Fool's Gold Collection Part 1: Chasing Perfect / Almost Perfect / Sister of the Bride / Finding Perfect

“We already are,” Marsha told her. She smiled again, but the sadness had returned to her eyes. “You’re probably still trying to figure this all out. Do you want to pick this up another time?”

“If you don’t mind,” Charity said, grateful Marsha understood. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“We have time,” Marsha told her, rising. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Charity stood and started for the door. When she reached it, she turned and hugged Marsha. The older woman hugged her back. The brief embrace made her feel both better and worse. The nagging sense of having lost nearly twenty-eight years tugged at her.

As she stepped out into the afternoon, she wondered what she could have done to make the outcome different, but knew there was no answer. She’d been a kid, dependent on what her mother told her. Even if she’d wanted to go looking for family, she hadn’t known Sandra’s real last name. After her mother’s death, she’d gone through her things and hadn’t found even a hint about her life before Charity had been born.

If only, she thought sadly. But there was no way to change the past. There was only the future and what she chose to do with her life.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHARITY RETURNED TO the hotel and climbed the stairs toward her room. She wrestled with dozens of emotions, most of which she couldn’t identify. Without thinking, she stopped in front of Josh’s door and knocked.

It was a Saturday afternoon, she reminded herself. He wasn’t likely to be there. But seconds later he opened the door, looking as gorgeous as ever in a T-shirt and jeans. He needed a haircut, she thought, taking in the slightly shaggy hair. And a shave. She had to admit the scruff looked good on him.

“Hey,” he said, motioning for her to come in. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing bad. I went to see Marsha.”

He shut the door behind her, then took her hand and led her toward the sofa. But when they got there, she couldn’t sit. She felt restless and uneasy.

“Why?” she asked, facing Josh. “She was my mother. I know she cared about me. She knew I wanted to be part of a family. She knew that mattered to me more than anything. But she didn’t tell me, not even when she was dying. Not even after she was dead. That’s all it would have taken. A little note with a name and an address. But she didn’t bother.”

Charity couldn’t reconcile the information. “So where does that leave me? Was she just incredibly selfish or am I fooling myself, thinking she gave a damn about me?”

He reached for her.

She shook her head. “No. Don’t. I need to say this.”

He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Then I’ll stand here and listen.”

She drew in a breath. “When I was a junior in high school, we moved again. I told her this was the last time. That I wanted to graduate from a school I’d attended for at least a year. I made her promise.” She struggled against the memory but it was everywhere, surrounding her with how things had been.

“Did she keep it?”

“No. She left and I stayed. I had a job and the rent on our mobile home was cheap. She sent money every now and then. I got by and I graduated with my class. I had friends. I was able to send out college applications and know I would still be at the same address when they sent the answers. But she wasn’t.”

Charity felt the burn of tears and willed them away. She didn’t cry. Giving in accomplished nothing.

“She didn’t come to my graduation. It was too far and she didn’t have the money. I told myself I was fine, but I wasn’t. I wanted someone there, someone to see me take this momentous step. She didn’t bother and she didn’t tell me there was someone who would care, who would take the time to be with me. She kept that from me, and there’s no good reason. How am I supposed to tell her how pissed I am? She’s dead.”

He reached for her again and this time she went into his arms. He might not have the answers, but he was warm and strong and for a few minutes she could pretend that everything was going to be all right.

He stroked her hair, then ran his hand down her back. She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed in the scent of him.

“My mom left, too,” he said. “I was ten.”

Charity remembered Marsha telling her the story. She pulled back enough to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be whining.”

“You’re not whining.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I’m saying I understand what it’s like to be abandoned by the person who’s supposed to love you best in the world. By the time I was old enough to go look for her, it was too late. She’d died. I was angry. Beyond angry. I wanted her punished. I wanted her to pay, but mostly I wanted her to tell me why. Why did other moms give up everything for their children and she couldn’t even stay? Was it me? Or was it her?”

She saw the pain in his eyes. The questions that would never be answered.

“Eventually you make peace with it,” he told her. “You make peace and you move on.”

Maybe, she thought. But there was a scar from the wound and sometimes that scar ached.

She raised herself on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his. Her kiss was gentle, sharing. He responded in kind. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the heat that flooded her body. There was something to be said for a dependable chemical reaction.

His hands dropped to her waist, then her hips. He urged her closer and she went willingly, her body nestling against his. She parted her lips and he deepened the kiss. She met him willingly, enjoying the stroking of his tongue against hers, giving herself over to the blood rushing through her body.

Wanting began low in her belly and spiraled out in all directions. Her breasts began to ache. Between her legs, she felt that telltale combination of tension and dampness. Anticipation sharpened.

He cupped her rear, causing her to arch against him. She felt his arousal against her belly and the memory of how he’d felt inside her, of what he’d done to her body, made her moan. He moved his hands up and under her thin short-sleeved sweater. His fingers were warm against her bare skin, moving deliberately across her ribs, then cupping her breasts through her bra.

Everything about his touch was perfect, she thought as he caressed the curves and brushed his thumbs against her tight, sensitive nipples. She closed her lips around his tongue and sucked.

Now it was his turn to moan. But instead of starting to remove clothing, he pulled back, then took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

The king-sized bed dominated the space. The layout was similar to hers, with an armoire, a desk and a view of lush gardens. None of which interested her, she thought as he reached for the hem of her sweater and tugged it over her head.

Her bra followed, leaving her bare to the waist. He stood in front of her, gazing at her breasts, anticipation darkening his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, before bending down and taking her left nipple in his mouth.

He licked the tight tip several times before sucking in deeply. The tugging drew waves of pleasure from deep inside of her. She felt a rush of heat and dampness between her legs. A heightening of her arousal. His day-old beard teased her skin. He bit down gently, taking pleasure to the level of exquisite, then sucked again.

She had to hang on to him to keep from sinking onto the thick carpet. When he moved to her other breast and repeated the process, she found it difficult to breathe.

More, she thought, wanting them both naked and on the bed. It was time for more.

She tugged at his T-shirt, giving him a not-so-subtle hint. He straightened and pulled it off in one easy, fluid move. She stepped out of her sandals. As he unfastened her jeans, she ran her hands across his smooth, bare chest. Defined muscles felt like stone. He was sculpted male beauty, she thought, pressing her mouth to the center of his chest before moving to his flat nipples.

She licked until he caught her face in his hands, tilted her upwards and kissed her on the mouth. Then they were each pulling off the last of their clothes. When they were naked, he grabbed her around the waist and they tumbled onto the bed.

She landed on her back, him on his side, facing her. He lowered himself so he could kiss her breasts again. This time as he drew her nipples in deeply, he put a hand on her belly.

Her legs stirred restlessly. Her attention was equally divided between what he was doing with his mouth and the slow, steady journey his fingers took down, down, down.

At last he reached between her legs. She parted her thighs for him, then sucked in a breath as he slipped between the folds of skin and found her swollen and damp center.

The man had a fabulous sense of direction, she thought hazily as he began to explore that tight bundle of nerves. First he circled, teasingly close, but not actually touching. Around and around, moving slow enough to make her impatient. Then he lightly brushed across it with a single finger. She shuddered. When he did it again, she knew he was going to bring her to the kind of release that shook the world.

But instead of settling into a steady rhythm, he shifted so that he was between her legs. He pressed his mouth against her in an intimate kiss. The feel of his lips, the sweep of his tongue, the light abrasion of his stubble all conspired against any self-control she might have left.

Electricity shot through her at that first second of contact. Delicious need burned away shyness or pride. She opened her legs wider and arched her hips in a very clear invitation. One he accepted.