“Give it time. You’re riding an endorphin rush right now.”
He pushed back to his knees, disconnecting their bodies as he did. In the bathroom he ditched the condom, then forced himself to look in the mirror. His face was as flushed as Alana’s, and he spent too much time outside to blame it on a California sunburn. That was emotion, anger and frustration and passion, hot and demanding, staining his cheekbones. The arrangement of eyes, nose, and mouth staring back looked familiar, that odd sense of déjà vu he got when a face triggered something deep in his brain.
He used to look like this all the time. A younger, less-worldly version of himself shifted between skin and bone, striving to surface in his eyes.
“Go away,” he said to the image. “Nothing to see here you haven’t seen before.”
He straightened his clothes and flicked off the light as he left the bathroom. Alana had turned off the lamp on the nightstand. They’d pushed the sheet and covers down to the foot of the king-size bed. She lay curled up on her side with one arm bent under her head, facing the wide-open windows and doors overlooking the ocean. Moonlight striped a path across the carpet, bathing the curve of her waist and hip in colorless light. She’d pushed her nightgown down to a more modest position, but he could see the shadowy curves of bottom and cleft.
He should go, but all he wanted to do was fit himself to her like a puzzle piece.
Then she turned to look at him, a small smile on her face. “Do you hear that?”
He cocked his head slightly. “No.”
“Come here.”
It was all the invitation he needed. He stretched out behind her, then took a moment to fit his knees to the backs of hers, wrap his arm around her waist and align his chest with her back. She wriggled in his arms, then worked her bare feet between his shins.
“I still don’t hear anything.”
“I would swear I can hear the sound of starlight on the waves,” she said drowsily.
He lifted his head and stared down at her. “How hard did you hit your head on the wall?”
A little laugh. “Not that hard. My ears are ringing a little. That was quite intense.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Why?” she asked.
“I overreacted. We’re not dating. This isn’t a relationship. I don’t have any right to be jealous.”
After a moment’s pause, she said, “You don’t have any reason to be jealous. He’s twenty-one years old. Not to disparage the Marine Corps’ ability to transform young men into warriors, but he’s still twenty-one.”
“I used to be twenty-one,” Lucas said. “I know what he’s thinking.”
She reached down and wove her fingers through his. “I can’t really imagine you that young. If I hadn’t seen pictures in the basement, I’d believe you sprang out of the prairie in uniform at thirty.”
The words hit a little too close to home. “Nate’s not twenty-one,” he said.
She peered over her shoulder at him. “Nate’s married.”
“He’s not wearing a ring.”
“I know.” Her brow wrinkled. “I’m sure he’s still married. I’m behind on my gossip, but someone would have remembered to tell me if Nate Martin had gotten divorced. My mother certainly would have remembered. A divorced Nate Martin would be the most eligible bachelor east of the Mississippi. She’d shove David in front of a bus to free me up for Nate, who remembers me puking up sangria wine coolers behind the Powers’ boathouse on Nantucket when we were seventeen, and would no sooner marry me than he’d marry one of the guys downstairs.”
Something inside him eased a little at this matter-of-fact recitation. “Your mother’s the matchmaking type?”
“In rather medieval form, she sees me and Freddie as chattel to be bartered off to the highest bidder. Mother still lives in a world where marriages are alliances. A hundred years of marrying for love hasn’t proved any more effective than marrying someone suitable, so why risk getting hurt? Settle for compatibility on as many levels as possible, and turn a blind eye to any indiscretions.”
“What kind of alliance does she see in Freddie marrying Toby Robinson?”
Alana laughed. “Not much of one. Freddie said she’s holding on to wedding invitations like they’re political favors. Toby tours eight months a year, and he flatly refuses to be paraded around like he won Best in Show at Westminster, so Mother’s not getting much ground out of bringing him to events.” She sighed. “That’s my next big challenge when I get home. Once they set the date, whatever time I have after the next big global conference will get sucked up into Freddie’s wedding.”