pour the champagne,” he said, and knew, from the way she flounced over to the bed and spread herself out against the pillows, that she was disappointed by his delaying tactics.
“Aren’t you going to join me, darling?” she pouted, accepting her glass of champagne. “It’s lonely in this big old bed without you.”
Before he could stop himself, he glanced again at his watch.
“It’s only five past nine, Pierce,” she protested, sighing audibly. “No one’s going to report you AWOL if you stay out another hour or two.”
She was ticked off and he couldn’t blame her. “Sorry,” he said yet again, dropping down beside her on the bed and stuffing a pillow behind his head. She was the only woman he’d ever met who actually used satin sheets. He found them very slippery.
“You’re forgiven.” She smiled, a lazy, sexy smile, and leaned over to unbutton his shirt. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
Her hands were cool and very skillful. Were the nanny’s? Would she handle Tom gently when she lifted him out of his bath?
He shook his head irritably. Of course she would! She was a nurse, for Pete’s sake!
“Come back, sweetness,” Louise whispered, raking her long fingernails over his chest with just enough pressure to indicate she didn’t care for his preoccupation.
“Hey,” he said, trapping her hand, as a thought occurred to him, “is the phone turned on in here? I mean, if anyone wanted to get hold of me, would they be able to get through?”
“Pierce,” she said, on another long-suffering sigh, “I’m in real estate. Have you ever known my phone not to be turned on?”
“No,” he admitted wryly. They’d been in the middle of making love for the first time when she’d received a call from a client wishing to view a house she’d just listed. Apart from being a touch out of breath throughout the conversation, she’d managed to set up the appointment without missing a beat. He hadn’t known whether to be flattered or insulted.
“Then why.” she said now, “don’t you just relax and make us both enjoy ourselves?”
She had the most delicious legs this side of a chorus line. A man would have to be dead not to respond to the lure of them. “Right,” he said, taking her glass and placing it beside his own on the night table. “We’ve wasted enough time on small talk.”
“Thank God you finally got the message,” she breathed, leaning forward to touch his nipple with her tongue. “Take your pants off, Pierce, darling. Although I love a man in uniform, a charcoal lounge suit doesn’t do a whole lot for me at a time like this.”
Her hands slid to the buckle of his belt, adding urgency to her request. It should have been enough to trigger the response she was seeking. Tonight, it wasn’t—a fact she’d discover for herself soon enough.
Cupping her face, he kissed her with great determination. Her lips were lush as ripe strawberries. Her skin smelled of Paris, very chic, very French—as it should, considering the imported hand-milled soap she used and the perfume specially brought in for her by Marshall Fields in Chicago. Her hair, a rich red-gold, glowed like a flame. Unfortunately, none of the aforementioned set him on fire.
Finally, he pulled away, took her hands in his and held her at a distance. “We’re trying too hard, Louise.”
“Why, Pierce,” she murmured, pouting again. “Have I lost my touch?”
“It’s not your fault,” he said, his glance sliding yet again to his watch. “I’ve got too many things on my mind right now.”
“And I’m obviously not one of them.” She drained her glass, clearly annoyed.
He could hardly blame her. They were in her bed at his suggestion, after all. “Let me just call home,” he began. “Once I know—”
“Oh, forget it!” She flounced off the bed and splashed more wine into her glass. “Frankly, you’re not the only one no longer in the mood. Good night, Pierce. Call me when you get your act together.”
There was a light showing at the nanny’s bedroom window when he got home. Treading softly so as not to disturb Tom, who’d been sleeping very restlessly all week, Pierce stopped outside her door, surprised to see it standing ajar. He’d assumed she was in bed already but she sat instead in the little sitting room that faced the back of the house and looked out to sea.
She wore a long blue dressing gown and had white furry slippers on her feet. Her dark brown hair hung around her shoulders in soft waves, and her face was scrubbed clean of what little makeup she’d worn earlier. She was reading a letter and several others lay in her lap. She held a steaming cup in one hand.
Suddenly, she glanced up and did a double take when she found herself being watched. He saw then that she’d been crying.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pushing the door open a little farther. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just got home and wondered how you’d managed with Tom. You seem upset. Did he give you a hard time?”
“No,” she said, making an effort to compose herself. “It’s not that at all. He was as good as gold.”
He shrugged helplessly. He never quite knew what to do with weeping women; they weren’t too common on board a naval destroyer. “Well, if it’s not Tom, then what? Are you having second thoughts about the job?”
“No.” Setting her cup on the table in front of her, she fished a wad of tissues from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. She was silent for so long that he thought the conversation had come to an end when she seemed to reach a decision of some sort and spoke again. “I think, Commander Warner, that there’s something you ought to know.”
“I’m listening,” he said, bracing himself. She had a look about her that spelled trouble.
She plucked a fresh tissue from the box at her elbow and blew her nose. “I haven’t been exactly truthful, I’m afraid.”
It wasn’t exactly the sort of news he appreciated hearing! Pretty direct himself, he hadn’t much use for people who weren’t equally up-front in their dealings. “In what respect, Miss Bennett?”
“Well...” She stopped and chanced a quick glance at him.
He held her gaze relentlessly. “Please continue.”
Her chin wobbled dangerously. “Recently, I... suffered...um...um....”
What? he was tempted to bark at her. A spell in prison for child abuse? A nervous breakdown? A malpractice suit for dereliction of duty?
“Something happened,” she said, and dropped her gaze to the letters in her lap.
Of course! She’d received a Dear John—or was it a Dear Jane for a woman? Either way, he thought he’d figured out what had brought on the tears. He’d seen it happen before enough times to recognize the symptoms. Otherwise fearless men brought to their knees by a one-page letter telling them they were history in some woman’s life.
“So
