receiver. When she said hello, she winced at the sound of her own voice, which was still thick with the tears she’d shed.