Tempest in Eden

ayon and stared blankly at her image in the mirror. "Mary must have been a very special person," Celia went on. "John said she was a precious girl. He said Ian adored her and nearly went mad when she died. She was—"

"Mother," Shay interrupted quickly, "will you excuse me for a minute? I'd like some time to myself."

Celia's chatter broke off, and she looked at Shay, perplexed. "But I wanted to help you dress," she said, hurt showing in her eyes.

"Oh, yes, certainly. I couldn't dress without you. I'll call you when I'm ready. I just need a few minutes alone. You understand. Please?"

"All right," Celia said, going to the door. "I'll be downstairs with Bishop Collins and John. Call when you need me." The door closed softly behind her.

Mary. Mary. Shay had all but forgotten Ian's late wife. Now the memory of their conversation came flooding back. He'd been angry, said he hadn't been intimate with any woman but his wife, said he'd loved her, hadn't remarried…

She jumped to her feet and, regardless of her skimpy, sheer attire, walked in stockinged feet down the hall to the door of Ian's room and knocked softly.

"Come on in, Dad," he called.

He was standing at a bureau with his knees bent in order to see into the mirror, brushing his hair. A tight pair of briefs were his only garment. His skin was glowing moistly from his recent shower. The hair dusting his legs and matting his chest was damp and curly. When Shay walked in, he dropped his hairbrush on the dressing table and rushed across the room, his face turning pale at her expression.

"What's the matter, Shay?"

"I have to talk to you."

He pulled her inside and closed the door. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. "About what?"

"Mary." She could tell by the sudden jumping motion of his dark brows that she'd surprised him. He swallowed hard. Her heart twisted painfully.

"What about her?"

"Everything. I want to know what she was like. How much you … how much you loved her. Everything."

"Shay," he said solicitously and raked the line of her jaw with his knuckles, "Mary has nothing to do with us."

"I want to know," she said with a trace of hysteria in her voice. "Now."

He looked intently into her dark eyes. "She was a sweet, lovely woman. Delicate, petite, soft-spoken. She played the piano."

Shay's heart sank to the bottom of her soul like a lead ball. Mary Douglas had been everything she wasn't, the perfect wife for a dedicated clergyman.

"How long were you married?" she whispered.

"Four years before she was killed." She nodded automatically, dazed. Ian shook her shoulders, and his fingers bit into her tender flesh. "Shay." When she didn't respond, he repeated her name more sharply until she focused her eyes on him. "I loved my wife. I grieved when I lost her. I missed her, but now I love you. Mary is my past and I remember it fondly, but it's over and will never come back. You're my present and my future."

She clutched his naked biceps with frantic hands. "Don't you see, Ian, that we can't go through with this. It's a mistake. I'm nothing like her."

"Absolutely. You're nothing like Mary." She felt the impact of his words like a stabbing dagger, but he went on before she could pull away. "She had none of your marvelous unpredictability. Her emotions weren't erratic and exciting to watch as yours are. She was serene and never expressed herself with fierce passion the way you do."

He closed his arms around her and drew her against the steely length of his body. His breath fanned her neck as he whispered urgently, "Yes, I loved her, Shay. But she was like a milky, polished opal whereas you're a mysterious topaz full of fire, with a thousand dazzling facets. I want us to spend the rest of our lives discovering each one."

He smothered her glad cry with lips that were hot and eager for hers. His tongue probed deeply as though he wanted to touch her soul to convince her of his consummate love.

"I love you, Shay, love you. With all that I am," he said as he tantalized her mouth with airy kisses and flicks of his capricious tongue.

"Ian, I love you so much that I get afraid."

"Never doubt that you aren't everything I want in a wife and in a woman."

The hands closing over her satin-covered derrière were testimony to that. Her arms locked behind his waist as he pressed her against the rigid proof of his love. Like malleable clay, her body conformed to it and harbored it between her thighs. Their heavy sighs of longing harmonized above them only a thudding heartbeat before someone knocked on the door.

"Ian," Bishop Collins said, coming through the door, "you'd better hurry or your bride—" He fell silent when he saw them.