Sins of Omission. Fern Michaels

on the cheek meant he was to join her when he was ready. There would be other, more meaningful kisses.

      It was near midnight, the witching hour, when Reuben made his way down the hall to Mickey’s room.

      Mickey stood on the inside of the door, her ears attuned to her lover’s footsteps. She sighed. At first she’d thought he wasn’t going to come to her, but then she’d heard the water gurgling in the pipes and knew he was taking a bath. Earlier she’d done the same thing, just to be clean and fresh…for him. The door opened; she was in his arms and he was loving her.

      The French silk robe fell open under his commanding fingers, and when he captured her breast, its pink nipple rose to greet him and bring him delight. Slowly he teased her ear with his tongue, following the pulse points to her neck and throat. He wanted her urgently, but he would take her slowly, deepening the pleasure. His hands traced the contours of her body, following its curves, caressing its hollows. He explored the depths of her mouth and the silkiness of her thighs. This was Mickey, his lover, as familiar to him now as the back of his hand and yet, somehow, always new territory to be charted.

      Her emotions were charged, more finely tuned than ever before, and when he closed her hand over the proof of his desire, she communicated her own demands.

      She hurried him with her kisses, excited him with her soft mewlings and murmurs, undulated beneath his caresses. She wanted him now, desperately. She felt she would erupt with a wildness too long contained. There would be time later for luxuriating in his arms, to have his hands soothe this fever, to have his lips take possession of her inch by inch. Now she needed completion.

      Her thighs opened, her back arched, and he became a part of her. In the white heat of her passion she entrapped him, feeling him stroke within her, locking her legs behind his, to take him deeply inside her, where the warmth was building.

      Her body exploded into thousands of shimmering, shattering jewels as the waves of her passion swept her under, and she rose to the surface crying Reuben’s name over and over.

      Spent, they lay back in the mound of soft pillows. Their mouths touched, tasting of each other. They lay naked together without benefit of covers, and when they sought each other again it was with tenderness. Their mouths were gentle, and their fingers softly caressed. And when their passions quickened, Reuben calmed her with his touch and crooned soft words of love.

      His mouth became a part of hers, and her heart beat in a wild, broken rhythm. They strained toward each other, caught up in the designs of yearning. Together they mounted the obstacles of the flesh and joined breath and blood, flesh and spirit.

      Chapter Six

      The day after Thanksgiving the air was cold and crisp. The sun shone in that particular light of late fall that was more silver than gold. Mickey and Reuben labored to polish the Citroën touring car on the pebbled apron outside the barn as the postman arrived. Mickey was on one side of the car and Reuben on the other, their eyes meeting every few seconds, their light laughter a pleasant sound in the afternoon quiet. Reuben’s eyes adored Mickey. She had changed since those early days at the hospital. Gone was the sophisticated lady. Her preferred dress was casual, soft clothing that barely skimmed her figure. Her slacks, a revolutionary style she had adopted, were nipped at the waist and fell in long straight lines to her ankles, her round bottom accentuated by the clever fit and tailoring. Even her hair, newly coiffed with a little fringe of bangs and a coronet of braids, gave her an air of simplicity and freshness.

      Mickey read the happiness in Reuben’s eyes and took full responsibility. He’d told her earlier, when she’d handed him the polishing cloths, that he was happier than he’d ever been in his life thanks to her. “I don’t ever want this to change!” he exclaimed, his eyes darkening. “Do you hear me, Mickey? Whatever it takes, whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

      She’d wanted to caution him, to admonish him, to say all those sophisticated and wise things she had been saying all along, but she couldn’t. In just a matter of weeks all her resolve had fallen away. Her own gaze was as intense and passionate as Reuben’s, but still she had difficulty with the words.

      “Smile, Mickey,” Reuben said quietly. “At me, not at the postman.” And she’d rewarded him with a dazzling smile that warmed his heart.

      “Numbers,” she murmured as she sifted through the pile of letters.

      “Only if you make it an issue,” Reuben said forcefully. “You know it doesn’t make any difference to me. When are you going to get that through your head? It doesn’t matter,” he said, enunciating each word carefully.

      “For now, no, it doesn’t matter. But later?” She shrugged. There was a desperation in her voice, a sadness in her eyes. She wanted to believe him and she did, for now. But later…what then?

      As if reading her thoughts: “Later, you and I are going to have a talk, the conversation you always avoid because you are afraid to hear what I have to say. You, Michelene Fonsard, are a coward,” Reuben said heatedly when he saw her shaking her head. “Later, I want it settled between us.”

      “Yes, yes. Later we will talk. It is a promesse. Continue with the Citroën while I take the post into the house. There is a letter from America which I must read. Would you like me to bring you an apple when I return?”

      “Two,” Reuben said. “We’ll sit in the hay and eat them together.”

      Mickey chuckled. “You are a hopeless romantic, my love. But I will bring them.”

      Reuben continued his labors on the car, his movements fast and furious as his arms reached for the center of the hood. He wanted his position settled, once and for all. If Mickey wouldn’t or couldn’t come to terms with him, then he and Daniel would have to leave. He wouldn’t be jerked about like a puppet on a string.

      His arms trembled with the exertion. The thought that kept creeping into his head surfaced again: He wanted to marry Mickey Fonsard. He didn’t care about age, all he wanted was to be near her, to be able to love her. To awaken beside her, to find her across the table from him, to reach out and touch her when they sat before the fire. And then the niggling inner voice attacked him: What happens to your dreams of making it on your own? Of becoming successful in your own right? You want power and wealth. Your own power and wealth. Someday you’ll want children and Mickey can’t give you that.

      “There’re orphans!” Reuben shouted, the sound of his voice echoing off the side of the barn.

      Which do you want more? the voice whispered. Mickey or the freedom to find your own future?

      “Shut up,” Reuben answered through clenched teeth. “It’s not that simple. This is now. I have the rest of my life for all that other stuff.”

      But what about Mickey? Every day she grows older…older…older.

      Reuben shivered despite the heavy wool sweater he wore. His attention wandered from the polishing. Little puffs of vaporized breath escaped his lips into the cold air.

      A parade of chickens trekked past him. He wondered inanely if it was a family or just a bunch of chickens taking a walk. He dropped the cloth he was holding and watched the chickens. Where were they going, and why were they in a group?

      Numbers…Him and Daniel. Him and Mickey and Daniel. A unit, a family. Man didn’t do it alone. Somewhere, someplace, there was always a woman. That didn’t mean he couldn’t do it on his own. It just meant it would be easier if there was someone to share with. The chickens scattered; wings flapped, and gravel spurted behind them. Disgust showed on Reuben’s face. So much for chickens and families.

      Mickey settled herself in the kitchen with a cup of tea. First she opened the letter from Sol Rosen. A vague feeling of foreboding washed over her as she unfolded the crackly paper. Bebe was due to arrive within the week.

      Mickey straightened the pages on the table. The letter was in Sol’s handwriting, tight and cramped.

      Dear Mickey,

      I hope this letter