Another Man's Child

She saw the look in Oliver’s eyes change, recognized the intentness of his gaze. Dazed, she watched his head lower and knew only that she wanted him to move closer, that nothing had felt so right in years.

Still, she was shocked by the first touch of his lips, by the warm connected feel of a man’s mouth against her own, caressing her own. It had been so long. Too long.

Unable to deny him, to deny herself, Beth parted her lips to his. Her heart beat a passionate tattoo, and her belly flooded with wanting. Losing every ounce of the maturity of her thirty-eight years, she felt like a teenager again.

She gave kiss for kiss, clinging to

him as he caressed her back with sure hands. Her senses swam with the taste of him, the bristly feel of his beard against her skin, his musky scent.

She wasn’t ready when he slowly pulled back from her.

“I’m not going to apologize,” he said, looking into her eyes, desire smoldering in his.

Beth melted under that gaze, felt cherished and alive. She wanted to lean her head against him again, but wasn’t sure she should.

She shook her head, instead, bringing herself back to reality. “You don’t have to apologize,” she said, surprised to hear how breathless she sounded. “I needed comfort. You offered it.” She told herself that was all it had been. That was all it could be. They’d both already given their hearts—to someone else.

“And I’m almost old enough to be your father,” Oliver said, setting her away from him. “I can assure you, Beth, it won’t happen again.”

Beth nodded, glad for the reassurance. He was her friend’s father. And she loved John. The feelings Oliver had evoked in her were just an outcropping of her longing for her dead husband. A natural emanation of her emotional neediness.

And his. Because as much as she missed her John, he missed his Barbara, too.

THE DAYS GREW SHORTER. Thanksgiving arrived, a quiet affair spent with Marcus and her father, eating out at the country club as Marcus’s family had always done. Beth spent the day with her cousin in upstate Connecticut.

Willie Adams took his first steps the day after Thanksgiving, well on his way to recovery; but when she ran over to share the good news with Beth, her friend seemed almost distant, as she’d been ever since the anniversary of John’s death. Lisa had tried to reach her all day that Sunday, knowing how difficult the anniversary was for Beth. But to no avail. When she’d asked Beth about it afterward, Beth had been evasive.

Lisa was thrilled about the changes in her body, evidence of the baby growing inside her. She’d tried to set up a dinner date alone with her father, needing to gloat over her progress with the only other family member who cared to hear about it, but Oliver was unusually busy, unable even to meet her for lunch. She’d had to satisfy herself with a shared coffee break at Yale the afternoon after Thanksgiving, and then only because she’d shown up at his office unannounced.

She was no longer on call at the hospital, agreeing with Debbie Crutchfield that it would be much healthier for her baby if she got her full night’s rest. Nevertheless, she missed the excitement of administering emergency aid.

And then there was Marcus. The man made her happier—and sadder—than she’d ever been in her life. He also infuriated her, frustrated her and sometimes just plain made her laugh. He’d become a mother hen, watching her every move, denying her even the simple privilege of rinsing the dishes with him, insisting, instead, that she sit at the table while he did the task himself. He monitored every bite she ate, which meant her occasional hamburger and french-fry binges had to happen during the workday when she was usually too rushed to savor them. And he locked the doors and turned off the lights at nine-thirty every night to ensure she got her sleep.

She hated the unnecessary inactivity he was forcing on her, but she loved the attention he was giving her, or rather, giving her pregnancy. If only he’d be as attentive to her other needs. Because each night, after he saw her settled into bed, he went back downstairs to the office to work, sometimes not coming to bed until the early hours of the morning. Many nights Lisa lay there alone, awake, waiting for him to finally join her, her body taut with need, wanting nothing more than to feel her lover’s arms around her, his body hard and demanding inside hers.

But she waited in vain. Marcus always eventually climbed in beside her, but he never took her in his arms. Other than the chaste kisses he gave her when he left her in the morning and returned home at night, he didn’t touch her at all.

In the old days she’d have talked to him about it, just as she’d have argued with him about most of the constraints he was putting on her activities. Now she was just so damn grateful that he was taking any interest at all that she kept her dissatisfaction to herself. She was afraid to rock the boat, afraid that she’d push him right out the door again. And that the next time he wouldn’t be back.

She missed his friendship most of all.

Lisa stumbled getting up from the kitchen table the night after Thanksgiving. Marcus’s arms shot out, catching her against him, and her senses flamed. She wanted him so desperately she was almost embarrassed by her need. Rather than stifling her desires, pregnancy seemed to have heightened them. The instant hardening of Marcus’s body told her in no uncertain terms that he still wanted her, too.

Acting purely on instinct, Lisa moved against him, silently inviting him to make love to her. It had been so long.

He pushed her away.

“I have work to do,” he said, retreating to the office.

Only the fact that he’d left the dishes for her to rinse told her she hadn’t just imagined his shudder of desire. For some reason, Marcus was denying himself something he wanted as badly as she did. He’d had to run away to stop himself for taking her up on her unspoken invitation. But the knowledge did little to ease the ache inside her.

“WHEN’S YOUR NEXT doctor’s appointment?” Marcus asked the following night over dinner. They were at their favorite pizza parlor, sharing a cheeseless pizza, because Marcus said cheese had too much fat.

Lisa froze, her slice of pizza six inches from her mouth. “Why?” she asked, remembering his reaction the last time she’d had an appointment.

“I think I ought to accompany you.”

Excitement spun through her. “You’re sure?” she asked him. They’d had a wonderful day aboard the Sara, although it was too cold to take her out for a sail—and too dangerous, according to Marcus, for Lisa. They’d spent the day bundled up in sweaters and jeans, picnicking and playing cards in the cabin down below, almost as if nothing had ever come between them.