A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(59)

"Delicious," he said, mouth full, then swigged more wine.

The last time she'd had this cake was on one of the last dates she and Art had been out on. After the restaurant, they came home to a sleeping house, and she surprised him with dessert. Art loved chocolate cake. They'd opened a bottle of red wine, fed each other, licked frosting from one another's fingers, and flirted like teenagers. Later they made slow, luxurious love.

Gwen took a bite of her own cake. It tasted like sugar-coated cardboard. She dropped her fork with a clatter that resonated with a clap of thunder so loud it shook the windowpanes. She wondered if it was raining in Big Bear.

"Okay, then. I'll call my guy and have him write up the paperwork." Lance pressed his fork into the last few crumbs on his plate and washed them down with the end of his wine. Gwen rose from the table, picked up their plates and headed toward the kitchen. He grabbed her arm as she walked by.

"Dinner was great." He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her before she realized what was happening. His lips tasted of wine and chocolate.

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. "I don't think I'm ready for this."

"Don't want to seal the deal?" He gave her a half-smile, boyish and hopeful.

"I'm married."

"I respect that. I told you, I'd never try to come between you and Art. You have a family to think about." He picked up her hand, turned it palm up and kissed it. A nest of butterflies stirred to life in her stomach.

"It wouldn't be good for a working relationship. If we... you know... It would be awkward."

"It's awkward now." He rested his head on her shoulder. "I want to know you, Gwen. All of you."

Need opened its petals inside her. It was like a night-blooming cereus, alive only for one glorious night. A thing of beauty that would be dead by morning. Shouldn't she celebrate it? Shouldn't she exalt in its brief but brilliant display? She lifted his face with a fingertip and met his lips with hers.

Lance stood and picked her up in one movement. If Art did that, he'd put his back out. Love you, babe. The clarion call reverberated in her brain, shattering the moment. "Let's take a bath." The words flew out in a nervous rush.

Impatience hardened his features. "Are you getting in there with me?"

"Of course. Just give me a minute to clean up down here. In case someone comes."

"No one's going to come."

"Please. It will help me relax. There's a great tub in the master bathroom. I'll be right up."

He set her on her feet. "Don't be long." He picked up a freshly opened bottle of wine and took three roses from the vase on the table. As he mounted the stairs, he pulled petals from their stems and dropped them behind him. "Breadcrumbs," he said.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO


Art put Emily in the front seat next to him even though Ryan called shotgun first. She'd finally calmed down, and he wanted to keep it that way. The sounds of the gale were muffled now, but Art was still tense.

The road snaked down the mountain, serpentine and slippery. Rain pelted the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it. He could see the lights of San Bernardino far below where Highway 18 dropped off on his left. He hugged the hillside and hoped he wouldn't be hit by one of the falling rocks the signs warned of.

Despite their bravado, Art could tell the boys were nervous as they broke camp. Their grumbling about leaving grew less and less as the lightning strikes grew closer and the thunder louder. Art glanced into the backseat. Tyler dozed. Jason stared out the window.

Art thought about calling Gwen, but it was late. She was probably in bed. No sense waking her, she'd just worry about them driving in these conditions.

At twenty miles an hour, the descent seemed endless. By the time he hit sea level, he felt like a stork—talons instead of hands, permanently craned neck, children in tow. He stopped at a red light, massaged his fingers and rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder. All three kids were sleeping now. Even Jason had crumpled onto his brother's hip and was snuffling quietly. It was peaceful in the car. A small space of refuge. He missed Gwen more than ever.

Art turned on the radio. A cheerful sounding newscaster said the storm was one of the worst in years. He reported road closures, evacuations and mud slides like they were plays in a cosmic football game.

Art shook his head. Perfect. He felt a kinship with the dry California soil. He'd been unable to absorb the problems he'd been pelted with since September, unable to find terra firma. Life shifted and shook beneath him.

This trip, as ill-fated as it seemed, stopped the mudslide. Family was what mattered, and Art had been neglecting his. Gwen. The kids. The mantle of that responsibility dropped onto his shoulders. The weight of it grounded him.

Emily mumbled, reached out and touched his leg. Art placed his large hand on top of her small one. The contact seemed to comfort her. She smacked her lips a couple of times and settled into sleep again.

Things were going to change. This camping trip was his first attempt to make it right. And it had been a great idea, until the worst storm of the decade decided to make an appearance.

Next month he'd take Gwen to the cottage on Moonstone Beach they'd visited three anniversaries ago. She loved it there. And it would give them a chance to reconnect as man and wife, as lovers, without the kids around. With a shiver, he hoped the San Andreas Fault wouldn't choose that weekend to sever the state.