Falling Star by Diana Dempsey Read Free Book Online Page A

felt so good, so familiar. Again she felt that crazy hope
lurch in her heart and this time didn't fight it. Maybe he has
learned something. Maybe now he understands how much we had.
    How wonderful it would be to have the
nightmare just end, almost as if it had never happened. No longer
to have to suffer everyone's pitying looks, to be a cast-aside
wife, to come home every night to a shell of a house and a cold
bed. Imagine if they could go on as before, better than before,
because this time they would truly appreciate each other.
    When she rose to go upstairs, he followed, as
she knew he would. They moved slowly through their time-worn
rituals, honed after twelve years of marriage into a familiar path
that led to their bed.
    He propped himself on his elbow. She stared
into his eyes and hesitated, still not completely certain what she
saw there. "I don't know if we can make it right this time," she
said.
    He looked surprised. "But we're making it
right, right now."
    Could it be? She wanted to believe
that all the pain of the last months could dissipate like smoke
after a fire, leaving not the slightest trace.
    The warm reassurance brought by that sudden
hope made words cease, thoughts cease, everything cease but the
heavenly feel of his hands on her body and the very wonder of being
in his arms again. She'd been untouched for so long, her femininity
squashed under layers of hurt and loss, that it was as though she'd
ceased being a woman at all. But now he was being so thoughtful, so
tender. And, oh, God, her chemise was off. Now his lips were on her
breasts. He was arching over her in the dark, her nipples taut, his
tongue teasing. It's been so long .
    Then he came on top of her, and she was
ready, his ministrations and her pent-up need making her body open
like a bloom to the sun. Sweet, so sweet.
    It had been so long and yet was so
wonderfully, achingly familiar. His smell. The weight of him. The
wonder of his chest pressing against her breasts, his neck craning
above her, his mouth planting kisses along her forehead, her face,
her throat.
    When finally he made his final thrust within
her, and her own body shuddered with release and happiness, tears
rose in her eyes, hope rose in her throat, all the ache was
banished in the awesome joy that they had found each other
again.
    They lay quietly, entwined, tears running
down her face and disappearing into her hair. Tears for Evie, for
time lost, for Miles, for everything that had been and might still
be. She felt no need for words or promises. Only sleep. Happy,
blessed sleep.
*
    A few hours later Natalie stretched a
languorous arm out from beneath the thick, downy duvet, thrusting
it across the wide bed into the shaft of moonlight that sneaked
beneath the draperies. She raised her head to read the digital
clock: 3:13 AM. She fell back against the pillow and let her gaze
drift around the shadowy bedroom: pine beams crossing the ceiling,
gracefully hewn dressers and side tables stained a luminous teal,
the green iron bars of the bed's footboard wrought into an
intricate web of vines and leaves. The sheets were thoroughly
rumpled and gave off a decadently musky scent of sensual pleasures
shared. She felt Miles's side of the bed. It was cool.
    He was probably downstairs reading. Like
always. Like the old days.
    She smiled and rose from the bed, her muscles
pleasantly sore, and pulled on a robe. Her bare feet slapped on the
hardwood. She stepped into the hallway. "Miles?"
    Silence. She frowned, arrested by the odd
quietness. Slowly she made her way downstairs and peered into the
pitch-black living room. Two brandy snifters stood on the coffee
table. The cushions of the plump white sofa were askew, a pillow
knocked to the floor.
    An ugly thought crossed her mind.
"Miles?"
    Silence.
    It simply wasn't possible.
    "Miles?" She was moving swiftly now, running
across the cold Spanish tile to the front door. She pulled it open
and ran down the curving stone path to the street.
    Gone. His