Moonlight Man Read online

  He had known! From the moment he’d first met her sultry gaze, seen it fire up and crackle at him, he had known there would be this kind of spark between them, a spark that would turn into instant conflagration. He wanted her like he had never wanted another woman in all of his forty-one years. He wanted to strip her down to her bare skin, lay her on the cold hard ground, and drive himself into her again and again until the desperate urge to have her was finally sated. But he knew that kind of urge would never be fully quenched. He lifted her up off her feet to rub her against him. When she moved her slight, dainty body, parted her legs to make a cradle for his arousal, he groaned and nearly collapsed as his knees gave way. He set her swiftly back onto her feet and turned aside to save his sanity, reluctantly breaking their heated kiss.

  When he lifted his head, he couldn’t speak, could only look at her. She was so beautiful with the moon shining on her pale face, her black lashes contrasting arcs along her skin, her lips wet and parted as if begging for more. But not now. He couldn’t give her more. He knew if he took those lips again, he would gather her up and take her to his bed in the camper. At this point, maybe she wouldn’t object, but when it was over, so would be his every chance of earning her trust. Wanting was one thing, friendship another, and he knew he would have to have both from her before he could even think of telling her his story.

  “Angel,” he murmured finally, “open your eyes. Look at me.”

  She did, and he saw that she was still dazed by the desire that had flared so swiftly and so powerfully between them. The stars high above reflected in the deep pools of her dark eyes. “I want you to go in now, Sharon,” he lied. He didn’t want her to go in. He wanted to keep her with him, enfolded in his arms, and make her so hot the cold wouldn’t matter. “It’s cold out here. It’s time you were in your bed.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, blinking as she remembered who she was, where she was, and who he was. “Mr. Duval …” Sharon unclenched her hands from the wool of his sweater, pulled them from under the front of his jacket, and moved back from him, out of his circle of warmth. Her breathing was shallow and rapid. Her head spun. Her brain felt like mashed potatoes. She didn’t know what to say to him. If he hadn’t brought their untamed kisses to a halt, she willingly would have made love with him right there. Even now, she ached with a terrible need that she knew he could fill. “Mr. Duval …” she tried again, but once more there were no words she could say.

  “Don’t you think you could start to call me Marc now?” he asked softly, taking her hands and tenderly tucking them into the pockets of her blue jacket, then zipping the front of it up to her chin. He smiled. “You can’t exactly call us strangers after that kiss.”

  “I … guess not.” She swallowed hard and drew in a deep, shaky breath. She had to regain control of her own senses. She remembered all too well what happened to a woman who allowed herself to become so sexually overwhelmed that she couldn’t make herself turn and walk away from a man. Marc Duval was one man who could do that to her. And she was not going to permit it.

  “Good night,” she said, and as she spoke, the bell in the church steeple a few miles away began to chime the midnight hour. They stood together, not touching, listening in silence to the bell, gazing down the valley toward the church. When the last, deep-throated, resounding “bong” had faded away into the night, she whispered, almost as if in surprise, “It’s Christmas Day.”

  “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

  She lips curved impishly, and his heart swelled at this first real smile Sharon Leslie had ever given him. “It’s only a few feet.”

  “Still, I’ll make sure you’re safely inside.” He took her arm and walked with her, careful not to brush his shoe against the white fur at the hem of her gown. At her door, he turned her and looked down into her face.

  “Merry Christmas, Sharon.”

  She gave him another smile, just a tiny one, but enough to fill him with happiness he’d forgotten he could feel. “Good night … Marc. Merry Christmas.”

  “Mommy! Look! Wake up! Look what Santa Claus put in my stocking!”

  Sharon groaned as she rolled over and blinked her eyes open, trying to focus on what Roxy had shoved right under her nose. Grasping her daughter’s hand, she put it back at least a foot so she could see the object, and smiled at Roxanne’s delight.

  “My Little Pony!” Roxy exulted, as if her mother wouldn’t recognize the toy. “Santa must have known I lost my other one somewhere. Look, Mommy, here’s a bunch of barrettes and a whole big box of Smarties! Do I have to share those, or are they all for me?”

  “They’re all for you, sweetheart. Merry Christmas. Climb in here and keep warm while you see what else Santa put in your stocking. Is Jason up yet?” She hoped he wasn’t; maybe, after she’d seen the contents of her fat, bulging stocking, Roxy would be content to go to sleep again. A glance at her bedside clock told Sharon that it wasn’t yet five o’clock. It had been well after midnight when she’d finally gone to bed, and then she hadn’t been able to sleep for hours, thinking of those incredible moments in Marc Duval’s arms. What a fool she’d been to let something like that happen! What a stupid risk she’d taken!

  Cuddled with her little daughter, she drifted off again and didn’t awaken until Jason came in at half past seven, eyes shining with pleasure at the contents of his stocking, even though he knew full well who had stuffed it the night before. The three of them sat in Sharon’s big bed and gloated over the goodies until they heard the McKenzie family and Freda up and moving around.

  They opened their gifts before breakfast, the adults fortified with plenty of hot coffee, the children needing no fortification at all.

  As she rolled her toy bulldozer across the carpet back toward the tree, her new doll riding astride it, Roxy looked over her shoulder at her mother, sitting in a nest of crumpled paper and shining bows and tangled ribbons. “Do you think Auntie Jeanie’s feeling lonely for us this morning?”

  She knew Roxy missed her aunt. This was her first Christmas without Jeanie. “I’m sure she is, honey. But we’ll all be together again next Christmas.” Behind her, Sharon heard a chuckle and looked at Rolph, whose green eyes danced with merriment as they shared a smile. He had a bright red scarf wrapped around his neck, even though he was wearing a pair of pajamas covered by a bathrobe. Freda had given it to him, and he wanted to wear it right away.

  “I doubt Jeanie’s even aware it’s Christmas,” he murmured.

  Beside him, Harry laughed softly and said, “Max, on the other hand, probably thinks it’s Christmas and Easter and every birthday he’s ever had, all rolled into one. Your turn next, number two son.”

  “Amen to that,” said Freda, stroking the soft plush of a new bathrobe one of the boys had given her.

  Rolph shrugged. “So find me someone who’s interested for more than fifteen minutes, and I might just take your suggestion seriously. After all, even though I caught the garter you didn’t see any eligible females flinging themselves at my feet, did you?”

  Sharon remembered how Marian Crane, the sharp-tongued, witty redhead who’d ducked the bouquet, had looked at Rolph when he caught that shocking-pink garter. She wondered if Rolph even knew that she was interested in him and probably had been for a long time. She also wondered if it was Rolph’s habit of treating her like a sister that had made Marian deliberately duck the flowers. Apparently they’d known each other since early childhood.

  Zinnie shook her head at him in disgust. “Right. You caught the garter, for all the good it’ll do you. You’ve always given up too easily, my son. The day you try longer than fifteen minutes, I’ll begin to take you seriously. No, Sharon’s the next one. She caught the bouquet. By the way, did anybody else hear that nice Mr. Duval playing carols on his harmonica last night? It was a lovely sound to fall asleep to.”

  Sharon jumped up from the floor and began collecting her gifts and moving the piles back under the tree. “Breakfast time,” she said. “If we don�
�t get that out of the way so I can get the turkey stuffed and into the oven, well be eating Christmas dinner sometime tomorrow morning.”

  Jason grinned. “Mom, you say that every year.”

  “That’s because every year we linger under the tree far too long.” Then, robe flying out around her, she spun from the group in the living room and went swiftly into the kitchen. She’d get dressed after breakfast.

  Looking out the window, she saw a silver world with the dazzle of frost on grass and shrubs, the sun peeking over the treetops to add a hint of sparkle. It was a beautiful Christmas morning, the closest thing to a white Christmas she’d ever seen there on the coast. Snow, if it came down to sea level, usually did so in January. Leaning forward just a bit, she could see the camper with its windows steamed up, and stood clutching the edge of the sink, thinking about Marc Duval again.

  It was his breath that had caused that steam. What would the windows look like if there had been two of them in there last night as there so nearly had been, if he hadn’t been the one to call a halt? She shivered and rubbed her arms under the wide sleeves of her robe, encountering her half dozen of Grandma Margaret’s gold bangles she still wore. She’d forgotten to take them off the previous night. Now, slipping them down over her hand, she reached to set them on the windowsill just as the door of Marc’s camper opened. He stepped out, looked right at her, and smiled. At that moment, one of the bangles fell into the sink with a musical tinkle, and inside Sharon something turned over and came to life again. She spun away from the window, forcing the feeling down with all her might.

  “No way, Grandma Margaret! I don’t care what you did to Jeanie. You’re not doing the same thing to me. Not until I find a man I know is absolutely right. And Marc Duval is absolutely, completely, and terribly wrong.”

  “What’s that, dear?” Freda asked behind her, coming in fully dressed and ready for the day. “Did you say something was wrong?” Shoving up her sleeves, Freda added, “Never mind. What could be wrong on such a perfect Christmas morning? You start the bacon, dear. I’ll take care of toast and eggs.”

  The Christmas dinner table was set on white lace over red linen. Silverware gleamed. China shone. Crystal twinkled merrily with the reflected lights of the tree in the living room beyond. The wonderful aroma of roasting turkey filled the house. Sharon added the finishing touches to the table and joined her new family in the living room.

  The children sat on the floor, laughing, talking, playing with their new toys. Harry and Freda were doing a jigsaw puzzle, while Zinnie and Rolph rested on a big sofa, enjoying each other’s company. In the background, a record of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir played, permeating the room with the spirit of Christmas.

  Did hearing me play make you feel lonely and sad? Marc Duval’s voice resounded in her ears as if he had stepped into the room and spoken those words from the previous night. Sharon sighed and sat down in a chair between Harry and Freda, picked up a puzzle piece, tried it, found it didn’t fit, and leaned back, lost in thought. What was he doing right now? Was he sitting in his camper, feeling lonely and blue? What must it be like to spend Christmas Day all alone? He had said he might be moving into the house today. What a way to spend Christmas, and how long would that take, anyway? The Hardings had always rented the house fully furnished; she supposed he had bought it that way. What would he have to move but a few personal belongings? A banjo. A guitar. A flute. And a harmonica.

  Christmas Day. Moving day. She frowned. She had never been completely alone at this time of year, but she had known the deepest kind of loneliness nevertheless. She swallowed the lump that rose into her throat.

  How Jeanie would laugh if she knew she was sitting there mooning about the man next door! After all the trouble Jeanie’d gone to, dreaming up a man for her sister, going to the crazy extent of advertising for one, then she had ended up falling in love with that dream man herself. She’d find it vastly amusing that Sharon had been doing far too much dreaming of her own since Marc Duval had come on the scene.

  But, until the night before, she’d refused to let him get close; while she might want a man in her life, she did not want one who would demand too much of her either emotionally or sexually, and for that reason Marc Duval’s very open attraction to her had to be quelled. Just as her most inappropriate responses to him had to be.

  Besides, a handsome, sexy, interesting, and disturbing man did not necessarily make good husband material, and she still wanted to marry again. So, for her own sake, she would have to quit thinking about him, forget what they’d shared, forget that he was alone on Christmas Day.

  Marc Duval was not her problem. Maybe he’d gone out for the day. She knew he’d made friends since coming to town. Surely someone had invited him for dinner. As if to drive her crazy, the Mormon Choir began to sing “Silent Night.” Again she felt the deep melancholy that had no place in a home at Christmas. No, she told herself finally, it was better if she kept miles away from the man. But what if nobody had asked him to dinner?

  “What’s the matter, Mom?”

  She looked up, startled. Her son was standing right beside her. “Nothing, Jason. Why?”

  “You sighed. You looked so sad for a minute.” He frowned and continued, his voice low so no one else would hear, “You weren’t thinking about him, were you?”

  She put an arm around the boy and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. “No, love. I wasn’t thinking about your father.” She smiled. “But you were, weren’t you?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Maybe a little. Just sort of … remembering.”

  “Let’s try not to, okay?”

  She knew he was remembering that last, dreadful Christmas they had seen Ellis. She had hoped that time would blur the memories, but it had not. Perhaps they were too firmly ingrained in his mind ever to leave him completely. She was just grateful that Roxy, only three at the time, had no recollection of that terrible night, and that Jason, who’d been seven, remembered only that one. To her mind, the times they had been alone, without Ellis, had been as bad as the one Jason remembered. The loneliness she had suffered, the feelings of inadequacy, the yearning for something that she had once thought would last forever had overwhelmed her. No human being should have to endure loneliness at this time of year, she realized.

  Getting to her feet, she took Jason’s hand and said, “Hey, let’s you and I get our jackets and shoes on. There’s something I want us to do together.”

  “What, Mom?”

  “Never mind. Just come on. You’ll see.”

  Marc opened his door to a tentative knock. Jason stood there, beaming up at him. “Hi, Marc. Mom and I have come to invite you for dinner.”

  Over the boy’s head, Marc sought out Sharon’s fathomless dark eyes. Without a hint of a smile, she nodded, a curt little motion that caused her hair to swing down across her cheeks, partly obscuring the quick flare of color there.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”

  Chapter Three

  WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG, Sharon froze, feeling goosebumps rise up on her arms under the long sleeves of her dress. With her heart hammering high in her throat, she went into the foyer and opened the door, standing back so Marc could enter.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, eyes skimming over her black silk dress with its glittery red and silver bow pinned high on her left shoulder, and the red band holding her sleek hair back from her forehead. He handed her a brightly wrapped package, holding two more in the crook of his arm, and the smile that lit his golden brown eyes was suddenly as precious to Sharon as any of the gifts she had received under the tree.

  “Thank you,” she said, “for both the compliment and the gift. But you certainly didn’t have to do this. I didn’t expect it.”

  “I know you didn’t, any more than I expected your invitation. But I wanted to give you something. These are for the children.”

  “How nice of you. I’ll call them.”

  “No
. Not yet. I want to talk to you alone for just a moment.” He lifted his free hand and touched her hair, then her cheek. His dark gold eyes were very serious. “Last night…” He swallowed. “Last night, what happened was important to me, Sharon. I want you to know that. I’ve wanted to hold you, touch you, kiss you, for a very long time. Ever since I first saw you. And I want to do it again,” he added, almost in a whisper.

  His soft voice got right inside her, twanging on nerve endings that should be left in peace, leaving her with a hot throbbing in the base of her abdomen. Fear struck her, fear that if he pushed this issue, she wouldn’t be able to resist the crazy attraction between them any more than she had the previous night. She’d liked believing that it was only out of loneliness the incident had occurred. She’d finally gone to sleep convinced that mutual melancholy had driven them into each other’s arms. Those kisses … Heaven help her! She didn’t want to remember them, but her body wouldn’t forget. Still, she had to fight it.

  “Marc … please. It shouldn’t have happened. It won’t, not again.” And it wouldn’t, she promised herself. Because if it did, if she allowed herself to listen to the dictates of her body rather than her mind, she’d get all tangled up in an affair with him, and then she’d never find the kind of man she really needed and wanted, someone she could care for in an easy, detached manner, someone who would be good not only for her, but for her children. If not Lorne Cantrell, then someone very much like him.

  “It will, you know,” he said, and bent to brush her lips softly with his. “We won’t be able to stop it now. Either of us.” She jerked back, covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide and stormy.