Vision in White

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HE WASN’T SURE WHAT HE INTENDED TO DO, AND WAS LESS sure of what she intended to do. But when Mac cut across the snowy lawn, Carter instinctively picked her up.

“What? What?”

“You’re only wearing shoes.”

“So are you! Put me down! I can’t project a stern and forbidding demeanor when you’re carrying me. Down, down, or they’ll get by us.”

The minute he set her down, she was off. In a kind of lope, Carter thought. A long-legged gazelle leaping through the snow. He wasn’t graceful, he knew. But he was fast when he had to be.

He passed her. Carter figured his ungainly slide on the path, thanks to his now ruined and snow-slicked shoes, cut back on the impact of the barrier, but he blocked the forward motion of the furious best man and his current amore.

“I’m sorry. Mr. and Mrs. Lester have expressly ordered that Ms. Poulsen not be admitted to this event.”

“She’s with me, and we’re going in.”

Not just furious, Carter noted, but a little bit drunk. “Again, I’m sorry, but we have to respect the wishes of the bride and groom.”

Just slightly out of breath, Mac reached them. “You were told, specifically and repeatedly, that your friend here isn’t allowed.”

“Donny.” Roxanne tugged on Donny’s sleeve. “You said it was all right.”

A combination of anger and embarrassment heated Donny’s face. “It’s all right because I say it is. It’s my brother’s wedding, and I can bring whoever I want to bring. Meg’s bent, and that’s too bad. But she doesn’t run my life. Out of my way.” He jabbed a finger at Mac and Carter. “You’re just the hired help.”

“She’s not going in,” Mac said. Too many trips to the bar, Mac calculated, so his ego, his pride, his resentment all swam in a pool of alcohol.

Where the hell was the backup?

“You just said it yourself, it’s your brother’s wedding. If she’s more important to you than his happiness today, then you can turn around and go with her. This is private property, and she’s not welcome at this time.”

“Donny.” Roxanne tugged at his arm again. “There’s no point—”

“I said you’re with me.” He whirled back to Mac. “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t tell me about my brother. Now move!” Temper ripe in his eyes, he planted a hand on Mac’s shoulder and shoved.

Like a flash, Carter stood between them. “Don’t touch her again. Now, you’re drunk, and you’re obviously stupid so I’ll factor that in. You need to cool off and calm down, because you really don’t want to do this.”

“You’re right. I want to do this.”

He smashed his fist into Carter’s face. Carter’s head snapped back, but he didn’t give ground. Roxanne squealed, Mac cursed. Before she could leap forward, Carter pushed her back behind him.

“She’s not going in. You’re not going back in. All you’ve proven is that you’re too selfish to think of anyone but yourself. You’ve embarrassed Ms. Poulsen, and that’s a shame. But you’re not going to get the opportunity to embarrass your brother and his wife today. Now you can leave on your own, or I can help you with that.”

“Why don’t we all help him with that?” Del said as he and Jack flanked Carter.

“I don’t think there’s any need for that.” Parker clipped down the path, then muscled her way through. She stood, an ice queen in Armani, and stared down the best man. “Is there, Donny?”

“We’ve got better things to do. Come on, Roxie. This place is a dump anyway.”

“I’ll make sure they leave.” Del shook his head in disgust. “Go on back in. How’s the face, Carter?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve had a fist smash into it.” He wiggled his jaw experimentally. “It always hurts though.”

“Ice pack.” Parker watched the CBBM and SBP’s departure with cold eyes. “Emma.”

“Come with me, Carter.”

“It’s all right. Really.”

“Ice pack.” Parker’s tone brooked no nonsense. “I’ll signal the all-clear, and let’s get back inside. Nobody hears about this.”

“Did you see what he did?” Mac murmured.

“He who?” Del asked.

“Carter. He just . . . Every time I think I have him figured out, he shifts on me. It’s confusing.”

Somebody else had it bad, Del noted as Mac hurried down the path to finish her job.

IT TOOK NEARLY TWO HOURS BEFORE MAC COULD FINISH AND track Carter down in Laurel’s kitchen. He sat alone in the breakfast nook, reading. As she came in, he glanced up, took off his glasses. “All clear?”

“More or less. I’m sorry it took so long. Carter, you should’ve gone home. It’s after midnight. I should’ve gotten word back to you. Oh, your poor face.” She winced at the bruise on his jaw.

“It’s not so bad. But we decided I should stay here. If I’d come back out, I might’ve had to explain how I came by this.” He touched his fingers gingerly to the bruise. “I’m terrible at lying, so this was simpler. Plus, as promised, there was cake.”

She slid in across from him. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, Parker had a copy of a John Irving novel I hadn’t read yet. I’ve been tended, entertained, and fed. Your partners made sure of it. And both Jack and Del each came back for a while. I’ve been fine.”

“You didn’t even wobble.”

“Sorry?”

“When that stupid bastard belted you. You barely reacted.”

“He was half drunk so there wasn’t that much behind it. He shouldn’t have put his hands on you.”

“You never even raised your voice. You shut him down—I could see it happen in his face, even before the troops arrived. And you never touched him or raised your voice.”

“Teacher training, I suppose. And a wide and varied experience with bullies. Did the newlyweds get off all right?”

“Yes. They don’t know what happened. They’ll find out, I imagine, but they had their day—and that was the point. You were a big part of that.”

“Well, it was an experience. All it cost me was a sore jaw and a pair of shoes.”

“And you’re still here.”

“I was waiting for you.”

She stared at him, then just gave in to the shimmer inside her heart. “I guess you’d better come home with me, Carter.”

He smiled. “I guess I’d better.”

MISTAKES HAPPENED, RIGHT? MAC REMINDED HERSELF AS SHE opened the door of her studio. If this was a mistake, she’d fix it. Later. When she could think more clearly. But at the moment, it was after midnight, and there was Carter in his three-piece suit and ruined shoes.

“I’m not as tidy as you.”

“

Tidy’s such a fussy word, don’t you think?” He gave her an easy smile. “The sort that makes you think of your great-aunt Margaret and her tea cozies.”

“I don’t have a great-aunt Margaret.”

“If you did, she’d probably be a tidy sort with a tea cozy. I prefer the word

organized.”

Mac tossed her coat over the arm of her couch. Unlike Carter, she didn’t have a coat closet. “I’m organized then, when it comes to my work, my business.”

“I could see that today. It seemed you knew exactly what to do, where to be, what to look for before it was there.” He laid his coat over hers. “That’s creative instinct married to organization.”

“And I use them both for the work. Outside of that, I’m a messy woman.”

“Everyone’s messy, Mackensie. Some people just shove the disorder into a closet or a drawer—at least when company’s coming—but it’s still there.”

“And some people have more drawers and closets than others. But since it’s been a long day, let’s step back from the edge of the philosophical cliff, and just say I’m telling you this as my bedroom isn’t at its best.”

“Are you looking for a grade?”

“As long as there’s a very generous curve. Come on up, Dr. Maguire.”

“This used to be the pool house,” he said as she led the way.

“The Browns did a lot of entertaining, so they redesigned it as a kind of spare guest house. Then when we opened the business, we redesigned again for the studio. But up here, it’s all personal space.”

A master suite sprawled over the second story, layed out, Carter saw, to accommodate a sitting area where he imagined she might read, nap, watch TV.

Color dominated, with the muted, misty gold of the walls serving as a backdrop for strong blues, greens, reds. Like a jewel box, he thought, with everything cluttered in, tangled, and gleaming. Clothes draped over the arms of chairs. Bright sweaters, soft shirts. Throws and pillows tumbled over the bed, the couch, like bold stones and rivers.

A wildly ornate mirror hung over a painted chest that served as a dresser. The top held jumbled and fascinating pieces of her. Earrings, magazines, bottles, and pots. Photographs served as art, portraits of those close to her. Posed and candid, pensive and joyful. With them scattered over the walls, she’d never be alone here.

“There’s so much of you here.”

“I try to shovel some of it out every couple of weeks.”

“No, I mean it reflects. Downstairs reflects your professional side, and this, the personal.”

“Which circles back to my point about being a messy woman.” She opened a drawer, pushed in a discarded sweater. “With a lot of drawers.”

“So much color and energy in here.” It was how he saw her. Color and energy. “How do you sleep?”

“With the lights off.”

She stepped to him, laid her finger on his bruised jaw. “Still hurt?”

“Actually . . . yes.” Now, alone in her jewel-box room, he did what he’d wanted to do all day. He kissed her. “There you are,” he murmured when her lips warmed to his. “Right there.”

She let herself lean into him, let herself sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder. Yes, she’d think later. When he wasn’t holding her, when her mind wasn’t fuzzed with fatigue and longing.

“Let’s get you into bed.” He kissed the top of her head. “Where are your pajamas?”

It took her a minute to process the question, then she leaned back to stare at him. “My

pajamas?”

“You’re so tired.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Look how pale you are.”

“Yeah, and me with my ruddy complexion. Carter, I’m confused here. I thought you were staying.”

“I am. You’ve been on your feet all day, and waged war for part of it. You’re tired.”

He unbuttoned her suit jacket in the practical way that reminded her of the way he’d once buttoned her coat.

“What do you sleep in? Oh, maybe you don’t.” His eyes came back to hers. “Sleep in anything, I mean.”

“I . . .” She shook her head, but none of the thoughts inside it fell into place. “You don’t want to go to bed with me?”

“I am going to bed with you. To sleep with you because you need sleep.”

“But—”

He kissed her, soft and slow. “I can wait. Now, pajamas? I hope you say yes because otherwise one of us isn’t going to get much sleep.”

“You’re a strange and confusing man, Carter.” She turned, opened a drawer to pull out flannel pants and a faded T-shirt. “This is what I call pajamas.”

“Good.”

“I don’t have any in stock that’ll fit you.”

“I don’t actually wear . . . Oh. Ha.”

He’d change his mind when they were in bed, she thought as they undressed. But he got points for good intentions. Yes, she was tired, her feet ached and her brain felt dull, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find energy for sex.

Especially really good sex.

When he slid into bed beside her, she curled into him, trailing her hand over his chest, lifting her mouth to his. She would arouse and seduce, and then—

“Did I tell you about the lecture I’m planning on methodological and theoretical analysis of the novel, with a specific emphasis on home—both literal and metaphorical—as motif ?”

“Ah . . . uh-uh.”

He smiled in the dark, gently, rhythmically rubbing her back. “It’s for seniors in my advanced classes.” In a quiet monotone designed to bore the dead, he began to explain his approach. And he explained it as tediously as possible. He gauged it would take five minutes, tops, to put her to sleep.

She went out in two.

Satisfied, he rested his cheek on top of her head, closed his eyes, and let himself drift off with her.

SHE AWOKE WITH THE WINTER SUN SLANTED OVER HER FACE. She awoke warm.

Sometime in the night he’d spooned her, and now she lay snugged back up against him, wrapped close. Cozy, she thought, rested and relaxed.

He’d wanted her to sleep, so she’d slept. Wasn’t it funny how he managed to get his way without demanding, without pushing?

Sneaky.

Well, he wasn’t the only one.

His arm wrapped around her waist. She took his hand, pressed it to her breast.

Touch me. She pressed back against him, sliding her leg between his.

Feel me.

She smiled when his hand moved under hers, when it cupped her. And when his lips pressed to the nape of her neck.

Taste me.

She turned so they were face-to-face, so her eyes could look into the soft blue of his. “I feel . . . refreshed,” she murmured. And still looking into his eyes, let her hand glide down his chest, over his belly until she found him. “Hey, you, too.”

“It often happens that certain parts of me wake up before others.”

“Is that so?” She shifted, rolling him to his back to straddle him. “I think I’m going to have to take advantage of that.”

“If you must.” In a lazy morning caress, he ran his hands down her torso, over her hips. “You even look beautiful when you wake up.”

“I have bed hair, but the part of you that wakes up first doesn’t notice.” She crossed her arms, gripped the hem of her T-shirt. Pulled it up, off, tossed it. “Now that part doesn’t know if I even have hair.”

“It’s like the sun set on fire.”

“You’ve got a way, Carter.” She leaned down, caught his bottom lip with her teeth. “Now, I’m going to have my way.”

“Okay.” As she leaned back, he sat up. “But do you mind if I . . .” And closed his mouth on her breast.

“No.” Her belly clutched in response. “I don’t mind a bit. God, you’re good at this.”

“Anything worth doing.”

Soft, firm, warm, smooth. She was all those things. He could feast on her, break his fast with the enticing, alluring flavors of her. She pressed him closer, urging him to take more while her hips rocked him into heat.

She bowed over him, back from him, wriggling out of the flannel pants. She pushed him back, rose up, her body lean and pale, dappled by the thin light that eked through the windows. She took him in, surrounding.

She arched, trapped in her own web of pleasure, and moved to the beat of her own blood. Slow and thick and deep, gliding silk to silk, steel to velvet. In that morning hush, there were only sighs, a tremble of breath, a whispered name.

And the beat quickened while pleasure tipped toward ache. She watched him watch her, watched what she was fill his eyes as that ache spread, swelled. The beat pounded—urgent now, faster now. She rode him, rode them both until the ache peaked, tore, and shattered.

When she went limp, he drew her down and held her close as he had in the night.

Floating, she thought, it was like floating down a long, quiet river where the water was warm and clear. And even if you sank, he’d be there, to hold on to you.

Why couldn’t she have this, just enjoy this, without creating obstacles, digging up problems, worrying about mistakes, about tomorrows? Why let the maybes, the ifs, the probablies spoil something so lovely?

“I’d like to stay right here,” she said quietly. “Just like this. All day.”

“Okay.”

Her lips curved. “Are you ever lazy? Do the serious sloth?”

“Being with you isn’t lazy. We could consider it an experiment. How long can we stay in this bed, without food or drink or outside activities? How many times can we make love on a Sunday?”

“I wish I could find out, but I have to work. We have another event today.”

“What time?”

“Mmm, three o’clock, which means I have to be over there by one. And I have to upload the shots from yesterday.”

“You need me out of the way.”

“No, I was thinking shower and coffee for two. I might even scramble some eggs instead of offering you my usual Pop-Tart.”

“I like Pop-Tarts.”

“I bet you eat the grown-up breakfast.”

“I rely heavily on Toaster Strudels.”

She lifted her head. “Those are great. If I can provide hot water, coffee, Pop-Tarts with a side of eggs, would you consider hanging out for today’s event?”

“I would—if a toothbrush and a razor get tossed in. I don’t suppose you have a spare pair of shoes.”

“I have many shoes, but I assume you’re talking about manly ones.”

“That would be best. High heels make my toes cramp.”

“Funny guy. Actually, we may be able to help you out. Parker keeps a supply of dress shoes for events. Standard black dress for men, black heels for women.”

“That’s . . . efficient.”

“It’s compulsive, but we’ve actually dipped into them several times. What size?”

“Fourteen.”

This time her head shot up. “Fourteen?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That’s like aircraft carrier size.” She tossed off the covers to study his feet. “You have battleship feet.”

“Which is why I trip over them so much. I don’t think Parker’s compulsive enough to carry fourteens.”

“No, not even Parker. Sorry, but I can provide the toothbrush and razor.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

“I think we should start with the shower. We need to get hot and wet and all kinds of slippery.” She glanced down at him and grinned. “Hey, look who’s awake again!” Laughing, she rolled out of bed, raced for the shower.

BY THE TIME MAC WRAPPED HERSELF IN A TOWEL, SHE’D DECIDED Carter was as creative vertically as he was horizontally. Wonderfully loose, she dug out a spare toothbrush, a disposable razor, and a travel-sized can of shaving cream.

“There you go.” She turned as he rapped his elbow getting out of the shower. “I have a question. How come you’re not clumsy when you’re having sex?”

“I guess I pay better attention.” Frowning, he rubbed his elbow. “Plus you distracted me in your towel.”

“Since you’re going to shave, I’m going down to start the coffee. That way I won’t distract you into cutting your face to ribbons.”

She gave his face a pat, ended up yanked against him and thoroughly distracted. When she managed to wiggle away, she tossed him her towel. “You take it since it’s a problem.”

She grabbed her robe off the back of the door, and sauntered out naked.

When she disappeared, Carter picked up the razor, studied it dubiously before eyeing the nasty sunset of bruising on his jaw. “Okay, let’s see if we can do this without any facial scarring.”

Downstairs, Mac hummed as she measured out beans. She didn’t really need coffee to jump-start her day, she thought. Carter had taken care of that. He took care, she thought with a sigh, so she felt tended and appreciated, challenged and excited.

When was the last time she had a man bring out all those things in her? Let’s see . . . Absolutely never. And above all those things? She felt happy.

She opened the fridge, counted four eggs. That ought to do it. She got out a bowl, a whisk, a skillet. She wanted to fix him breakfast, she realized—such as it was. Wanted to put a little meal together for him. To tend, she supposed, as he tended.

It must be—

Her thoughts scattered as she heard the door open. “Em? If you’ve come to mooch coffee, you’d better be carrying one of my mugs you’ve walked off with.”

She turned, expecting to see her friend, and watched her mother walk into the kitchen.

“Mom.” Mac’s face went numb. “What are you doing here?”

“Dropping by to see my daughter.” Beaming smiles, Linda tossed open her arms as she rushed across the kitchen to grab Mac in a hard hug. “Oh, you’re so thin! You should’ve been a model instead of the one taking pictures. Coffee, wonderful. Have you got any skim milk?”

“No. Mom, I’m sorry, this isn’t a good time.”

“Oh, why do you want to hurt my feelings?” On Linda, a pout was both pretty and effective—and she knew it. Her baby blue eyes radiated hurt, her soft, pink mouth projected defenselessness—with the slightest of quivers.

“I don’t mean to. It’s just . . . we have an event today and—”

“You

always have an event.” Linda waved it off. “You can spare five minutes for your mother.” As she spoke, Linda tossed her coat over a stool. “I came all the way over here to thank you for the spa. And to apologize.” Those blue eyes took on a sheen of emotion and unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have been so cranky with you, and after you were so sweet to me. I’m so sorry.”

She meant it, Mac knew. For as long as it lasted.

Rather than acknowledge sentiments that would be fleeting, Mac got out a mug. Give her coffee, get her gone, she thought. “Great outfit. You’re awfully suited up for a drop-by.”

“Oh, this?” Linda did a runway turn in the sharp red suit that set off her curves and burned against her fall of blond hair. “It’s fabulous, isn’t it?” She threw back her head and laughed, until Mac had to smile.

“It is. Especially on you.”

“What do you think, the pearls are good with it, aren’t they? Not too matron lady?”

“Nothing could look matronly on you.” Mac offered the mug.

“Oh, honey, don’t you have a decent cup and saucer?”

“No. Where are you taking the outfit?”

“I’m having brunch in the city, at Elmo. With Ari.”

“Who?”

“Ari. I met him at the spa. I told you. He lives in the city. He owns olive groves and vineyards—and, well, I’m not sure exactly, but it doesn’t matter. His son runs most of the businesses now. He’s a widower.”

“Ah.”

“He may be the one.” Forgoing the coffee, Linda pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, Mac, we had such a meeting of the minds and spirits, such an instant connection. It must’ve been fate that sent me to the spa at the same time he was there.”

My three thousand sent you to the spa, Mac thought.

“He’s very handsome, in a distinguished kind of way. He travels

everywhere. He has a second home on Corfu, a pied-а-terre in London, and a summer home in the Hamptons. I’d barely gotten in the door from the spa when he called to ask me to brunch today.”

“Have a good time. You should get started, it’s a long drive into the city.”

“It really is, and my car made a funny noise yesterday. I need to borrow yours.”

“I can’t lend you my car. I need it.”

“Well, you’ll have mine.”

With the funny noise, Mac thought. “Your two-seater convertible won’t work for me. I have client meetings tomorrow, and an outside shoot, which means equipment. I need my own car.”

“I’ll have it back tonight. God, Mackensie.”

“That’s what you said the last time I let you borrow it, and I didn’t see it or you for three days.”

“That was a spontaneous long weekend. Your trouble is you never do anything spontaneous. Everything has to be scheduled and regimented. Do you want me to have a breakdown on the side of the road? Or an accident? Can’t you think of anyone but yourself ?”

“Excuse me.” Carter stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Sorry to interrupt. Hello, you must be Mackensie’s mother.”