Public Secrets Part 23

"Just as well," Pete said as he pulled out a key. "You've a couple of

hours before the boys' interview. It's with some new mag that'll

publish its first issue later this year. Rolling Stone."

She took the key, pleased that he was sensitive enough not to intrude on

the two hours he'd given her with Brian. "Thanks, Pete. I'll make sure

he's ready for it."

The moment she opened the door, Brian came racing out of the adjoining

bedroom to sweep both her and Emma into his arms. "Thank Christ," he

murmured, raining kisses over Bev's face. He took the limp, drowsy

Emma. "What's wrong here?"

"Nothing now." Bev dragged her free hands through her hair. "She was

dreadfully sick on the plane. Hardly slept. I think she'll do fine

once she's tucked up."

"Right then. Don't move." He carried Emma into the second bedroom. She

stirred only once as he slipped her between the sheets. "Dad?"

"Yes." It still rocked him. "You sleep now awhile. Everything's fine."

Comforted by the sound of his voice, she took it on faith, and drifted

to sleep again.

He automatically left the door ajar, then just stood and looked at Bev.

She was pale with fatigue, the shadows under her eyes making them huge

and dark. Love welled up in him, stronger, needier than any he'd ever

known. Saying nothing, he crossed to her, picked her up in his arms and

carried her to his bed.

He didn't have words, though he was a man always filled with them. Words

to poetry, poetry to lyrics. Later he would be filled with them, reams

of words, flowing through him, all stemming from this, what might have

been his most precious hour with her.

She was, in that hour, so completely his.

The radio beside the bed was on, as was the television at the foot of

it. He'd chased away the silence of his rooms with voices. When he

touched her, she was all the music he needed.

So he savored. He undressed her slowly, watching her, absorbing her.

The shudder of traffic outside the window-later he would remember it in

bases and trebles. The small, yielding sounds she made were pitched low

in countermelody. He could even hear the whispering song of his hands

gliding over her skin.

There was sunlight pouring through the window, and the big, soft bed

yielding under them.

Her body was already changing, subtly, with the life growing in it. He

spread his hand over her rounded stomach, amazed, dazzled, humbled.

Reverently he lowered his lips to her flesh.

It was foolish, he thought, but he felt like a soldier returning from

war, covered with scars and medals. Perhaps not so foolish. The arena

in which he'd fought and won wasn't one he could take her to. She would

always wait for him. It was in her eyes, in her arms as they tenderly

enfolded him. That promise and patience was on her lips as they opened

for his. Her pa.s.sion was always steadier than his, less selfish,

balancing his edgier and more dangerous urges. With her he felt more of

a man, less of a symbol in a world that seemed so hungry for symbols.

When he slipped inside of her, he spoke at last, saying her name on a