Chapter 24

Della made Perry promise to remain in the small foyer at the bottom of the stairs while she ran up to 'check on a couple of things' in the carriage house apartment, and he couldn't help but chuckle when she hiked up her skirt and took the stairs two at a time into the darkness above. And she stole his breath when she reappeared at the top of the stairs, softly lit from behind, an angelic smile on her lips, an elegant arm beckoning him to join her. He took the stairs three at a time as Frank Sinatra crooned about being bewitched, bothered and bewildered in the background.

When he reached the top step, Della placed her hands on his shoulders and raised half-parted lips to Perry's. With him on the step and her on the landing, their height difference nearly erased, she felt in command, exactly as she wanted it. She coaxed a stifled moan from him when she lightly bit his lower lip and then slid her tongue over it to soothe the delicious nip.

His arms crept around her sequined middle, drawing her closer as he leaned into the kiss, teasing her soft lips with tantalizing, maddening gentleness before his tongue touched hers in a silent request for access to the inner sanctum of her mouth. But she denied him what he so badly wanted with a shake of her head.

"Patience, Mr. Mason" she scolded in a nearly inaudible whisper, pulling him up onto the landing and into the small apartment.

"Della," he said in astonishment, disbelieving of the sight before him.

She twisted as his arms encircled her so that they both faced the interior of the small, square, sloped-roof apartment and what she had managed to do in a few short hours that afternoon. There was only one light source – a lamp on the floor beneath a window at the far end of the room. A filmy scrap of fabric was draped over the shade, bathing the room in a muted pinkish glow. A large box fan pulled in the cool, sweet night air through the window. To the right, below the eave, two four-inch featherbeds had been stacked on the floor, with several pillows artfully arranged against the bead board paneling of the wall. A low parson's table placed next to the make-shift mattress held the kitchen radio, two Waterford crystal Lismore champagne/sherbet glasses and a heavy crystal vase from which jutted the neck of a champagne bottle.

"You like?" Della asked softly.

He nuzzled her neck, his breath warm and enticing on her skin. "Oh, I like very much. And may I say that as beautiful as you are in that dress, I can't wait to see how beautiful you are out of it."

She twisted again so that she was facing him, a brazenly sly smile curving her lips upward. "All in good time," she chastised him coyly, placing her palms on his shirtfront. "First, champagne." She slipped from his embrace and floated over to where the crystal vase sat on the table, sinking gracefully to her haunches to pull the bottle from the icy vessel. Swiftly, efficiently, effortlessly she popped the cork, and rose to her feet, triumphantly brandishing the dripping bottle. She poured them each a glass, bent to push the bottle back into the vase of ice, and returned to where Perry still stood, his eyes drinking in her every movement. She handed him his glass and lifted one eyebrow, which only served to fuel his initial desire to divest her of the delectable dress now rather than 'in good time'.

She held her glass aloft. "You make the toast."

Jo Stafford was telling her lover that she would be seeing him in all the old familiar places as Perry very deliberately, never breaking eye contact with her, touched his glass to hers with a beautifully pure 'ping'. "To all the unspeakably wicked things I am going to do to you on that featherbed, Miss Street."

Della raised the fine crystal glass to her lips and instead of taking a sip as he did, quickly tossed back its contents, turned, and crossed over to the table, where she poured herself another drink, and again floated back to where he had taken root in the floorboards. "Such a fine toast deserves more than one puny glass of champagne," she explained, sipping daintily.

Perry chuckled quietly, although he wanted to burst into unrestrained laughter, toss her onto the featherbed and make good on his toast that very second. "I'm glad you approve. Sometimes it's difficult to come up with just the right words for a toast." He drained the bubbly wine from the valuable old crystal glass and regarded her with eyes darkened by thinly-veiled passion.

She took his glass and this time he followed her over to the table where he adjusted the volume on the radio while she placed the glasses back on the table with hands that trembled visibly. They stood beneath the slanted eave, Perry's head bent due to his height, swaying slightly to Ella Fitzgerald lamenting about songs of love not being written for her, lips almost touching, but not quite.

"Dance with me," she whispered.

"Yes," he replied without hesitation, and took the woman who held his heart irrevocably in his arms.

The apartment was too small to dance properly, but Perry managed to guide Della in a compact version of a waltz, holding her slender, lithe body against his bigger, muscular frame. He was completely enthralled with her and how she must have struggled to drag those featherbeds out of the house and up the steep stairs to this apartment. That she would do this for him in the middle of such personal turmoil touched him in that place only she could reach, the place he hadn't known existed until the moment he realized he was falling in love with his secretary, the place where something called happiness resided in him, dormant.

Perry's long fingers traced the narrow trail of sequins up and over the creamy skin of her shoulder, sliding beneath the strap and caressing her shoulder blade gently. He lowered his head, and using his teeth, pulled the strap from her shoulder so that it dangled over her arm, their dance now nothing more than a slight shifting from foot to foot in time to the music. Della gasped audibly when he repeated the endeavor on her other shoulder, her breathing ragged from champagne, from being wrapped in his strong arms, and especially from the anticipation of the deliciously intimate things they would do to fulfill his toast. As his mouth left a trail of kisses over her flushed and tingling skin, his fingers located the side zipper of her dress and deftly pulled it down. Surrendering herself to his arousing touch, she performed a tiny shimmy and the heavenly dress slid off her, landing in a fluffy heap around her legs. He nearly lost control when she was revealed to be wearing only scandalously brief undergarments bedecked with rows and rows of tiny ruffles she had once told him were called 'bloomer panties', but managed to gather enough composure to take a moderately steady step back from her.

"Uh oh," he said with mild mock alarm, "now look what I've done."

He was an exceptionally good-looking man, especially in repose, his strong features tranquil, the angles softened by complete relaxation. She loved how he looked younger, and dare she think it, vulnerable; thick black eyelashes fanned over his cheeks, fluttering occasionally as tiny, flickering smiles moved across his beautifully shaped lips. She wondered what unconscious thoughts manifested themselves in those secret, fleeting smiles; what pleasant dreams caused those soft dimples at the corners of his mouth. She liked to think his thoughts were of her, that she was primarily responsible for the peacefulness of those smiles and his boyishly relaxed countenance. He was a sound sleeper, a quiet sleeper not prone to much movement, and she knew that if she closed the small space between them, his dimples would deepen and he would tuck her possessively against his side, plant a kiss on her forehead, and settle right back into his comfortable, even pattern of breathing.

She was tired, a glowingly happy, thoroughly sated, blissfully pleasured weariness of various unchaste but oh-so-satisfying acts, instead of the draining fatigue she'd lived with since arriving back in this town. What Perry brought out in her often startled her sensibilities, but his unselfish pursuit of her pleasure, and the unbridled joy she saw in his eyes at her responses to his voracious lovemaking pushed aside lingering inhibitions, taking her to heights of sensation she couldn't possibly conceive of achieving with anyone else. To feel like this because she loved and was loved made the satiation all that more complete.

Yes, she was tired, but she didn't want to waste this opportunity to study him in the muted glow of the lone table lamp. Watching him, listening to him breathe, and excessively assured of his feelings for her, helped put the past few days in perspective. Had it really only been six days since Eve Wyman crossed her threshold? Had her grandmother really only been gone for five days? Had the will reading really only been three days ago? So much had happened in such a short period of time, so much that affected her life with Perry and in general, so much that she had to think about. She wished she could make Perry understand that just because she found it necessary to dig deep into herself to cope didn't mean she was completely shutting him out. She needed the stability of his affection most, desperately in fact, when her thoughts took confounding detours, when carefully sorted and solved, parsed and parceled, dissected and disseminated realities surfaced to dog her. That irrational 'blurt' Perry had been pleased to hear hadn't pleased her at all and despite her promise to be more forthcoming in the future she felt unduly pressured – although she most definitely wasn't going to tell him that. His professional specialty held enough sturm and drang as it was, and she had vowed early in their relationship never to be an additional drain on him, one of those women who needed constant declarations of affection or unending compliments in order to feel secure. She knew with pure, simple truth and trust that Perry loved her and only her, and that he would do anything to make her happy. And even though it wasn't pleasant for her, she knew she would have to let him in on her thoughts more often despite her current misgivings.

His eyelashes fluttered again and she reached out her hand to trace the bowed lines of his upper lip, capturing a smile with gentle fingertips. Suddenly his eyes opened and she was mesmerized by his blue gaze, fingers stilled.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping. I was enjoying being watched." His smile widened. "And letting you sort out your thoughts."

Her fingers resumed their gentle stroking of his mouth. "I wish you wouldn't flaunt how well you know me."

"My dear, I assure you I do not flaunt. Care to tell me why you are awake and staring at me with such acquiescent intensity?"

She withdrew her hand and tucked it beneath her pillow. "Now you're just plain showing off. I don't think I'll tell you, Mr. Smarty Pants."

He frowned. "I don't know what's worse; calling Bart a pussycat or calling me Mr. Smarty Pants."

"What do you smile about when you're asleep?"

"And on to a more interesting subject, eh?" He tucked his hand beneath his pillow, mimicking her position. "If I smile in my sleep it's because I'm dreaming about you."

Her smile was breathtakingly pleased. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"That was not empty glibness. As you pointed out at dinner, I needn't flatter you. I'm telling you the truth."

She laughed, a soft chuckle low in her throat that sent sparks of desire from his brain to every part of his anatomy. The hand that had been tucked beneath the pillow emerged to trace the line of her jaw. She closed her eyes and shivered from his tender touch. "I know you are. And I'll tell you the truth. I was thinking about…everything. A lot has happened in a few short days."

"It certainly has," he agreed. His fingers dropped to the hollow between her throat and finely shaped collar bone. "We need to talk, Della."

"I know that, too. Does it have to be now?"

He resisted an urge to sigh. "Continuing to put off talking about it won't make it go away. I suppose it can wait until we get to the lake."

"We're still going to the lake?"

"Of course we are. I had hoped to leave Thursday after the meeting, but I think Friday is more realistic. We'll be able to salvage eight whole days of our vacation. Byron said he would hang around until we needed him to fly back. I'll call the airport tomorrow morning."

She was silent for a few seconds. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"May I ask you a question?" His finger blazed a trail between her breasts and back up to her collar bone.

Fairly certain of what was coming and not wanting the incandescence of their intimacy to fade, Della nestled down into the pile of pillows more deeply, her shivers giving way to outright trembling. "Go ahead. You might be surprised by my answer."

"Will you marry me, Della?"

"No, Perry, I won't."

"I thought you said I might be surprised by your answer?"

"Maybe I hoped you would ask a different question after our conversation in the vangcant lot."

He regarded her with exasperated consternation and retracted his hand to beneath the pillow once more. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fantastic."

He gave her one of his sleep-dimpled smiles. "I feel mighty fine myself. But we have to be careful, Della, more now than ever before. Maybe I should go back to using…"

"No! You don't like them and I don't like them and…and I don't want to talk about this right now. You said we didn't have to."

"This is your life we're talking about, Della," he explained patiently. "It's a whole new ballgame and I'm not willing to play when the stakes are so high."

"You were willing to play earlier tonight, Mr. Hypocrite. Two innings, and the seventh inning stretch, if I recall correctly. I told you, my doctor is modern and progressive and very highly respected. It's taken care of."

He rolled onto his back and stared at the sloping ceiling for several seconds. "We'll make an appointment with that very highly respected doctor as soon as possible. He needs to be briefed on the new developments. We have to find out if whatever it is that affected your maternal grandmothers, mother, and Mae was passed on to you."

"I'm not one of your cases," she reminded him irritably, although she was touched that he would want to accompany her to the doctor. But that could never happen. If a reporter got wind of Perry Mason and his secretary visiting the office of a renowned doctor whose specialty was rarely mentioned in polite company…well, she would not allow it.

His face was suddenly above her, his hands on either side of her face, and she gasped at the quickness of his movement. "No, you're my life, dammit," he said, his deep voice gravelly with fierce emotion, "and if keeping you safe means I'll never be able to make love to you again, then I'll do it. Because if anything happened to you…" his lips descended to hers and kissed her hungrily, almost frantically as his conversation with Jameson Street re-ran itself in his mind with painful clarity. Within a few breathless seconds the kiss became achingly tender and one hand left her face to rest on her hip, rolling her closer to him. "I can live without this, but I can't live without you."

She buried her fingers in his hair as his lips travelled from her pleasantly swollen lips to her neck. "You won't have to live without either," she promised, her voice a breathy whisper in his ear.

He lifted his head once more to catch her gaze. "Please marry me."

"No, darling."

"If we were married we wouldn't have to sneak into places like this."

"I thought you liked what I did in here."

"I do," he assured her quickly as hurt clouded her eyes. "But when we leave here, I'll go to my room and you'll go to your room, because despite the fact the house is now yours, no one living in it is comfortable with us sharing the same room."

"That's because my mother wants you for herself and my father is stuck in another century. And Carter, well, he's just weird."

"If we were married none of that would matter."

"Should I be worried about two proposals in two days? Why don't you ask my mother? She'll probably marry you if you ask."

"Grow up, Della. I'm trying to have an adult conversation with you."

Her hands gripped his hair tightly, so tightly it was uncomfortable. "Why is it nothing but marriage with you, Perry?"

"Why is it everything but marriage with you?"

This was more dangerous ground. "Look at my family, Perry. There isn't a single marriage I was exposed to that was successful. Children were considered necessary but treated like inconveniences, and nearly every husband cheated on his wife." Some men didn't even wait until they were husbands to cheat, but that was a subject she most assuredly wouldn't mention at this particular time.

"Have you never wanted to be married?"

Realizing how tense their discussion was making her, Della let go of his hair before she pulled it out by the roots and pushed him away from her. "I really never thought much about it." It was only a small lie. While engaged to Michael she didn't plan a wedding, didn't giggle with her girlfriends about showers and color schemes and registering for china patterns. She lived one day at a time, her grief for Danny raw and consuming. Her solace from that grief had been Michael and his willingness to soothe her in ways she in truth hadn't been prepared for. And in the end, neither had he. "I fought my feelings for you for a long time, perhaps because I began to think about marriage as a reality in my future. My feelings were…unexpected, to say the least."

"Why? Am I not, and I quote, 'way more handsome' than Michael?"

She loved the twinkle in his eye indicating his willingness to leave the topic unresolved. "Way more," she agreed with a matching twinkle.

"Am I not a scintillating conversationalist?"

Now she was openly amused. "You manage to keep up with me."

"And am I not the world's greatest lover?"

Her purposeful hesitation in answering elicited a groan from him. "You're the best I've ever had," she hastily assured him.

"Damned by faint praise," he muttered before turning serious once more. "As a little girl, didn't you play with dolls and dream of having babies?"

She was miffed that he wasn't nearly ready to let the conversation end. The twinkle in his eye had been nothing but a decoy to dispel the tension between them momentarily. She was quiet for so long that Perry began to think he had gone too far and was about to apologize when she finally replied.

"Not really. Miranda and Patsy did, but I didn't. I didn't have dolls I could actually play with. My dolls were to be looked at and admired from the top shelf, and taken down once a month to be dusted." She gently held him off when he attempted to embrace her in appalled sympathy, mad at himself for pushing her beyond where she wanted to go. "Aunt Mae tried to give me a baby doll for my birthday once. I remember Grandmother telling her not to interfere with my upbringing and throwing the doll onto the lawn. I could only play with it when I went over to Aunt Mae's house, and I couldn't tell anyone that I did. It was okay, because I didn't know how to play with a baby doll anyway." She smiled unexpectedly, brilliant and beautiful. "Until Danny was born and I had a real, live doll of my own."

"How did he die, Della?"

Her smile faded from joyful to sad in an instant. "One morning he woke up with a headache and by nine o'clock that night he was gone." She pulled her legs up into a semblance of the fetal position as she lay on her side, unconsciously placing a barrier between them. "Do men ever dream about getting married and having children?"

Sensing that she wasn't prepared to talk about Danny on top of their current topic, Perry filed away the tiny bit of information for another conversation at another time. "This man never did until he saw you holding his cousin Frank's grandson on Thanksgiving a few years ago. He thought it might be nice to contribute to the population of Mason men someday."

She shook her head. "No, you would be the one to break the pattern. Three girls. Lyla Mae, Julia Mae, and a little oops Stacy Mae."

"Why would we not just name one of these pretty curly-haired girls Mae?"

"Because Aunt Mae says that a proper first name has at minimum two syllables. One syllable names are afterthoughts meant to be middle names."

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. His heart literally hurt from how much he loved her. "I'm going to ask you one more time to marry me, Della."

"And I'm going to say no one more time. Ask the right question, Perry."

"But what about Julia, Stacy, and thank you very much, Lyla?"

"They weren't meant to be," she replied in a strange, lost whisper, her legs uncurling as her body strained toward him.

His arms slid around her and held her close. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in her familiar scent, the essence that was her and her alone. "If someday you want those three little girls, I'll make it happen," he promised, crushing her to him.

"I love you." Whispering still, but no longer lost, her arms circled his big, strong body as she wrapped her legs around his to cradle him at her core.

And suddenly he knew what it was he really wanted to accomplish through marriage with her, what it was she had been urging him to understand, what she had hinted at in their vangcant lot conversation. "Grow old with me," he said.

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.