body, and so he could
surprise her this morning. Obviously, he had.
Just as she had surprised him.
Do you want to come up to the room?
Jesus, yes, he had wanted to go, still wanted to go. He wanted to lock the door behind them and pull back the curtains and
watch her undress in the warm morning light. He wanted to lay her down in the sunlight, wanted to bury himself inside her
as he had last night, only this time he wanted more than merely to feel. He wanted to see. He wanted to see her eyes widen
when he pushed into her, wanted to watch her nipples harden as he stroked them. He wanted to see her muscles quiver when he
moved inside her. He wanted to see her body grow tight and hard in that moment before she came, and he wanted to see it soften
afterward.
He wanted to make love to her again. And again. He wanted to forget all the reasons he was there—Simon Tremont,
Resurrection
, and all the other failures in his life—and simply lose himself in her again. He wanted, for the next few hours, to forget
about what he was and just be who he was: John Smith, a man with more sorrows than any woman deserved. A man who would give
up a good part of his soul for a little more pleasure in her body. A man who would give up a part of his life for a little
of the normalcy of hers.
The hell of it was, she would have let him. That shy little look of hers had been as much of an invitation as his blunt words
last night—
I want to take you to bed
. If he had accepted, she would have taken him to her room, would have taken him to her bed. She would have satisfied his
arousal and eased his hunger for intimacy.
But it would have been wrong. With the plans he had for her, making love to her now would be very wrong.
His muscles stiff and aching from tension he couldn’t control, he walked over to the entrance and gazed out at the street
beyond. It was crowded this morning as people went about their everyday routines. What was life like for them, for people
who worked regular jobs, who lived normal lives with families, responsibilities, and obligations? What was it like to be as
ordinary as the parking valet waiting outside the door, as conventional as the cop standing on the street corner?
There had been a time when he had been almost ordinary, almost conventional, when he had worked regular jobs for regular people—eight-hour
days, five-day weeks, and a paycheck twice a month. He had almost fit in with everyone else then, although he hadn’t had a
family, hadn’t had anyone depending on him for anything. What he remembered most from that time was the unhappiness. Dissatisfaction.
Being unable to find the things he’d wanted most out of life: escape. Peace. Redemption.
Now he had a highly successful career. He had more money than he could spend in a half dozen lifetimes. There were few constraints
on him—no time clocks, no money worries, no dealing with incompetent bosses or difficult coworkers.
And still no escape, no peace, no redemption. He hadn’t stopped craving them. But he
had
accepted that he would never have them. He had accepted his life as it was. And then someone—that man—had stolen it from
him.
With a sigh, he turned away from the doors and went back to the chair where he’d spent the last few hours waiting. He had
seen the man claiming to be him come off the elevator and disappear into the restaurant for breakfast. He had seen him come
out again less than an hour later, his entourage—minus Teryl—close on his heels. He had watched the man go upstairs, had waited
for him to come down again, and had studied him as he stood only a dozen feet and a bed of thick ferns away. He had listened,
catching most, though not all, of his conversation with Teryl.
We barely missed you.
The time has come to accept the recognition that’s rightfully mine. I’ve earned it
.
It’s called talent, Teryl
.
Oh, I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around. After all, I’m going to be
surprise her this morning. Obviously, he had.
Just as she had surprised him.
Do you want to come up to the room?
Jesus, yes, he had wanted to go, still wanted to go. He wanted to lock the door behind them and pull back the curtains and
watch her undress in the warm morning light. He wanted to lay her down in the sunlight, wanted to bury himself inside her
as he had last night, only this time he wanted more than merely to feel. He wanted to see. He wanted to see her eyes widen
when he pushed into her, wanted to watch her nipples harden as he stroked them. He wanted to see her muscles quiver when he
moved inside her. He wanted to see her body grow tight and hard in that moment before she came, and he wanted to see it soften
afterward.
He wanted to make love to her again. And again. He wanted to forget all the reasons he was there—Simon Tremont,
Resurrection
, and all the other failures in his life—and simply lose himself in her again. He wanted, for the next few hours, to forget
about what he was and just be who he was: John Smith, a man with more sorrows than any woman deserved. A man who would give
up a good part of his soul for a little more pleasure in her body. A man who would give up a part of his life for a little
of the normalcy of hers.
The hell of it was, she would have let him. That shy little look of hers had been as much of an invitation as his blunt words
last night—
I want to take you to bed
. If he had accepted, she would have taken him to her room, would have taken him to her bed. She would have satisfied his
arousal and eased his hunger for intimacy.
But it would have been wrong. With the plans he had for her, making love to her now would be very wrong.
His muscles stiff and aching from tension he couldn’t control, he walked over to the entrance and gazed out at the street
beyond. It was crowded this morning as people went about their everyday routines. What was life like for them, for people
who worked regular jobs, who lived normal lives with families, responsibilities, and obligations? What was it like to be as
ordinary as the parking valet waiting outside the door, as conventional as the cop standing on the street corner?
There had been a time when he had been almost ordinary, almost conventional, when he had worked regular jobs for regular people—eight-hour
days, five-day weeks, and a paycheck twice a month. He had almost fit in with everyone else then, although he hadn’t had a
family, hadn’t had anyone depending on him for anything. What he remembered most from that time was the unhappiness. Dissatisfaction.
Being unable to find the things he’d wanted most out of life: escape. Peace. Redemption.
Now he had a highly successful career. He had more money than he could spend in a half dozen lifetimes. There were few constraints
on him—no time clocks, no money worries, no dealing with incompetent bosses or difficult coworkers.
And still no escape, no peace, no redemption. He hadn’t stopped craving them. But he
had
accepted that he would never have them. He had accepted his life as it was. And then someone—that man—had stolen it from
him.
With a sigh, he turned away from the doors and went back to the chair where he’d spent the last few hours waiting. He had
seen the man claiming to be him come off the elevator and disappear into the restaurant for breakfast. He had seen him come
out again less than an hour later, his entourage—minus Teryl—close on his heels. He had watched the man go upstairs, had waited
for him to come down again, and had studied him as he stood only a dozen feet and a bed of thick ferns away. He had listened,
catching most, though not all, of his conversation with Teryl.
We barely missed you.
The time has come to accept the recognition that’s rightfully mine. I’ve earned it
.
It’s called talent, Teryl
.
Oh, I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around. After all, I’m going to be
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