At last she rose from the table, blew out about half the candles, then extended one hand to him. "Dance with me?"

Her fingers were so slender, her hand so delicate. She was delicate, for all that she was also strong and capable. He could crush her, could overpower her, but he could never defeat her or bend her to his will. He could never make her see reason.

There wasn't a great deal of space in her dining room, but the kind of dancing they did didn't require much space. He drew her into his arms, found himself holding nothing but scraps of silky fabric and expanses of velvety skin, and swallowed back a low groan. She was so soft, so warm, and fitted so perfectly against him. He wanted to sweep her up and carry her to her bedroom, and at the same time he wanted to stay like this forever.

But they didn't have forever. All Holly believed in was the present. She wasn't looking for Mr. Right, she liked to tease, but Mr. Right Now, and the only thing he wanted less to be to her than right now was never.

The music she'd chosen was older than either of them-lush tunes, big bands, Ella Fitzgerald, songs about love won, lost, betrayed. He held her against him, closer than close, and stroked her back, her sides, all the way down to the edge of the skirt. He made her shiver, sigh, and raise her head from his shoulder to kiss his throat, then his jaw, then finally his mouth.

Boldly she thrust her tongue inside, and he let her tease, probe, taste, before he took control from her. His kiss was hotter, greedier, damn near desperate, and it brought her onto her toes, making her press harder against him, cling to him as if, dammit, she did need him. At some point they stopped dancing, though the music continued, and focused instead on the sensations of touching each other, rubbing, creating heat and friction. He felt her fingers at his throat, fumbling open his shirt buttons all the way to the waistband of his trousers. There she stopped and slid her hands inside his shirt, her delicate hands caressing, restlessly exploring. He wanted to grab her wrist and guide her fingers to exactly the place where he needed her touch, but to do so he would have to give up his own explorations. She would find her way there soon enough ... if he lasted. If he didn't strip off his clothes and that nothing little dress first. He'd waited so long ... wanted so much ... needed so badly...

Freeing his mouth from hers, he left a line of kisses down her throat, then followed the deep slash of the fabric to the hollow between her breasts. For a moment he groped with the fastening at her neck, then gave up and impatiently brushed the material aside. Her breast was rounded and soft, a seductive contrast to the hard, swollen peak of her nipple. He dragged his tongue slowly across it and made her gasp, sucked it between his teeth and made her groan. Sliding her fingers into his hair, she held him tighter for a moment, then reluctantly pushed him away.

"You're killing me," she whispered, her voice as taut as his muscles. "Please tell me you're going to stay. Please say"-he slid his hand inside the bodice to toy with her other breast, and she caught her breath-"say we d-don't have to wait."

"Make your choice, quick-the dining table or your bed."

Surprise crossed her face, followed immediately by relief. Catching his hands, she pulled them from her could, pressed a kiss to each palm, then clasped them tightly in hers. "We'll try the table later," she said as she started down the hall. "But right now..." Glancing over her shoulder, she gave him a sensual-as-hell smile that sent a shock of lust through him and made him throb. "Right now I want you in my bed."

Chapter 17.

T he bedroom was shadowy, lit only by the light that came through the doorway. Holly walked to her bed, perched on the edge of it, and removed first one strappy black heel, then the other. Standing again, she peeled off the sheer black hose that were all she wore beneath the dress, then raised her hands to the clasp on the straps.

Tom stopped her, not with words but with his hands. He pushed hers away, turned her so her back was to him, and brushed the lightest of kisses to her neck, raising goose bumps all down her spine, weakening her so that her head fell forward. For a time he lingered there, kissing her, touching her skin as if it were a new and different experience. When her breathing had become shallow and heavy, he finally turned his attention to the straps, unhooking them, letting them fall, letting his hands follow their path. His hands were cupping her bare breasts, his erection pressing against her bottom, when he nuzzled her ear, then murmured, "Look at us, Holly. You are so damned beautiful."

Though it required effort, she raised her head and caught sight of their reflection in the mirror across the room. Light from the hallway fell across them in a wedge, showing his hands on her breasts, his fingers dark against her pale skin. It was an erotic sight-Tom fully clothed while her dress bunched around her hips, just waiting for the chance to fall. It was damned tormenting, watching him pinch her nipples and feeling the sting turn to pleasure between her thighs.

She watched in the mirror as his hands slid together over her midriff, her navel, her abdomen, then slowly guided her dress down. At the last instant before it fell, she raised her gaze to his face, saw the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile, saw the smile turn wicked as he touched her most intimately. She sank against him, her head on his shoulder, her muscles trembling uncontrollably. She spoke his name in a whisper. A plea.

"What do you want?" he asked in her ear, his voice rough and hoarse. "What do you want me to do?"

From somewhere she found the strength to turn, to twine one arm around his neck, to slide her other hand over fine cotton and finer skin, over soft fabric and hard flesh. The powerful proof of his desire eased her own weakness, took the raw edge from her voice, and replaced it with greedy demand. "I want you inside me. I want you to make love to me. Make me forget my name. Make me forget the game."

He released her to undress, and she helped, or maybe hindered, judging by his curses as she carefully unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, then painstakingly guided them over his erection. Once he was naked, he laid her back on the bed, followed her down, settled between her thighs ... and kissed her-a sweet, innocent, gentle kiss. It surprised her, stunned her, brought a tear to her eyes. It made her breath catch and her heart ache, and it filled her with delight. She'd never felt so wanted, so needy, so connected to another person-and all because of one gentle kiss and one incredible man.

He pushed inside her, stretching her, filling her, and he continued to kiss her-hungry little bites, deep possessive claimings, tender tastes. His hands were never still, stroking, caressing, coaxing. As his thrusts quickened and his breathing grew harsher, she felt as if she were going to explode into a million pieces, but this time she didn't run away. She welcomed the release, the shattering, the rush of emotion. She welcomed the sensation of being overwhelmed, of bursting apart, of slowly, gradually, coming back together. It was amazing, something she'd never experienced before, something more than just two people coming together to spontaneously combust. Exactly how much more-love?-didn't even scare her. It was that incredible.

Recovering from his own release, he rested his forehead against hers for a moment, then dragged in a shaky breath. "Do you remember your name?"

"Hmm. Holly. Do you?"

He kissed between her eyes, one cheek, the corner of her mouth. "John Thomas Flynn, at your service."

She stroked his hair back from his damp forehead, slid her palms over his sweat-slick skin. "John Thomas," she repeated. "That's a good Irish Catholic name. And look how I've corrupted you."

"No, darlin'. You've either saved me ... or destroyed me."

She must have looked startled, because he grinned and thrust once deep inside her. "It's quite possible you've ruined me for other women. I've never had it feel like that in my life. We are ..."

When he shrugged, she tentatively, gently, laid her palms against his face. "I know," she whispered, her chest growing tight again.

Leaning forward, he kissed her, nibbling her full lower lip before sliding his tongue into her mouth. Sensation built quickly, spreading through her, burning hotter, until she couldn't remain still one moment longer. She moved restlessly underneath him, thrusting her hips against his, clenching the muscles deep within her could where she sheltered him. His response was also quick, and hard and powerful, and promised such pleasure.

Such soul-deep pleasure.

* * * Sometime later, Tom eased away from a sleeping Holly, slipped from the bed, and crossed the hall to the dining room, where he blew out the first candle he came to. As a thin stream of smoke uncurled from the wick and drifted to the ceiling, he remembered his birthday dinner at Ross and Maggie's. What's the use of a birthday, she'd asked, if you don't get to wish for your heart's desire? He hadn't made a wish. A few short weeks ago, he hadn't had a heart's desire. The only thing he'd wanted was a wife, and his reasons had had nothing to do with his heart or with desire.

He should have made the wish. Should have asked for divine help. Should have gotten down on his knees and begged. But it was too late now.

He blew out the rest of the candles, turned off the chandelier, then went into the living room to shut off the stereo. For a moment he stood in the darkness, breathing, smelling, feeling. Then, with a sudden chill, he returned to the bedroom, to Holly. She lay on her side, facing the window, and when he slid under the covers behind her, she scooted back, fitting the curves and angles of her could to his, sharing her warmth with him. He slid his arm over her, sought and found her breast, then pressed a kiss to her neck.

"I love you, Holly." He didn't say it in a whisper or a murmur, didn't get swept up in a moment of passion, but offered it as a quiet, firm statement of truth. She might never trust him, might never believe it was true, but he knew. At the moment, that was the best he could ask for.

* * * Holly awakened Tuesday morning with the most incredible sense of wellbeing-and the most erotic memories. Keeping her eyes squeezed shut against the sun, she rolled onto her back and felt various aches that merely made her smile. Her mother had tried to tell her that there was a difference between making love and having sex. With less eloquent words, so had Tom, and she'd even suspected it herself, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it.

Quite simply, it had been amazing. More intimate, intense, satisfying, and important than ever before. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel a little dirty or a lot used. She didn't feel as if she'd given herself away cheaply. For the first time in her life, the act of sex mattered, because Tom mattered. Because she...

Silently she formed the word she rarely said aloud. It flowed, all soft sounds to match soft emotions. Love. Somehow, despite her best efforts to the contrary, she'd fallen in love with him. Sort of. More or less.

Oh, hell. She covered her face with both hands. She was such a coward. The idea of loving anyone scared her to death. She had nothing to offer anyone, nothing to make them love her back. What could she possibly offer Tom?

She didn't have to offer him anything, a little voice whispered in her head. He'd already said that he loved her. Last night. Right there in that very bed. He'd made love to her as if she were the most important thing in his life, and he'd told her he loved her. He'd said it. Clearly. Confidently.

Not that men couldn't lie. The boys and young men who'd broken her heart had lied. Some had accepted it as the price of admission. A few kisses, a few caresses, Of course I love you, and they scored, then forgot all about her, except to brag to other boys and young men.

But Tom had no reason to lie. For one thing, he'd said it after they were finished, not before. For another, there'd been no reason for him to coax her into bed with pretty words. She had always been ready and willing. She'd just been waiting for him.

But he hadn't waited for her to wake up. Even though she hadn't opened her eyes yet, she knew he was gone, knew if she stretched her arm across where he had lain, the sheets would be cold. He hadn't awakened her for a repeat performance. He hadn't stuck around to face her the morning after.

Hating the insecurities, she opened her eyes. The bed was most definitely empty. His clothes were gone, and her dress had been hung over the back of a chair. Her heels stood upright, side by side, underneath the chair. A passionate lover, and a neat one, too, she thought, but couldn't manage a smile. What she was calling neatness could be a desire on his part to erase any trace that he'd been there.

Leaving her bed, she got ready for the day as if it were any other day. She didn't rush her shower, took her usual time selecting a dress, applied her makeup, fixed her hair, and chose her jewelry with as much care as always. When she was finally ready to leave the apartment, it was after nine o'clock . Just a few hours later than her usual morning.

She checked in with the kitchen staff, then strolled down the hall to the registration desk. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Emilie replied. "You look lovelier than usual today."

"Why, thank you. I feel better than usual. Do you happen to know if Tom's left for the office yet?"

Emilie looked at her for a moment, then behind her. Holly turned to find Bree standing there, looking like a deer caught in headlights. The girl swallowed hard and shifted as if she might take flight. "What's up, Bree?"

"I-I don't know. He, uh, left"-she guiltily cleared her throat-"about five-thirty. I couldn't sleep, so I was sitting out here, watching the fire, and he-he came downstairs, and I don't think he was going to the office here in town because I, uh..." With a deep breath, she rushed it out: "I helped him carry all his luggage to the car."

Holly stared at her, not sure her voice would work, whether it would sound even halfway normal. "Was there some emergency? Did he get a call?"

Bree shook her head.

"All of his luggage?"

"Everything."

"Did he say anything?"

"H-he told me to ... to take care of you. That was all."

As brush-offs went, it was pretty weak, but then, Tom had never been great at ending affairs. He'd sent her red roses and gorgeous orchids, and made love to her as if she'd mattered more than anything. He'd told her he loved her.

And then he'd left her.

One time with you isn't going to be enough. A hun dred times won't be, he'd told her.

Liar. He was a liar, and she was a fool. She'd known better than to trust him. Everything in her life had taught her not to believe him. Everything in her heart...

"Holly? Are you okay?"

She gave Emilie a sharp look. "Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"Because you're crying."

She raised one hand to her face and felt the dampness that streaked her cheek. Angrily she wiped her tears. "I'm not crying. I'm just..." Unable to think of an explanation, she spun on her heel and returned to her apartment. Where his cologne lingered in the air. Where the dishes from their dinner still sat on the table. Where the flowers he'd given her still looked beautiful in their vases.

She wanted to hurt someone, to smash something to pieces. She picked up the vase of roses, went outside, and took great pleasure in hurling the vase to the sidewalk. Green glass shattered across the path, and twenty-four red roses scattered in a tangle of stems and leaves. She ground the flowers under her heel until they were bruised and broken and ugly, but that wasn't enough. She needed more.

Returning to her dining room, she got the orchid vase and stalked back to the front porch. She raised the vase above her head- But stronger hands snatched it away. "This vase is an irreplaceable antique," Bree admonished. "If you're going to insist on breaking things, give me a half hour to go to the store for cheap glassware."

Holly glared at her and saw little more than a blur. "Angry," she said coldly, precisely. "I'm not crying. I'm just angry."

For a moment Bree gazed at her, sympathy in her eyes. Then she moved the vase to her left arm and opened her other arm wide. "I know," she said softly. "Sometimes I have to get angry, too. Why don't you come over here and be angry on my shoulder?"

Holly hadn't had a shoulder to cry on for so long. God knows, Margery had never been there for her. Her friends? She couldn't cry in front of them. She had a reputation to maintain, in her own eyes even if in no one else's.

But Bree was family. If a woman couldn't go crying to her sister, where could she go?

She took two steps and Bree took three, wrapping her arm around Holly's shoulders, pulling her close as the tears flowed. Bree patted her back and stroked her hair and murmured things like, "It's okay," and "Let it all out."

When the tears dried, her eyes were puffy, her nose was stuffy, and her heart was still breaking.

"If it's any consolation, he looked pretty upset when he left."

As she moved away from Bree to lean against the railing, Holly tamped down the bit of hope that flared. "Why would he be upset? He got what he wanted, and he left."

"You agreed to marry him?"

"No. He got-" She discarded the first words that came to mind as certainly applicable but too vulgar, and said instead, "He got laid. And now he's gone."

"But ... he wanted to marry you."

Holly shook her head stubbornly. "That was what he said. But it wasn't what he was after."

"But, Holly, that doesn't make any sense. You would have slept with him months ago. He knew that. The whole town knew it. If that was all he wanted, why would he say no for months? Why would he ask you to marry him? Why would he move here and buy you that fabulous necklace and an engagement ring if all he wanted was sex?"

It didn't make sense, any of it. Especially the part where he'd said he loved her. Everyone knew Tom Flynn was a coldhearted bastard incapable of loving anyone. Everyone knew she was promiscuous and easy and undeserving of love. None of it made any sense at all, least of all the fact that she'd fallen in love with him.

"I think you should go to Buffalo ."

She shook her head again. When she was fifteen and the boy she'd finally had sex with had begun avoiding her, she'd confronted him at school one day. He'd fidgeted and stared at his shoes and hemmed and hawed before finally admitting that she was too easy. When she was seventeen, the most popular boy in school had stopped by unexpectedly one evening. He'd told her how pretty she was and how much he liked her, and he'd talked about asking her to the prom. After doing the deed in the backseat of his car, he'd gone to school the next day and asked the head cheerleader to the prom. Not having learned her lesson the first time, Holly had confronted him, too. He'd been more than happy to tell her- in front of his friends, no less-that all he'd wanted from her was sex, that he would never go out on an actual date with a girl with her reputation.

Humiliated and ashamed, she'd learned the lesson well. Never question a man who'd had sex with her, then dumped her. Not even when he'd promised he would never, ever do that. Not even when he'd said he loved her. Especially not when he'd said he loved her.

"You can't just let it end this way," Bree insisted.

Holly smiled bleakly. "This is the way all my attempts at relationships end. That's why I only have affairs. That's why I never give a damn about any man."

"You love Tom."

"I don't even know Tom." She'd never imagined that he was a liar, a schemer, a betrayer. She'd never thought he was the sort of man who could listen to some of her most painful memories, assure her that he was different, and then do exactly the same thing to her. She'd never dreamed he had a cruel streak like that.

They both fell silent, Holly leaning against the railing, Bree hugging the vase of orchids as if it were precious.

Last night it had been.

Tilting back her head, Holly looked at the sunny sky and thought of the things she needed to do-fix her makeup, get to the office, take care of the usual one hundred and one chores. But when she moved, it wasn't to go to work. Instead she took a seat on the swing at one end, then clasped her hands between her knees. "Why don't you put the orchids inside, then grab a couple of blankets out of the hall closet?"

With a nod, Bree disappeared. She came back moments later carrying the same thick comforter Tom had brought out Saturday night. Holly blinked away the tears spurred by the memory as Bree spread it over them both.

As the warmth began to spread through her, Holly asked, "How long have you known about me?"

"Always. There were pictures of you in our house, and Daddy talked about you a lot. He promised that we would meet someday, that he would bring you to Rochester or take me to Bethlehem ." Bree's smile was fleeting. "I was too little to understand why it never happened. All I knew was that when I lost my father, I also lost my sister."

"I never suspected a thing. I was twenty-two when he died, and I never had a clue he was such a damn good liar."

"Don't. He was a good man, Holly."

"Oh, yeah. The best. The world needs more like him."

"He loved you."

Holly glanced at her. "Did he? He chose to spend half his life away from me. He chose to have another family that excluded me. He couldn't bear being around my mother himself, but he had no problem leaving me with her. Is that how you define love?"

Bree's mouth turned down at the corners because she couldn't give the answer she wanted. Then she turned sideways to face Holly. "He used to tell me bedtime stories about how life would be if it were perfect. We would all live here in Bethlehem -him and Mom, you and me, and some dogs, cats, and horses. Every day in the summer we would have picnics at Holly's Lake , and every weekend in winter we would go ice skating. We'd go to church together, and when it snowed, we would make a snow-father, a snow-mother, and two snow-sisters, and we would never want for anything. Life would be perfect."

Holly's smile was regretful. Life had never been perfect for Lewis-or, thanks to him, for her and Bree. Maybe Bree stood a chance-she was still so young-but Holly feared her best chance for a wonderful life had left town that morning, and she didn't think he intended to come back.