A Season of Angels Page 0,31

to make up for lost time, don't I?"

"By all that's right, you should do penance."

"Oh?"

She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead to his. Andrew's hands were busily working open the fastenings of her robe. After ten years of married life, Leah's body was well acquainted with that of her husband's.

Their kiss was slow, sultry, and thorough. She was breathless and panting by the time Andrew dragged his mouth from hers.

"You taste good."

"So do you," she whispered, her eyes closed.

His hands left her breasts and eased aside the elastic of the silk bottoms of her pajamas to stroke her flat stomach sensuously.

Andrew groaned as she moved against him, and kissed her again and then again, each one growing more intense in length and need.

"You know what I want?" he whispered hoarsely close to her ear, panting.

"Let's go in the bedroom."

"Why?" He kissed her neck and his hands sought her breasts. "You're my wife, I can make love to you any place I please, can't I?"

"I should take my temperature first. This might not be the best time of the month for us to be doing this. If we're going to make love let's do it when there's a chance I could get pregnant."

The silence that followed her words was filled with tension. Leah didn't know what she'd said that was so terrible. Their lovemaking had always been arranged according to her menstrual cycle and her temperature, which signaled ovulation.

"Andrew?" she asked, not understanding.

He moved away from her and straightened his clothes. She noticed that his hands were shaking. The anger came off him in waves like heat shimmering off concrete in the hottest days of summer.

"It'll only take a moment," she promised.

He kept his back to her. Still not understanding what she'd said, Monica sat up herself and straightened her own pajamas.

"It . . . it only makes sense if we're going to make love to do it at a time when I could get pregnant."

At her words, Andrew vaulted off the sofa and stormed into their bedroom. It was rare for him to act this way and she instinctively followed, wanting to right the wrong.

"Don't you agree?" she asked softly, placing her hand on his arm.

He whirled on her then, eyes flashing with anger, his teeth clenched. "No, Leah, I don't agree."

The force of his anger took her by surprise and she gasped and automatically stepped away from him. She couldn't remember him ever looking at her this way.

"I . . . I assumed you want a baby too," she offered weakly.

"I do." The words were hurled at her like sharp knives. "But not at the expense of everything else. It might come as a shock to you, but I'd appreciate being treated more like a husband and less like a robot. Every time we make love, all you can think about is making a baby. Did you ever stop to consider why we make love less and less often? Have you?" he shouted.

Leah had backed all the way across the room. Her backside was flattened against the wall. "I . . . I didn't notice we made love less often."

"For the last seven years it's been sex on demand. Our entire love life is centered on what time of the month it is. If Mars is lined up with Jupiter or some such stuff."

"That's ridiculous," she said, wanting to defend herself.

"My thoughts exactly. We make love when you want, when you think there's a remote possibility you might become pregnant. It isn't love any longer, it's sex, and if that was all I wanted, I could get it on the street."

Leah felt the color drain from her face. "You . . . you don't mean that." It was a fear she'd lived with from the moment she realized she might never bear a child, that Andrew would eventually leave her. That he'd find another woman who could give him the family he wanted.

He tore out of his pajamas, dressing quickly. "I can't remember the last time we made love," he said, jerking a shirt from the closet. The hanger swung with the force of his action. "Really made love," he amended. "It isn't me you want, it's what I can give you, and if I can't, then I'm no use to you."

"That's not true."

Andrew didn't answer. He yanked on a pair of pants, then sat on the end of the mattress to pull on his socks and shoes. His shirt wasn't buttoned as he stalked