Escape for New Year. Shirley Jump

she knew he was visualizing the curves and valleys he loved to touch and taste.

      Then he scrubbed a hand over his face and, shaking himself, sat straighter. His voice was thick from sleep.

      “It’s late. Go back to bed.”

      “If you come with me.”

      He held her gaze then looked to his desk. “In a few minutes. I have some things to wrap up.”

      She crossed the room, sat down beside him and gave him a level look.

      “We can’t avoid it, you know.”

      He leaned back the barest amount. “Avoid … what?”

      “We need to talk.”

      She put her hand on his thigh. He promptly removed it.

      “Not in the middle of the night.” He pushed to his feet and, grabbing his hand, she pulled him back. He had the strength to resist, but a yielding expression touched his mouth, his eyes, and slowly he lowered back down.

      “When I was old enough to understand about my condition,” she began, “that I would need to be careful about overexertion and such—I felt … different. My parents made sure every teacher knew which activities I could or could not do. Once, when we were short on numbers, Mrs. Carols insisted I moved off the sideline and team up for the 500m relay. When he found out, my dad hit the roof. He threatened the principal’s job and demanded an apology from Mrs. Carols as well as from the school.”

      Bishop’s brows had knitted. “Why are you telling me this now?”

      “Because I want you to understand that I know better than anyone what I’m asking of you, of myself and of any children we have.”

      As if he were considering her words, his gaze lowered. He saw his buttons undone and, deep in thought, he began to rebutton. “Laura, it must be close to three o’clock—”

      “Junior school was lonely sometimes,” she plowed on. She didn’t care about the time. She needed to say this and he needed to hear it. “I couldn’t do cross-country or horse riding at camp. Kids can be cruel and some laughed behind my back. A couple even called me a cripple.”

      Redoing the final button, his hands fisted in his shirt. “I wish I’d been there.”

      “I had good friends too, though. We ignored the girls who needed to make themselves feel taller by bringing someone else down. Then university happened and the entire world didn’t need to know anymore. I was just like everyone else. A year after graduation, I met you.”

      A small smile hooked one side of his mouth. “That night I kept you up talking till dawn.”

      Smiling, too, she turned more toward him. “Eight weeks and one day later, you proposed. When you still wanted to marry me after you learned about my secret, I didn’t think anyone could be more lucky … or more in love …” Her gaze dipped before finding his again. “Even if you didn’t quite understand how deeply I felt about conceiving and having our own child. After I agreed we would adopt, I tried to deny it to myself.”

      He broke their intense gaze and cleared his throat. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

      She touched the square bandage on her head. Feeling a faint throb coming on, she surrendered with a nod. It was enough for now that she’d opened that door a little wider. Tomorrow they would talk more, and when he realized how much carrying and giving life to her own child meant to her—when he accepted that history didn’t need to repeat itself, hers or his—he’d come around. He loved her, and love could surmount any obstacle.

      She found her feet and put out her hand. “Coming?” His gaze slid to her bandage and she grinned. If he thought he’d get away with another excuse, he was mistaken. “Or we can stay up and finish this conversation now?”

      He stood. “You win. But remember, you’re taking it easy.”

      She looped her arm through his and guided him toward the door, toward their bedroom.

      Beside the bed, she slipped out of her robe while he unbuttoned his shirt again, which seemed to take an inordinately long time. When she slid between the covers, feeling sexy in the lacy negligee she’d donned when she’d first lain down, she watched as his gaze filtered over her in the golden glow of lamplight. Snuggling into the pillows, she slipped back his side of the covers.

      “On my honor,” she said, half-serious, “I promise not to ravage you.”

      A moment later, the mattress dipped as he moved in beside her. Lying on his side, resting on an elbow, he searched her eyes. Then he brushed a curl from her brow and said, “I promise the same.”

      The next morning, a world of birds’ calls dragged Bishop from a deep sleep. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes, but before he could piece together the previous day’s events, he recognized the room, the unmistakable crisp smell of mountain air. He also recognized the angelic form asleep beside him.

      Laura lay on her back, her silky hair splayed around her head like a halo. One thin black strap had fallen off her shoulder. Beneath the lace bodice, he saw the rosy tips of her breasts.

      Desire—thick, fierce and hot—plunged through his system, from the soles of his feet to the hair on his head and most definitely everywhere in between. On reflex, he reached to cup her flawless cheek but thankfully in time he set his jaw and forced his hand away. It was bad enough that they’d slept in the same bed last night. When he’d promised not to take her, Laura had no idea how serious he’d been. But when she’d curled into him, how could he stop her? Or the acute physical arousal that had kicked in.

      Clamping his eyes shut, he’d forced himself to think of anything other than her faint jasmine scent and the satin feel of her negligee … of her skin. He had no idea how long he’d lain awake, forcing himself not to stroke her back or brush his lips over hers.

      Now he was fighting the same merciless war. The urgent pulsing in his groin said to forget honor and let his palm slide over all those gorgeous contours. The arousal fueling his erection demanded that his mouth glide down and taste her breasts, her hips, the honey between her legs. He imagined her dreamy sigh as she woke slowly, then her fingers winding through his hair as her hips arced and the trapped pounding in his blood found its release. He thought of her climaxing once, twice, and the possibility of them spending all day in bed.

      Hardening more, Bishop swallowed a tortured groan. He’d better get out of this room before he convinced himself what he wanted was not only natural and necessary, but appropriate.

      Quietly, he eased up and pushed to his feet. He slipped his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, which brought another problem to mind. What would he wear over the weekend? Perhaps a quick trip into Burniedale, the nearest township, was in order.

      He glanced at his watch.

      The shops were two hours from opening yet.

      Behind him, Laura stirred but when he turned to study her, she didn’t look uncomfortable. In fact, the corners of her too-kissable mouth were curved into a heavenly smile. The doctor had suggested he wake her every few hours and ask routine questions, but she’d been fine four hours ago. She looked so peaceful now, perfectly healthy but for that small bandage above her temple. He wouldn’t disturb her. Besides, when she was asleep he wasn’t walking on eggshells, wondering when and how the memory pennies would begin to fall.

      A few minutes later, he stood in his office, collecting his BlackBerry off the desk. He checked his messages and found another from Willis.

       Where the hell are you?

      Bishop headed outside. Where was he? Living in a time warp where the woman he’d once loved—who had once loved him—couldn’t remember that she didn’t want him in this house, let alone in her bed. The bigger, far more dangerous issue was, as difficult as it was proving to be, he needed to remember that, too.

      Moving out onto the eastern porch, he siphoned in a lungful of the fresh