Snowflakes on the Sea

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The cold press of Cinnamon’s nose awakened her with a start, and Mallory sat up on the sofa, alarmed. The house was cold and dark, and she knew without making even the most cursory search that Nathan was nowhere within its walls.

Patting the dog’s head in quick reassurance, Mallory scrambled to her feet. She turned on a lamp and turned off the video recorder and the TV and saw by the glass clock on the mantel that it was nearly three in the morning.

Poor Cinnamon hadn’t had any dinner at all.

“I am a dog abuser,” Mallory said sleepily. Then, her thoughts churning, she made her way into the kitchen and quickly refilled Cinnamon’s dishes with food and water.

Where was Nathan?

Mallory found her purse and rummaged through it until she found the medication her doctor had given her when she had been released from the hospital. She took one capsule into her palm, glared at it for a moment, filled a glass with water and assured herself of hours of deep, undisturbed sleep. If Nathan was at Angel Cove, making music with Diane Vincent, she didn’t want to know.

It was late morning when Mallory awakened, and the house was filled with strange sounds and smells. It took her several moments to identify them. She sat up in bed, wide-eyed with disbelief. Turkey? The house definitely smelled of roasting turkey, and the lilting notes of Christmas music filled the air.

Mallory tossed back her covers, frowning in curious consternation. Deck the halls? What in the world was going on?

Wearing only Nathan’s old football jersey, which she had put on in the wee hours of the morning after taking the sleeping medication, she made her way out into the kitchen. A glance at the window revealed yet another snowfall, this one lacking the fury of recent storms.

“Nathan?” Mallory ventured, still frowning. The kitchen table was littered with eggshells, onion skins, bread crumbs, wilted celery leaves and an assortment of dirty mixing bowls. “Nathan!”

The recorded Christmas music came to a sudden and scratchy halt, and Mallory wandered toward the living room to investigate. Her mouth fell open in wonder, and her third call of her husband’s name died on her lips.

Nathan was standing in the corner beside a fully decorated Christmas tree, grinning like a little boy. With a flourish, he flipped a switch, and the tree was suddenly alight with colorful, glistening splendor.

“Merry Christmas, pumpkin,” he said.

Mallory’s sentimental heart twisted within her, and tears of delighted surprise smarted in her eyes. “Nathan McKendrick,” she whispered, “it is the middle of January!”

He smiled, the Christmas tree switch still resting in one hand. “Not in this house it isn’t. Aren’t you going to open your presents?”

Mallory’s blurred gaze dropped to the base of the fragrant evergreen tree and a number of brightly wrapped packages. In that instant, she knew where Nathan had been during the night, and how badly she had misjudged him.

“You went all the way to Seattle!”

Nathan shrugged. “It seemed the logical thing to do.”

“Logical!” Mallory choked, beaming through her tears. And then she raced across the room and flung herself into the arms of her own private Santa Claus.

Their embrace subtly changed the mood. The brief melding of their two bodies sparked a charge that lingered long after Mallory had opened the beautifully wrapped gifts that Nathan had originally mailed from Sydney.

Sitting cross-legged on the hearth rug, still clad in the soft-washed and somewhat shabby red football jersey, Mallory made a sound that fell somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. “There aren’t any presents for you!” she mourned.

He arched one eyebrow and folded his arms, and a wicked grin curved his lips as he assessed her speculatively. “I can think of one,” he teased. “And I can’t wait to unwrap it.”

Mallory turned the color of her football jersey, but her heart sang with the desire this man stirred in her. She looked at the glittering litter surrounding her, the sumptuous gifts, the Christmas tree. Finally, she dared to look at Nathan, who was perched on the arm of the old-fashioned sofa, looking even more handsome than usual in his dark blue velour shirt and gray flannel slacks.

“I love you,” she said, as awed by the intensity of her feelings as she had been the day she first faced them, more than six years before.

Though he was a tall and muscular man, Nathan moved deftly. Within a moment, he was kneeling on the hearth rug, facing Mallory. Gently he traced the outline of her cheek with a warm index finger. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse with emotion. “I hope you mean that, lady.”

Mallory shifted to her knees with as much grace as possible, and wrapped her arms around Nathan’s neck. Her answering pledge was in the kiss she gave him.

Tenderly, without breaking the kiss, Nathan pressed Mallory backward until she lay supine on the large oval rug. His right hand stroked her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and then slid beneath the neckline of the jersey to close possessively over one warm, rounded breast. She groaned as his thumb brought the rosy center swiftly to a sensuous peak.

The kiss ended, and Nathan’s lips strayed, warm, to the sensitive place beneath Mallory’s ear and then to the pulsing hollow of her throat. She moaned once again as he drew the neckline of the jersey down far enough to expose a breast.

Idly he surveyed this first sweet plunder of his conquering, as though it were some rare and special confection, to be savored and then consumed slowly. After what seemed like an eternity to Mallory, he lowered his head and nipped gently at the peak awaiting him, causing his wife to writhe. She gasped with shameless pleasure as he softly kissed the pulsing morsel and then tasted it.

He laughed, his breath warm on the tender globe he fully possessed. “You like that, don’t you, pumpkin?” he teased in a rich, baritone voice.

Mallory nodded feverishly, unable to speak.

Nathan circled the pink fruit of her bounty with a warm, tormenting tongue. “Umm,” he murmured as his right hand moved over Mallory’s knee and then beneath the jersey to her firm, satiny thigh.

She squirmed, instinctively parted her legs in an early and desperate surrender. Her hands moved of their own frantic accord, to explore the muscular hardness of his back, beneath his shirt.

He shuddered with pleasure at her touch, and as his mouth closed hungrily over the breast that had grown warm and heavy for him he caressed her inner thighs with gentle fingertips and then tangled them in the nest of curls where sweet, ancient secrets were hidden.

Mallory whimpered as he parted the silken veil to pluck gently at the treasure sheltered there, bringing it to the same throbbing response as her distended nipple. “Yes,” she gasped as he drew the football shirt ever upward, unveiling the spoils of his impending conquest. “Yes—”

And suddenly she was totally bared to him, the jersey flung aside. She was grateful when he wrenched off his shirt and hurled that away, too. She could touch him then, entangle her searching fingers in the crisp dark hair curling on his chest, feel the loving, countering warmth of him.

Easily he lifted her, so that she was sitting on the edge of the sofa. Then, kneeling, he gently parted her knees, stroked the tingling, delicate flesh along her inner thighs. A primitive groan of surrender escaped her as he lifted one of her feet, and then the other, placing them so that the heels were braced on the sofa. This accomplished, he pressed on the insides of her knees until she was totally, beautifully vulnerable to him.

This time it was Mallory who drew back the sheltering veil, baring her mysterious, aching self to him. She cried out in throaty ecstasy when she felt his breath, pleaded raggedly until he took timeless sustenance at the waiting feast.

Her fingers entwined in his thick hair, her breath coming in tearing gasps, Mallory reveled in his hunger, in the warm strength of the hands holding her knees apart, so that she could not close herself to him. As his tongue began to savor her in long strokes, Mallory shuddered and gasped a plea and loosed her fingers from his hair to again spread the veiled place for his full satisfaction and her own.

Tremors, both physical and spiritual, rocked Mallory’s entire being as he brought her to a release so savage that she sobbed out his name. Quivering with molten aftershocks, she was too stricken to speak again, or even move.

“I love you,” he breathed against the moist smoothness of her inner thigh.

Finally, after at least a partial recovery of her senses, Mallory met his eyes. She did not need to speak to relay her message; she wanted to be filled with him, to sheathe him in the rippling, velvety warmth of her and hear his familiar, rasping cries of need and violent, soul-searing satisfaction.

Understanding, his eyes dark with a wanting to match Mallory’s own, Nathan moved back a foot or so, still kneeling on the floor, and moaned as his wife slid from the sofa’s edge to face him. He trembled, closed his eyes and tilted his head back as she opened his slacks to reveal his straining manhood. For the next several minutes, Mallory enjoyed his magnificence at her leisure, with her eyes, her fingers, her mouth. Her spirit soared at his words of tormented surrender.

In a smooth motion born of passion and desperation, Nathan grasped Mallory’s slender waist, lifted her easily and then lowered her onto the pulsing pillar that would make them each a part of the other.

They moved with a rhythm as old as time, increasing their pace as the swelling crescendo building within both of them demanded. When the explosion came, it rocked them, and they shouted their triumph in one voice.

They were still one person, still shuddering with their fierce mingling, when Cinnamon began to bark in the kitchen and they heard the back door open with a cautious creak. “Nathan!” called Eric Moore, the lead guitarist in Nathan’s band. “Hey, Nate—I know you’re in here somewhere! Mallory?”

Nathan cursed and scrambled to his feet. He was fully dressed again before Mallory had managed to wriggle back into the discarded football jersey.

“Stay where you are, Eric!” Nathan ordered in ominous tones as he strode out of the glittering, cluttered living room without so much as a backward glance. “And next time, knock, will you?”

Still sitting on the floor, Mallory cowered against the front of the sofa, trembling with resentment and a wild, inexplicable loneliness. The conversation taking place in the kitchen was couched in terse undertones, and she understood none of it. She sighed. Understanding the exact situation wasn’t really necessary anyway. The fact was that, once again, Nathan’s dynamic, demanding life was pulling him in another direction.

Mallory was thoroughly annoyed. She had been planning to give up her role in the soap opera in order to devote more time to a marriage she knew was failing. And all her efforts would mean nothing if Nathan could not or would not meet her halfway.

She stood up slowly, feeling hollow and broken inside. Was Diane really the threat she appeared to be sometimes, or was Nathan’s career his real mistress?

Mallory stooped to recover the toy kangaroo that had been one of Nathan’s gifts to her and then held it close. She could hold her own against a flesh-and-blood woman any time. But how could she compete with thousands of them? How could she hope to prevail against the tidal wave of adoration lavished upon Nathan McKendrick every time he sang his soul-wrenching compositions?

Still clutching the stuffed kangaroo, she sank to the sofa in dejected thought. Obviously the physical passion between her and her husband was as formidable as ever. Still, Mallory knew that a lasting marriage required more than sexual compatibility, more than romance.

She sensed, rather than saw or heard, Nathan’s return to the room. He stood behind her, and though Mallory knew he wanted to touch her, he refrained. His voice was a low rumble and caused tremors in Mallory’s heart like some kind of emotional earthquake.

“I’ve got to go to Angel Cove for a little while, Mallory,” he said. “Diane is doing one of her numbers again. Do you want to come with me?”

Mallory did not turn to face her husband; she simply shook her head.

“Babe—”

Mallory held up both hands. “No—I’m all right. Just go and straighten everything out.”

“We’ll talk when I get back,” he muttered, and Mallory could tell that he was already turning away. “Pumpkin, there is so much to say.”

Yes, Mallory thought, there is so much to say, and it is all so painful. “I’ll be here,” she said aloud, wishing that she could crawl inside the pouch of the toy kangaroo and hide there forever. “Nathan?” she whispered, on the off chance that he was still near enough to hear.

He was. “What?” he asked, somewhat hoarsely.

“I love you.”

He came to her then, bent, brushed her temple with his lips. A moment later, he was gone, and the glistening beauty of the decorated room was a mockery.

Mallory sat very still for a long time, absorbed by her own anguish and confusion. It was only the smell of burning turkey that brought her back to her senses.

She took Nathan’s awkward attempt at culinary competence from the oven before wandering into the bedroom to dress. When the telephone rang, she was standing in the kitchen, trying valiantly to salvage at least a portion of the incinerated fowl.

“Hello!” she snapped, certain that the caller meant to make yet another impossible demand on Nathan’s time.

“It’s me,” said Pat, Nathan’s sister, in a placating tone. “Mall, I’m sorry if I’m intruding—”

Mallory loved Pat, and regretted the tart way she’d spoken. “Pat,” she said gently. “No, you’re not intruding. It’s just—”

“That plenty of other people are,” Pat finished for her with quiet understanding.

“Right,” agreed Mallory, who had learned never to try to fool her astute sister-in-law. At twenty-two, Pat was young, but her mind was as formidable as Nathan’s. “Shall we start with the band, and progress to Diane Vincent, press agent extraordinaire?”

Pat sighed heavily. “Please,” she retorted. “I just ate.”

Suddenly, inexplicably, Mallory began to cry in the wrenching, heartbroken way she’d cried after losing her parents.

Pat drew in a sharp breath. “Mallory, honey, what is it? How can I help?”

The warmth in Pat’s voice only made Mallory sob harder. She felt stupid, but she couldn’t stop her tears, and she couldn’t manage an answer, either.

“Sit tight,” Pat said in brisk, take-charge tones. “I’m on my way.”

Mallory sank into one of the kitchen chairs and buried her face in her hands. The telephone receiver made an accusing clatter as it bounced against the wall.

It was a full fifteen minutes before Mallory regained her composure. When she had, she dashed away her tears, marched into the bathroom, ran a tubful of hot water and tried to wash away all the questions that tormented her.

Was Nathan’s casual dislike for Diane Vincent really part of some elaborate ruse designed to distract Mallory and everyone else from what was really taking place?

“Diane is doing one of her numbers again,” Nathan had said just before he dashed off to handle the situation.

Mallory slid down in the hot, scented water to her chin, watching the slow drip fall from the old-fashioned faucet. Diane wasn’t really the issue, she reminded herself. It was just easier to blame her, since she was so obligingly obnoxious in the first place.

Grimly, Mallory finished her bath and, wrapped in a towel, walked into the adjoining bedroom. As she rummaged through her drawers for clean clothes, she regretted not asking Pat to stop by the Penthouse for more of her things.

Once dressed in a pair of jeans and a soft yellow sweater, Mallory went to the bedroom window and pushed back the brightly colored cotton curtains to look outside. The snow was still falling, already filling the tracks left by Nathan’s car.

Mallory returned to the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair and apply a touch of makeup. Unless she was on camera, she needed nothing more than a dab of lip gloss. Her eyelashes were thick and dark, requiring no mascara, and, normally, because of her fondness for the outdoors, her cheeks had plenty of color. Now, staring at herself in the old mirror over the bathroom sink, Mallory saw the pallor that had so alarmed her friends and co-workers of late. Because she hadn’t brought blusher from the penthouse, she improvised by pinching her cheeks hard.

In the living room, the lights on Nathan’s Christmas tree were still blazing, and with a sigh, Mallory flipped the switch. The glorious tree was dark again, and the tinsel dangling from its branches whispered in a draft.

Mallory closed the door leading into the living room as she went out. The January Christmas was a private thing, and she did not want to share it with anyone other than Nathan—not even Pat.

In the kitchen, she sliced off a piece of turkey and gave it to an appreciative Cinnamon, but she had no appetite herself. She cleaned up the mess Nathan had left behind and put the half-charred bird into the refrigerator.