Against All Odds. Gwynne Forster

Park, greeting the few bikers and joggers they encountered in the still cool morning. Melissa knew a rare release, an unfamiliar absence of concerns. It was as if she had shed an outer skin that she hadn’t known to be confining but the loss of which had gained her a welcomed freedom. She looked over at the man who rode beside her, at his dark muscular legs and thighs glistening with faint perspiration from their hour’s ride and at the powerful arms that guided the bike with such ease. From her limited experience, she had always believed that it was the man who wanted and who asked. She shook her head, wondering whether she was strange, decided that she wasn’t, and let a grin crease her cheeks. Self-revelation could be pleasant.

      * * *

      “Let me in on it. What’s funny?”

      “Me.” She replied and refused to elaborate, watching him from the corner of her right eye. He slowed their pace and headed them toward the lake. At the shed he locked and stored their bikes and rented a canoe for them. He rowed near the edge of the lake. The ducks made place for them amidst the water lilies, and some swam alongside the canoe, quacking, seemingly happy to provide entertainment. Melissa looked around them and saw that, except for the birds, they were alone. The cool, fresh morning breeze pressed her shirt to her skin, and she lowered her head in embarrassment when she realized he could see the pointed tips of her breasts. Her restless squirming seemed to intensify his fixation with her, and she had to employ enormous self-control to resist covering her breasts with her arm.

      “Don’t be shy,” he soothed, “let me look at you. I’ve never before seen you so relaxed, so carefree.”

      “If you saw it all the time, you’d soon be fed up with it,” she jested in embarrassment. “And maybe worse. One Latin poet, I believe his name was Plautus, said that anything in excess brings trouble.”

      His half smile quickened the twinkle of his eyes, and her hands clutched her chest as frissons of heat raced through her. “I prefer Mae West’s philosophy,” he taunted. “She said too much of a good thing is wonderful. You stick with Mister What’s-his-name’s view.” Melissa stared at him. Did he know what he’d just done to her?

      His eyes caressed her while she squirmed, rubbed her arms, and moistened her lips. As though enchanted, he dropped anchor and let the boat idle.

      “You’re too far away from me. If I wasn’t sure this thing would capsize, I’d go down there and get you.”

      “And do what?” she challenged. Heat seemed to radiate from him, and she shivered in excited anticipation.

      “When I finished, you’d never think of another man. You know you’re playing with fire, don’t you?” She wrinkled her nose in disdain.

      “Keep it up,” he growled, “and I’ll go down there to you even if this thing sinks.” The air crackled and sizzled around them, and she fought the feminine heat that stirred in her loins. Sweat poured down her face as his hot gaze singed her, but she struggled to summon a posture of indifference. Nose tilted upward and chin thrust forward, she teased him, her voice unsteady.

      “Planning to rock the boat, are you? Well, if you let me drown, the Morrises and Grants will have your head.”

      She thrilled from head to toe as his laughter washed over her, exciting her. “I’m scared to death, Melissa. I’m shaking in my Reeboks.” Her right hand dipped into the lake as a duck swam by, and she brought up enough water to wet the front of his shirt.

      “Lady, what do you think you’re doing?”

      “Cooling you off.” She hoped she’d made him give her some room. She hadn’t. He looked at her steadily and spoke without a trace of humor.

      “If you think I’m hot now, Melissa, you’re in for a big surprise.”

      * * *

      Adam watched as her eyes widened and knew she was at a loss as to how to handle him. He regretted that—he wanted her to handle him and to enjoy doing it. He pulled up the anchor and began rowing. The trees heavy with green leaves and the quiet water provided the perfect background against which he could appreciate her beguiling loveliness. His fingers itched to replace the breeze that gently lifted her hair from her shoulders and neck, and his lips burned with the impulse to taste her throat, to... They had the lake to themselves. If he dared... He raised his gaze from the water surrounding them and caught the naked passion unsheltered in her eyes. Watched, flabbergasted, as she licked her lips. Desire sliced through him, and he had to fight to rein in his rampant passion.

      He rowed back to the shed, surrendered their boat, and retrieved their bikes. He was in control, he assured himself. He could stop the relationship, walk away from it anytime he chose. Or he could have until he’d seen the heat in her eyes and the quivering of her lips—for him.

      * * *

      He stood in front of the building in which she lived, looking down at her, trying to keep his hands to himself. She squinted at him and licked her lips. Did she want him to...? He ran his fingers over his short hair in frustration.

      “Melissa, I... Look, I enjoyed this.” He settled for banality, when what he needed to tell her was that he wanted her right then.

      She smiled in an absentminded way and responded to his meaningless remark: “Me, too.”

      Maybe he’d spend some time with Ariel on Sunday and get his desire for Melissa under control. Abstinence wasn’t good for a man. He smiled grimly as he bade Melissa goodbye, admitting to himself that self-deception wasn’t good for a man, either. The next morning, Sunday, it was Melissa whom he called.

      Chapter 3

      A soft sigh escaped Melissa when she awakened and realized that Adam wasn’t with her, that she’d been dreaming, and that the glistening bronze male who’d held her so tenderly was an illusion. Had she leashed her emotions so tightly these past four years that her defenses against masculine seduction were weak and undependable, that a man, who’d never even kissed her, could take possession of her senses? She didn’t think so. What was it about Adam? She reached for her glasses, looked at the clock, decided she could sleep another hour, and turned over. Wishful thinking. She answered the ringing phone.

      “Hello,” she murmured, half conscious of the seductive message in her low, sleepy tones.

      “So you’re awake. Thinking about me?”

      “No,” she lied. “I was thinking about the weather.”

      “First female I ever met who gets turned on by thoughts of the weather.”

      She frowned. He was too sure of himself. Then she heard his amused chuckle and couldn’t suppress a smile, then a giggle, and finally a joyous laugh.

      “Want some company? I want to see you while you’re so happy. You’re uninhibited when you first wake up, aren’t you?”

      “Why did you call?” She twirled the phone cord around her index finger and waited while he took what seemed an inordinate amount of time answering.

      “I didn’t intend to—it just happened. How about going to the Museum of Modern Art with me this afternoon? There’s a show of contemporary painters that I’d like to see, and browsing in a museum is my favorite Sunday afternoon pastime. What do you say?”

      “Depends. I’m going to church, and then I’m going to shoot pool for an hour.” After his long silence, she asked him, “Are you speechless? Don’t tell me I shocked you. Women do shoot pool, you know.”

      “Surprised, maybe, but it takes more than that to shock me. Should I come by for you, or do you want to meet me?”

      “I’ll meet you at the front door of the museum. One thirty.”

      She hung up and immediately the telephone rang, sending her pulse into a trot in anticipation of what he’d say.

      “Mama! Are you alright? Why aren’t you going to church this morning?”

      “Oh,