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Out the side of his mouth, Bishop countered, “Do you really feel like posing for half an hour?”
“No posing,” Frenchie said, flicking out his squeaky easel and wedging the legs into the planks. “Eat, talk. Reminisce. While I—” he whipped a pencil out with a magician’s finesse “—create.”
“I know what we can reminisce about.” Laura’s foot under the table curled around his pant leg. Bishop imagined her red painted toes as they slid up his calf. “Those amazing days we spent together sailing the Aegean.”
He angled slightly down. Out of sight, his hand caught her foot and he tickled her instep. “How about that unbelievable night on Naxos?”
“Please, please. Sit closer.” Frenchie feathered a pencil over the paper then stepped back to inspect his work so far. “This, I know, will be magnifique.”
Bishop reveled in the sweetness of chocolate and honey vanilla while listening to Laura’s recollections of their honeymoon … what they’d eaten and when, the people they’d met, their private dance on their private balcony in the moonlight that last night. Curious that she’d forgotten their divorce yet could remember every sensual detail of the time directly after their wedding as if it were yesterday. While the Mediterranean breeze and their lovemaking had kept them warm, she’d whispered in his ear and made him promise to take her on a cruise every year.
In between mouthfuls of cake, they talked and laughed. Bishop was so engrossed in their memories of Greece that he’d almost forgotten about the portrait until Frenchie set aside his pencil and announced, “It is done!”
Now, in the shadow of the Opera House’s enormous shells, he dragged himself back to the present and reached for his inside jacket pocket.
“How much do I owe?”
Frenchie waved a blasé hand. “Your choice.” Then, obviously proud, he pivoted the easel around.
Laura’s hands went to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh, Bishop, it’s perfect.”
Bishop had to agree. It captured not only their images but the gay atmosphere of the night as well as their obvious affection for each other. It was like looking back in time.
“It was a pleasure to work with a couple so very much in love.” Frenchie beamed.
Laura’s eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight. “Does it show?”
“Like a comet,” Frenchie enthused with a grand sweeping gesture, “illuminating a velvet night sky.”
Laura’s expression melted and Bishop slid out a large bill. Frenchie might be a bit of a poet, but his description wasn’t much of an exaggeration. That’s how they must appear to others tonight. Head-over-heels newlyweds in love. While they’d talked and shared desserts it had felt that way, too. He would’ve liked nothing better to have sat here, like this, all night.
By the time they finished up, it was late, so Bishop hailed a cab and her feet in their gorgeous heels got to rest.
As they crossed beneath the crystal chandelier of their hotel’s grand marble foyer, the efficient-looking concierge—a different man from the one earlier today—glanced up from checking something behind his desk. A big grin etched across his face and he fairly clicked his heels.
On their way to the lifts, Laura commented, “Very friendly staff they have here. You should tip that guy for that special welcome home.”
His step faltered the barest amount before he slid over a smile. “It’s because you look stunning tonight.” With the portrait in its cardboard sheath under his arm, Bishop stopped before the bank of lifts and thumbed a key. “You’re glowing.”
The lift arrived and she moved inside, smiling at his compliment, but deep down holding herself against a faint stab. Glowing was a term often bestowed upon pregnant women. Before that doctor at the hospital on Friday had informed her that she was mistaken—that she wasn’t pregnant—she’d actually felt as if she were glowing, even with that scrape and bump on her head.
But she could well be glowing tonight. They’d had a wonderful evening out, and with Bishop playing hooky from office duties tomorrow, there were many more hours of “wonderful” ahead.
As the car whirred up to the penthouse floor, she leaned on Bishop to balance as she eased off one four-inch heel then the other.
Bishop took note. “You’ve shown them off enough for one night?”
Performing, she twirled a shoe around her finger. “Oh, this is only the beginning.”
His brows hitched and pupils dilated until the crystalline blue of his eyes was near swallowed by black. When the metallic door slid open, she sashayed out ahead, sandals draped provocatively over one shoulder. She heard his footfalls on the marble tiles behind her.
“Guess you’re not tired,” he said.
“You guessed right.”
They entered the suite, a vast cream, black and crimson expanse, furnished with clean lines and minimalist finesse. She cast her shoes aside. Unable to hold back a moment longer, she coiled her arms around his neck and tipped her mouth up to meet his.
The ballet had kept her occupied earlier, but when they’d sat by those sparkling harbor waters tonight, eating their cake and reliving those fantastic few days abroad after their wedding, there were times Laura had needed to bunch her hand in her lap to divert the energy she’d felt pulling her toward him. It was as if she were hooked on an invisible line and desperately wanting to be wound in … to let him kiss her with all the heat of emotion both their hearts could give.
In the cab home, crossing the hotel foyer, riding the lift, she’d wanted to do exactly this … let him know with a touch of her hand, the stroke of her tongue, that she couldn’t live without him. With his breathing deepening now, his bristled chin grazing rhythmically against her cheek and his arms locked around her, the hot need inside of her only grew. Like a bulb without spring sunshine, she could survive without Bishop, but she would never know such true warmth.
Such real love.
That would never change. No matter what challenges they faced, they would always have this. An insatiable, natural need to be close.
When he grudgingly released her, her heart was pounding so hard that the vibration hummed through her body all the way to her fingers and toes. Her hand filed up through the back of his hair as she breathed in the glorious scent he left on his pillow each morning.
“Know what I want to do?”
“How many guesses do I get?” His voice was low and husky with desire, his eyes lidded with want.
“How many do you need?”
“I’ll take one.”
Her palms splayed over the broad ledge of his jacketed shoulders as she pressed in against him. “What if you’re wrong?”
A lazy grin hooked one side of his mouth. “I’m not wrong.”
“So I don’t need to give you a hint?”
That lazy grin widened. “Hints are always welcome.”
“Well, then, first we need to take this off.”
She dipped beneath his lapels and scooped the jacket off his shoulders. His lidded eyes holding hers, he tossed the coat aside. She assumed a speculative look as her palms ironed up the steamy front of his shirt.
“And that tie needs to go, too,” she decided, tugging the black length free from beneath its collar.
Bishop asked, “What about cuff links?”
“Cuff links are definitely out.”
He managed the links while she saw to his dress shirt studs. When the last button was released, her touch fanned the steely ruts of his naked abdomen then arced up through the dark, coarse hair on his chest. She let out a sigh as her nails trailed his pecs before catching the shirt and peeling the sleeves slowly down.
Anticipating the moment, she quivered inside as she lightly pressed her lips below the hollow of his throat; the pulse she found there matched the throb tripping a delicious beat at her core. A cord ran down one side of his tanned neck. When the tip of her tongue tasted a trail up the salty ridge, his erection, behind its zipper, grew and pushed against her belly. Growing warmer by the second, she blew a gentle stream of air against the trail her tongue had left.
“Do you remember what we were wearing on the balcony that night on the ship?”
His hands were kneading her behind, rotating her hips to fit against his as he attentively nipped the shell of her ear.
“I remember what we weren’t wearing.” Cooler air brushed her back as he tugged on a ribboned bow and her bodice loosened. “Would you like to slow dance on this balcony tonight?”
Sighing, she ground against him. “I thought you’d never ask.”
A knock sounded at the door, then a call. “Room service!”
Laura’s stomach jumped while Bishop’s chin went down. He searched her eyes.
“We haven’t ordered anything, have we?”
“It’s a mistake.” Slipping back into the mood, she wove a hand up over the hot dome of one shoulder. “Ignore it.”
“It might be important.”
“Not as important as this.”
Falling back into the magic, she drew his head down and kissed him more thoroughly than the first time.
But the call came again. “Mr. Bishop, room service, sir.”
Groaning, Bishop unraveled her arms and headed for the door. “Remind me to hang the sign up as soon as he’s gone. Do. Not. Disturb.”
A bellboy with a sun-bleached surfer’s mop stood behind the door. He didn’t raise a brow at Bishop’s state of half dress but merely handed over a shiny silver bucket, its sides frosty and the well filled with an impressive-looking bottle as well as two chilling glasses.
“Compliments of the house, sir,” the young man said, then spun on his spit-polished heel with a cheerful, “Good night.”
As Bishop hung the sign then closed the door, Laura crossed over and read the note, penned on hotel stationery.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Bishop.” She shook off a laugh. “I was here just a couple of weeks ago, and a week before that.” Staring at the note, she cast her mind back then set the note down on the teak hallstand ledge. “We should send this back. They’ve made some sort of mistake.”
“Have they?”
She shot him a questioning look then shrugged. “There’s no other explanation.”
“Maybe there is.”
As he held her gaze, she sent him a dry grin. “Then I’d like to hear it.”
“Would you?”
Her jaw tightened and she crossed her arms. “Don’t do that, Bishop.”
“Do what?”
“That. Answer everything with a question.”
As Bishop’s eyes hardened—or was that glazed over?—an icy shiver chased up her spine. Feeling bad, foolish, she pressed her lips together. Her tone had been brittle. She hadn’t meant it to be. It was just that …
Well, first there’d been that Robert Harrington and his odd comment, then the concierge’s almost surprised reaction at seeing them, now this offering from the hotel management as if she’d been gone for years.
It didn’t make sense.
But she was aware of the look on Bishop’s face. Removed? Concerned? He thought she’d overreacted and he was right. Management had sent champagne. He was suggesting there was some good reason. Which was feasible. And unimportant. She was making more of this than she needed to. She was curious—puzzled—that’s all.
Pasting on a smile, willing the flush from her cheeks, she nodded at the bottle.
“Either way, it’s a nice gesture. We should thank them in the morning.”
Bishop moved past and carefully set the bucket on the coffee table. If Laura thought she was confused, he hadn’t a clue what he was doing or what he planned to do next.
Every step he’d taken since Friday afternoon had led to precisely this moment. Logical steps. Steps that had made sense at the time. Even making love last night. In his defense, he could put up a good argument for that. What man in his right mind could’ve refused? Particularly when it was this man with that woman.
When she’d waxed on tonight about how unbelievable their honeymoon had been, recreating all those images and feelings while they’d nibbled on cake, she’d accomplished something he would never have dreamed possible. She’d taken him back—really back—in time. He’d looked into her eyes, so animated and thirsty for life—for him—and, God help him, he’d only wanted to stay.
And that awareness made this situation—where they stood now—different than it had been last night, or this morning.
He hadn’t wanted to force any recollections back too fast, too soon. He’d tread lightly, initially, because he hadn’t known how to go about it, then because he’d liked to see her happy. Ultimately he’d liked feeling happy again, too.
He’d been very happy tonight.
Before the champagne had arrived, they’d been on the brink, about to make love again, and yet when she’d looked so frustrated and confused just now, he’d tried to force that memory door open again, and more than a crack. He’d pushed to try to make her remember. And he’d done it for a reason. A selfish reason.
If this happened—if they had sex, made love, came apart in each other’s arms—he wanted it to be real. Maybe if she remembered the past, the ugly breakup, while she was feeling the way she did about him now, the anger and pain would pale enough for them to be able to work something out. That’s all he’d ever wanted.
To work things out.
He folded down into the circular leather lounge, smoothed back his hair with both hands then found her eyes again.
“Laura, come here. We need to talk.”
“About what?” She crossed and sat close to him, her beautiful face wan, her emerald eyes glistening with questions.
“We need to make an appointment.”
“An appointment for what?”
“A follow-up. To get you checked out.”
She blinked several times then tipped away. Even laughed a little. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?” She went to object and he held up his hands. “Okay. No more questions. Except one. And I want you to think about it before you answer.”
She searched his eyes and eventually nodded. “All right.”
“At the hospital, you said you thought you were pregnant. It is possible you were mixed up? That maybe …”
Not wanting to say it but needing to, he exhaled and reached for her hand. Gripped it tight.
