Snowflakes on the Sea. Linda Miller Lael

drew back the sheltering veil, baring her mysterious, aching self to him. She cried out in throaty ecstasy when she felt his breath, pleaded raggedly until he took timeless sustenance at the waiting feast.

      Her fingers entwined in his thick hair, her breath coming in tearing gasps, Mallory reveled in his hunger, in the warm strength of the hands holding her knees apart, so that she could not close herself to him. As his tongue began to savor her in long strokes, Mallory shuddered and gasped a plea and loosed her fingers from his hair to again spread the veiled place for his full satisfaction and her own.

      Tremors, both physical and spiritual, rocked Mallory’s entire being as he brought her to a release so savage that she sobbed out his name. Quivering with molten aftershocks, she was too stricken to speak again, or even move.

      “I love you,” he breathed against the moist smoothness of her inner thigh.

      Finally, after at least a partial recovery of her senses, Mallory met his eyes. She did not need to speak to relay her message; she wanted to be filled with him, to sheathe him in the rippling, velvety warmth of her and hear his familiar, rasping cries of need and violent, soul-searing satisfaction.

      Understanding, his eyes dark with a wanting to match Mallory’s own, Nathan moved back a foot or so, still kneeling on the floor, and moaned as his wife slid from the sofa’s edge to face him. He trembled, closed his eyes and tilted his head back as she opened his slacks to reveal his straining manhood. For the next several minutes, Mallory enjoyed his magnificence at her leisure, with her eyes, her fingers, her mouth. Her spirit soared at his words of tormented surrender.

      In a smooth motion born of passion and desperation, Nathan grasped Mallory’s slender waist, lifted her easily and then lowered her onto the pulsing pillar that would make them each a part of the other.

      They moved with a rhythm as old as time, increasing their pace as the swelling crescendo building within both of them demanded. When the explosion came, it rocked them, and they shouted their triumph in one voice.

      They were still one person, still shuddering with their fierce mingling, when Cinnamon began to bark in the kitchen and they heard the back door open with a cautious creak. “Nathan!” called Eric Moore, the lead guitarist in Nathan’s band. “Hey, Nate—I know you’re in here somewhere! Mallory?”

      Nathan cursed and scrambled to his feet. He was fully dressed again before Mallory had managed to wriggle back into the discarded football jersey.

      “Stay where you are, Eric!” Nathan ordered in ominous tones as he strode out of the glittering, cluttered living room without so much as a backward glance. “And next time, knock, will you?”

      Still sitting on the floor, Mallory cowered against the front of the sofa, trembling with resentment and a wild, inexplicable loneliness. The conversation taking place in the kitchen was couched in terse undertones, and she understood none of it. She sighed. Understanding the exact situation wasn’t really necessary anyway. The fact was that, once again, Nathan’s dynamic, demanding life was pulling him in another direction.

      Mallory was thoroughly annoyed. She had been planning to give up her role in the soap opera in order to devote more time to a marriage she knew was failing. And all her efforts would mean nothing if Nathan could not or would not meet her halfway.

      She stood up slowly, feeling hollow and broken inside. Was Diane really the threat she appeared to be sometimes, or was Nathan’s career his real mistress?

      Mallory stooped to recover the toy kangaroo that had been one of Nathan’s gifts to her and then held it close. She could hold her own against a flesh-and-blood woman any time. But how could she compete with thousands of them? How could she hope to prevail against the tidal wave of adoration lavished upon Nathan McKendrick every time he sang his soul-wrenching compositions?

      Still clutching the stuffed kangaroo, she sank to the sofa in dejected thought. Obviously the physical passion between her and her husband was as formidable as ever. Still, Mallory knew that a lasting marriage required more than sexual compatibility, more than romance.

      She sensed, rather than saw or heard, Nathan’s return to the room. He stood behind her, and though Mallory knew he wanted to touch her, he refrained. His voice was a low rumble and caused tremors in Mallory’s heart like some kind of emotional earthquake.

      “I’ve got to go to Angel Cove for a little while, Mallory,” he said. “Diane is doing one of her numbers again. Do you want to come with me?”

      Mallory did not turn to face her husband; she simply shook her head.

      “Babe—”

      Mallory held up both hands. “No—I’m all right. Just go and straighten everything out.”

      “We’ll talk when I get back,” he muttered, and Mallory could tell that he was already turning away. “Pumpkin, there is so much to say.”

      Yes, Mallory thought, there is so much to say, and it is all so painful. “I’ll be here,” she said aloud, wishing that she could crawl inside the pouch of the toy kangaroo and hide there forever. “Nathan?” she whispered, on the off chance that he was still near enough to hear.

      He was. “What?” he asked, somewhat hoarsely.

      “I love you.”

      He came to her then, bent, brushed her temple with his lips. A moment later, he was gone, and the glistening beauty of the decorated room was a mockery.

      Mallory sat very still for a long time, absorbed by her own anguish and confusion. It was only the smell of burning turkey that brought her back to her senses.

      She took Nathan’s awkward attempt at culinary competence from the oven before wandering into the bedroom to dress. When the telephone rang, she was standing in the kitchen, trying valiantly to salvage at least a portion of the incinerated fowl.

      “Hello!” she snapped, certain that the caller meant to make yet another impossible demand on Nathan’s time.

      “It’s me,” said Pat, Nathan’s sister, in a placating tone. “Mall, I’m sorry if I’m intruding—”

      Mallory loved Pat, and regretted the tart way she’d spoken. “Pat,” she said gently. “No, you’re not intruding. It’s just—”

      “That plenty of other people are,” Pat finished for her with quiet understanding.

      “Right,” agreed Mallory, who had learned never to try to fool her astute sister-in-law. At twenty-two, Pat was young, but her mind was as formidable as Nathan’s. “Shall we start with the band, and progress to Diane Vincent, press agent extraordinaire?”

      Pat sighed heavily. “Please,” she retorted. “I just ate.”

      Suddenly, inexplicably, Mallory began to cry in the wrenching, heartbroken way she’d cried after losing her parents.

      Pat drew in a sharp breath. “Mallory, honey, what is it? How can I help?”

      The warmth in Pat’s voice only made Mallory sob harder. She felt stupid, but she couldn’t stop her tears, and she couldn’t manage an answer, either.

      “Sit tight,” Pat said in brisk, take-charge tones. “I’m on my way.”

      Mallory sank into one of the kitchen chairs and buried her face in her hands. The telephone receiver made an accusing clatter as it bounced against the wall.

      It was a full fifteen minutes before Mallory regained her composure. When she had, she dashed away her tears, marched into the bathroom, ran a tubful of hot water and tried to wash away all the questions that tormented her.

      Was Nathan’s casual dislike for Diane Vincent really part of some elaborate ruse designed to distract Mallory and everyone else from what was really taking place?

      “Diane is doing one of her numbers again,” Nathan had said just before he dashed off to handle the situation.

      Mallory slid down in the hot, scented water to her chin, watching