True Colors Read online

  He would have done that. Despite his raging need, she knew all she had to do was ask. He was the most considerate lover she could ever have imagined. If he'd loved her, every time would have been exquisite.

  "No," she said softly. "It's all right now." She lifted her hips experimentally and grimaced as she felt him begin to fill her completely. But she didn't draw back. She arched, pushing, and heard his involuntary gasp of pleasure when she took him completely. Before Blake was born, she'd never been able to do that.

  "Never," he ground out. "Never like this. Never !"

  Her unexpected movement startled him into a quick, mindless drive for satisfaction, his body corded, in agony. He began to move convulsively, his hoarse apology like a litany in her ears as the springs creaked noisily beneath his formidable weight and the helpless rhythm of his hungry body. He grabbed the iron headrail and held on for dear life as he drove for fulfillment, blind, deaf, and dumb to anything except the agony of his need.

  Meredith lay quietly, watching him, glorying in his tormented expression, in the sudden still arch of his body before it convulsed in a throbbing rhythm that was echoed in the hoarse groans that tore out of his throat.

  Even at that blind moment, he suddenly jerked back and upward, so that he spared her the risk of pregnancy. Amazing, she thought, watching him, that he could manage that.

  He dropped onto her damp body seconds later, shuddering in the aftermath, wet all over with the sweat of his passionate exertion. "You didn't have time," he whispered at her ear. "I'm sorry."

  She didn't answer him. It had always been like that. His need of her reached through all barriers, until he was out of his mind. But he always made it up to her, and that was why she smiled. He had remarkable stamina and he was generous.

  Sure enough, seconds later, she felt the slow, delicate touch of his mouth moving down to her breasts. He brushed them with kisses, teasing them lazily until her nipples went rigid. He nibbled and touched and kissed them until he built her hunger back to fever pitch. All the time, his hand was easing its way between her soft thighs, wickedly expert as it found the very core of her femininity and kindled it to a flame so high that she cried out.

  The first tremors were already working up her spine when she felt him shift his weight over her. She gripped his arms hard and her eyes opened just as he went into her with one hard, fierce thrust.

  The predatory smile on his hard lips blurred into fire as he moved and then moved again. She clung to him, her breath stuck in the back of her throat as she echoed the piston movement of his hips, reaching blindly for fulfillment. It came like a lightning bolt, lifting her, killing her with its hot pleasure.

  She arched into him with a sound that she hadn't made since her last time with him, crying out as the painful ecstasy corded her muscles into unbearable tension and suddenly snapped them like a rubber band.

  She wept all the way back down, piteous tears that recognized the brevity of nirvana, the black anguish of losing him again, the pain of all the years without this

  He was smoking a cigarette when she opened her eyes. He had one knee drawn up, the sheet lightly over his hips, and he was staring blankly into space. She tugged the sheet over her swollen, red-marked breasts and sat up. She felt cheap and easy, having given in to him without even a struggle.

  "You aren't on the Pill, are you?" he asked.

  "No," she replied. "I haven't needed to be, for a long time."

  "So I noticed." He glanced down at her, suddenly ripping the sheet from her hands so that he could see the faint marks of passion that he'd left on her silky body. His face hardened and his eye went dark with memory. "I kept from making you pregnant, this time," he said. "I can't promise to hold back again. I'll make sure I have something with me from now on."

  "Are all your other women protected?" she asked with cold pride.

  He laughed shortly and threw the sheet over her again before he got to his feet and started dressing. "These days, women are more liberated than men," he said. "I don't have to worry about precautions, as a rule." He looked down at her. "Not that I probably needed to resort to them with you. You never got pregnant by me, and we never used a damned thing in the old days."

  No, they hadn't. But she didn't reply. She fiddled with the sheet and pushed back her disheveled hair to keep from answering him.

  "You could be barren," he remarked, and hated the statement the second it was out. Why it should bother him, he didn't understand.

  "Yes, I suppose so," Meredith replied, enjoying an ironic joke she couldn't share with him.

  "All the same, I don't want to take chances. I don't want children."

  She looked up as he buttoned his shirt. "Never?" she asked hesitantly.

  Dressed now, he picked up his cigarette and drew hard on it. "Children mean commitment. I told you a long time ago that commitment wasn't something I wanted."

  "I remember," she said, averting her eyes. Well, what had she expected, that he'd changed in six years? It was certainly a forlorn hope, judging from today's performance.

  "And apparently you don't want it, either," he persisted. "You've never married."

  She had, but now wasn't the time to admit it. "I like my own company."

  "Do you?" He chuckled harshly. Part of him was ecstatic that she still wanted him, that her body betrayed the length of time it had been without sex. But another part hated the ease of her submission, hated the way his own body had reacted to hers. He couldn't control himself with her. He lost his edge. He was like a young boy, and it made him doubt his own manhood.

  "Now that you've gotten what you came for, why don't you go home?" she asked quietly.

  He finished the cigarette. "I might as well. I thought you were going to feed me."

  "I don't feel like eating."

  "You always used to, after we made love," he recalled, watching her through narrowed eyes. "It gave you an appetite."

  "That was long ago," she said.

  He put out the cigarette in an ashtray. "Well, if you've had men in all that time, they haven't left much impression on you," he said, remembering angrily what she'd said about the man who'd loved her. His eyes looked straight into hers. "You were starving to death for me."

  "That works both ways, doesn't it?" she asked with icy poise. "You couldn't even hold back the first time!"

  His face went rigid. He didn't say another word. He jerked up his hat and slammed out the front door, leaving Meredith sprawled on the bed.

  "So much for you, big man," she told the empty room. "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen."

  She got up and took a long shower, trying to wash off the scent of him, the feel of his hands on her. But it was hopeless, because the memories couldn't be washed away. He still hated the thought of marriage, and he wanted no part of children. She hadn't expected anything else, but it hurt all the same. He had a beautiful son. Now she wondered how he was going to react when he found out about Blake, because inevitably he was going to.

  What bothered her most was the way she'd given in to him. Now, without a doubt, he was going to expect that easy submission. He was going to try to use her all over again, trade on her need of him. Well, she'd soon put that false notion to rest, she told herself. Even if it cut her to the quick to give up the ecstasy only he could give her, all over again.

  He was at the restaurant the next morning as she went to work. His eyes watched her with smug possession, and memories of the day before lay open in his face. Apparently he'd forgiven her parting shot, because it wasn't dislike that flamed in his eyes when he looked at her. It was desire, hot and urgent.

  She presented him with a menu and her customary smile. "Good morning, Cy. May I take your order, or would you like a few minutes to study the menu?"

  "I'd rather have you again than anything that's on the menu," he murmured.

  "I can recommend the country ham," she said politely, ignoring the innuendo. "And the coffee is fresh. Shall I get you a cup?"

  He
sighed angrily. So that was how she was going to play it. He handed her back the menu. "Yes, bring me a cup of coffee. And I'll have bacon, eggs and toast."

  "Yes, sir, coming up."

  She served it minutes later, having made him wait for the coffee. He was irritated, and it showed. He complained about everything, even the strength of the coffee. But Meredith was polite and courteous, and not much more.

  He left without a backward glance. And, she noticed, without a tip. She smiled with wicked glee and went back to work.

  That night she called home and talked to Mr. Smith and Blake, leaving a message for Don about a letter she'd received. She missed home, especially after what had happened with Cy. She wanted to run, but she couldn't. She was committed.

  The knock on the door wasn't really surprising. She'd expected that Cy might try to wear her down after hours. She let him in, frowning as he produced a huge designer box from under one arm and tossed it on the couch.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "Something for you. I'm taking you to a charity ball tomorrow night."

  He was not, because Mr. Smith was going to fly down with some urgent contracts tomorrow afternoon. But she couldn't very well explain that.

  She opened the box and her face went white as she saw the kind of dress he'd bought her. It was a flaming cherry red, sequined, with hardly a bodice, no back, and a long side slit. Just the dress a man might buy for his mistress, but not at all the sort he'd give any woman he really cared about.

  "Is that a message?" she asked, turning to face him.

  His eyes ranged down her ragged sweatshirt and jeans and back up to her eyes. She looked worn, as if her job were killing her. Not that it could be, he assured himself. After all, she was only waiting tables.

  He didn't know what she was doing after hours. She was glad she had the fax machine and her computer, printer, files, and mail in the library she used as an office and that she'd locked it when she heard the car drive up.

  "The dress, you mean?" he asked. "It's just a dress."

  "It's a very expensive dress," she replied. "The kind a man takes his mistress dancing in."

  "Isn't that what you were, six years back?" he asked insolently, because what she'd said made him uncomfortable.

  "I loved you six years ago," she said. "That's why I slept with you."

  "Bull," he replied easily. "You loved my money and the luxury of my apartment, and the pretty things I bought you."

  "Convinced yourself of that, have you?" she asked.

  "You weren't even an adult, honey," he said, shrugging his powerful shoulders. "I didn't expect love from a kid like you. Your body was all I wanted."

  "I found that out the hard way," she replied. "Couldn't you have left me alone?" she asked suddenly, her eyes tormented as they met his. "You had nothing to offer, but you deliberately took everything of value I had to give. My love, my virginity"

  "You gave that last item," he said shortly. "Gave it with a passion that knocked the breath out of me, and without my having to ask for it. You did everything short of stripping in public to catch my eye."

  That was true. She didn't have a comeback, because she'd certainly given that impression. Her eyes lowered again to the dress in its pristine, elegant box.

  "Life teaches hard lessons," she murmured.

  "Why won't you take the dress?" he asked.

  She glanced at him. "Because I'm not your mistress."

  He smiled, but his eyes were cold and angry. "Aren't you?" He moved toward her.

  She backed away, extending a hand. "No," she said firmly, and her face echoed the word. The very calmness of her voice stopped him in his tracks.

  "You want me," he said.

  "Of course I want you, Cy," she replied. "But I'm old enough now to make sensible choices. And the last complication I need is to drag up an old affair."

  "Because of your precious Mr. Smith?" he asked mockingly.

  She didn't react to the dig. "Because I have too much pride," she said. "You used me once. I won't let you do it again. Yesterday was an accident. A mistake. I let the past blind me to the present. But it won't happen again."

  He stood very still, his big hands clenched by his sides. "You wanted me."

  "I suppose I always will," she confessed. "You and I are addicted to each other in bed. That's a sad quirk of nature, nothing we can do anything about. But I want more than a few feverish hours in bed. Once, it was magic and I didn't have to think ahead. Now I do."

  She sounded mature and very businesslike. That registered even through the words that were kindling his temper.

  "You have no real ties," he said, trying a softer approach. "Neither do I."

  "You're a Harden," she returned. "Your mother considers me a different species. She'd separate us again, if you didn't toss me aside or find some reason to push me out of your life. There's no future in what I feel for you, Cy. I'd have better luck with Mr. Smith."

  He let out a harsh word. "My mother never separated us in the first place. Your own greed did that!"

  "Think what you like," she said tiredly. "Just go home." She picked up the box and handed it to him. "Take that with you. I don't have anyplace to wear something that fancy."

  "So blasé," he chided. "God knows you've probably never seen a dress that expensive before, and you're refusing it."

  In fact, she had seen dresses that expensive. Her closet was full of originals even more expensive than the one she was giving back to him.

  "I like the gift. I just don't like the strings it's attached to," she said.

  "Imagine that," he drawled. "Pride, from a woman like you."

  She stiffened. She didn't like the insinuation, and it showed.

  "Insulted?" he taunted, his hand gripping the box roughly. "Why should you be? Women with no morals can't afford the luxury of taking themselves too seriously."

  "You think you know me so well," she said in a harsh whisper, almost shaking with anger.

  "I know you inside out," he returned in a tone equally gruff. "My God, all I have to do is touch you and you're mine!"

  "Get out," she said.

  He gave her one last bold appraisal, ignoring her white face and wounded eyes. "Just as well you wouldn't go to the ball with me," he murmured. "You probably haven't gained any social graces in the past six years. I'll bet you don't even know which damned fork to use at a properly set table or where to put a napkin."

  She was quivering with rage by now. "I know where I'd like to put one right now. Get out!"

  He hesitated, but only for an instant. He laughed coldly. "Good night, Meredith. Sweet dreams," he said before he went out and closed the door behind him.

  But once he was in his car and on the way home, he cursed himself for the things he'd said. Meredith was as helpless as he was when they touched, but he'd made it sound as if she were a slut. That wasn't what he'd meant to do at all. Her refusal to give in to him was painful. He'd thought they were starting over, but she'd closed the door in his face.

  Just as well, probably, he mused, trying to soothe his pride. His father had shown him that faithfulness to one woman just wasn't possible for a Harden. He'd seen how his mother's life had been destroyed by her husband's blatant unfaithfulness. It had warped his opinion of marriage, of love. Nothing lasted, least of all infatuation. That's all it had been on his part and on Meredith's. Just infatuation.

  Remembering her passion and his, he didn't feel that way. Their need for each other had lasted all the long years, and the way she'd welcomed him still made his head spin. He'd never felt with any woman what he felt when he loved Meredith in bed. It was like dying all over, in the most exquisite way.

  He groaned out loud as the pleasure washed over him, fiery hot and sweet. He was going to lose her all over again, and he didn't know how he'd bear it a second time. If only she was modern enough to take what they had together in her stride, without promises of forever. Didn't she know by now that nobody had forever?

  He turned his
car toward home, turning over what she'd said in his mind. She kept insinuating that his mother had caused their breakup. He knew that wasn't true. His mother, for all her faults, loved him. She'd never do anything to hurt him.

  The dress on the seat beside him made him angry. Impulsively he stopped the car on the bridge, got out, ripped the dress from its box, and hurled it down into the river far below. As he watched it float away in the dim light from the street lamps, he felt as if he were watching an instant replay of the past. He shouldn't have said those things to Meredith. It was going to make everything that much more complicated.

  Meredith was considering her own options as she sat alone on her sofa. Part of her wanted to get on the next plane for Chicago and throw up the whole deal. But she couldn't do that.

  Don reported making some progress with the East Coast proxies, Meredith recalled as she pulled out the list of names of people across the country who held large blocks of Harden stock. Her anger at Cy lent impetus to her determination.

  The fourth name on the list was a great-uncle of Cy's, one of his more deadly business enemies. The old man was a brother to Cy's grandfather, and a formidable adversary. He'd never pretended to like Cy. Of course nothing made friends like a common enemy, but she couldn't afford to trust the old man until she saw him.

  She picked up the phone and dialed, giving an assumed name as she spoke, asking about his voting shares and mentioning a surprise she'd like to spring on Cy. The old man said little, but in the end Meredith arranged a meeting with him for very early the next morning.

  As she hung up the telephone, she was thinking ahead to the board meeting that Cy's company directors had planned for two weeks from now. If everything worked out, she was going to have one hell of a surprise for Cy Harden and his mother.

  She didn't regret the surprise, either. Over the years the Hardens had given her plenty of grief. This was poetic justice, to have a hand in watching them lose everything.

  It was sad that she and Cy couldn't form a permanent relationship. It would have been nice for Blake. But now the die was cast, and she couldn't afford to backslide. No more romantic interludes or revisiting the past with Cy. Now she was in deadly earnest, and she had only a little time left to spread her net.