Home Again

She wanted to answer, but the words tangled in the thickness in her throat and wouldn’t come out. And then he was holding her, kissing her so passionately, the world began to spin. She clung to him, loving him so much that the emotion was a sharp pain in her chest.

He pulled slightly away. His breathing was ragged and shallow as he rested his lips against her cheek. “Say it, Mad, say it before I rip the house apart.”

She drew back, laughing. It would always be this way with him, she realized. He would always be able to rattle her senses and confuse her, and he would always demand things in that arrogant, selfish way of his, as if the world owed him everything. And he would always be the one person in the world she wanted to sit on this sofa with. “I love you, Angel DeMarco. And if you take that lightly again, I’ll—”

He covered her mouth with his, whispering, “Never.”

He kissed her until she was breathless. Then, with a suddenness that should have surprised her, but didn’t, he lurched to his feet and dragged her into the center of the living room.

“Stand there,” he ordered.

She protested and he ignored her. Instead, he went around and flicked off all the lights, until the room was completely dark except for the glowing red of the firelight and the sparkling gold and white of the Christmas tree. “Close your eyes.”

She couldn’t help laughing. “It’s a little pointless, don’t you think? The room is dark.”

“Doctors,” he said with mock disgust. “Just close your eyes.”

Grinning, she complied. “I’m getting the feeling you’re not used to dating career women.”

She heard him chuckle. “Most of my women had the IQ of field mice. Now, keep your eyes closed.”

“And the bodies of Playboy bunnies,” Madelaine muttered under her breath.

She stood there, eyes closed, arms crossed, trying to figure out what he was doing. She heard the front door open, then close. She listened and knew he was no longer in the house. She thought about peeking and decided it would be no fun.

In the distance she heard a car door open and close; a few seconds later, her front door shut again. He dragged something—a chair—across the hardwood floor. Wood creaked and groaned, and she thought he was climbing onto the chair. Then he pushed it back across the floor.

“Okay now, don’t look,” he said again, and she heard him walking toward her.

She felt him come up close, so close she could smell the musky tang of his aftershave and feel the moist heat of his breath on her forehead. He started to unbutton her sweater.

She kept her eyes shut by sheer force of will. He didn’t say anything, didn’t touch her anywhere except on the sweater, unpopping each button. Then he peeled the sweater off, his palms dragging sensually across her bare shoulders.

Cool air swept across her flesh, sent goose bumps scurrying down her arms.

She heard his bones creak as he knelt in front of her. He unhooked her leather belt and let it dangle, then he unbuttoned the waistband and slowly, slowly, lowered the zipper. She felt his fingertips brushing against her belly.

Her pants fell to the floor. His hands formed to her thighs, branding her with their heat, then moved up, up her legs, dipped in at her waist, and kept moving up toward her breasts. At the last second his touch moved to her back and he unhooked her bra, let it fall to the floor with the pants.

She tried to imagine herself as he saw her now, standing there in the middle of her living room, lit only by the soft gold of firelight, wearing nothing but white underwear and black knee socks. It was amazingly erotic, fantasizing about how she looked, about how he saw her.

She waited breathlessly for him to touch her. Her skin seemed to tighten in anticipation, her heartbeat sped up. But he didn’t touch her; instead, he slipped something silky and slippery over her head. She knew it was a gown—maybe a nightgown—that hugged her every curve and fell all the way to the floor. The silk felt whispery and delicious against her bare skin.

He moved away from her, and she felt a flutter of frustration. “Angel,” she said, wanting him back, aching

for his touch.

There was an electronic click, and music came on. The slow, romantic voice of Dan Fogelberg drifted through the room. “Longer.” She recognized the song instantly, and she smiled at the sheer romance of it.

“Open your eyes,” Angel said, and she realized that he was right in front of her. Smiling, she opened her eyes.

He was wearing a gorgeous black tuxedo—and he looked stunningly handsome. He’d dressed her in an elegant black silk sheath dress that was so sexy and daring, she’d never have bought it for herself. She started to reach for him, to throw her arms around him and kiss him, then she noticed everything else he’d done and her breath caught in her throat.

There was a huge, mirrored ball hanging from the chandelier above the dining room table. Each little square of glass caught the candlelight and threw beads of light across the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

He’d created a high school prom in her living room.

“Oh, my,” was all she could think of to say. It was such a wild and crazy and romantic thing to do—so totally Angel.