One Touch of Topaz

by Iris Johansen

  His lips covered her own as he entered her slowly, carefully. She could feel the tension in his every muscle as he tried to hold himself back from her. Fullness … She closed her eyes, savoring the deliciousness of the sensation. Yet it was not quite enough. She moved, trying to tempt him to give more.

  “No, be still. I’m trying to …”

  She knew he was only trying to be careful, but the deliberateness of his movements was driving her mad. She moved against him, fighting to take what he would not give her.

  “Samantha, please, I can’t stand—” Suddenly he groaned and plunged deep.

  His mouth on hers smothered her single involuntary cry. Lightning-quick pain. Then, like lightning, it was gone. Now there was only fullness, beauty, a pleasure so intense that her head was spinning.

  “Open your eyes.” His voice was low, stunned.

  Her eyelids opened, and she gazed up at him dreamily. His expression revealed even more than his voice how stunned he was, she realized hazily. Well, she was feeling pretty stunned herself, pleasure-struck and entirely bemused. “Wonderful,” she murmured.

  “How badly have I hurt you?” His voice was harsh. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Why the hell—”

  She lifted her head and stopped the words with her lips. “No. Wonderful. It’s all wonderful.” She clenched herself around him. “Go on.”

  A shudder ran through his body, and a low groan broke from him. “Samantha, I can’t do this. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

  “I don’t care,” she said fiercely. “I can’t bear this. I want—” She broke off because the words were no longer necessary. He was giving her what she wanted. Thrusting, plunging, moving her body so she was bound still closer to him. Deep. Deeper.

  Wild pleasure, hot hunger—she couldn’t tell one from the other. They were both intertwined, bound as their bodies were bound, taking and giving.

  Her hands tightened in Fletch’s hair, her head thrashing from side to side as she drowned in a searing ravishment of the senses. Her lips parted as she tried to force air into her lungs.

  “Beautiful.” Fletch’s voice was hoarse, jerky. “Lord, you feel beautiful. It’s like nothing—It’s too good, love. I can’t hold on. Please.” He leaned forward to kiss her. “Please try.”

  What was he talking about? Then she knew, as he drove with a force and wildness that carried her to the heights of rapturous sensation. To the heights and beyond.

  She couldn’t move. If she were not still bound to him, she was sure she would drift away and be lost somewhere in a sea of starlit darkness. But she was bound to him, she realized contentedly. She could hear the harshness of his breathing above her and feel the solid strength of his thighs on either side of her. His scent surrounded her, and she knew she would be able to recognize his musky male fragrance for the rest of her life.

  She would open her eyes soon, she decided, because she wanted to look at Fletch’s face. He had looked so beautiful in his need and vulnerability when he had pleaded with her to release him. She slowly forced her lids to open and recieved a shock. Fletch’s face was no longer either vulnerable or pleading, but definitely grim. “Is something wrong?”

  “What could possibly be wrong?” he said caustically as he moved off her. “Everything’s absolutely wonderful!”

  She thought she understood then. “You didn’t enjoy yourself? I’m sorry I wasn’t experienced enough to make it pleasant for you.”

  “Pleasant for me?” He drew a deep breath. “Just don’t say another word for a little while. Okay?” He stood up and crossed to the pile of blankets against the far wall and brought one back to her. “Sit up.”

  She felt too languid and content to move, but she decided she’d better obey him. He seemed terribly upset for some reason, and she didn’t want the moment spoiled by conflict.

  She sat up and was immediately enveloped in the blanket. He tucked the blanket around her, carefully pulling her hair from beneath its confines and arranging the chestnut tresses down her back. Strange. Though she could sense the anger in him, every action was performed with the most exquisite tenderness. He clasped her hand onto the opening at the front of the blanket, moved back a few steps, and sat down.

  He was truly a magnificent specimen, she thought dreamily, her gaze running over him in the firelight. All bronze power and rippling muscle. Why had she ever thought he wasn’t handsome? Just looking at him now sent a shiver of remembered sexuality through her.

  “Now I have some questions to ask you.”

  She smiled mischievously. “You told me not to talk.”

  His eyes narrowed on her face. “You seem in very good humor.”

  “I am. I feel marvelous. Perhaps it will be better for you next time.”

  “I think that’s what I’m supposed to say to you,” he commented dryly. “I take it your first experience was not a disappointment?”

  She shook her head. “It was wonderful. Thank you.” She covered a yawn with her hand. “But I’m suddenly awfully sleepy. Does it usually have this effect?”

  “Sometimes.” He brought up his knees and looped his arms loosely around them. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to bite the bullet until I get a few answers.”

  “You want to know why I was a virgin?” She shrugged. “I’ve been busy helping to fight a war since I was fifteen. I guess I never met anyone I wanted to make love with.”

  “Lazaro?”

  “Ricardo and I grew up together. He’s my friend.” She yawned again. “Can I go to sleep now?”

  “Not yet.” His entire body took on a leashed tension. “One more question. Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why me?” His linked fingers tightened until his knuckles showed white. “First you say no, and then a complete turnaround. It was too damn sudden.”

  Her brow wrinkled in a frown. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

  “I was hurting so much that I didn’t give a damn what your reasons were, as long as you let me have you.”

  “Then why should you care now?”

  “Because you were a virgin, dammit,” he shouted. “Whatever motivated you must have been pretty damn strong, and I don’t flatter myself that the magnificence of my body was the draw.”

  She could tell him that if she’d been aware just how magnificent his body really was, it would have been, as it was now, an irresistible lure. “I did want you,” she said evasively.

  “Maybe, but that wasn’t all. Why?”

  She realized he wasn’t going to give up; he would keep battering at her until she surrendered. She sighed. “I was afraid.”

  He stiffened as if she had struck him. “Of me? My Lord, I wouldn’t have forced you.”

  “No, not of you,” she said quickly. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. It was other things.”

  “What things?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head wearily. “Death, the patrols, dying before I’d ever really lived.” She looked down into the heart of the fire. “Then I had a dream …”

  “What about?”

  “It’s not important.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I suppose I used you. You have a right to be angry with me.”

  “Yes, I do, but not for the reason you seem to think. I can stand being used.” His lips curved cynically. “I’ve been used any number of times. I know I’m no Casanova, and as long as the bargain is mutually beneficial, I have no objection to women taking what they want from me. But you did something different, you made me feel—” He stopped, searching for words. “I feel like Attila the Hun! I’m healthy and strong, and the first thing you did was to fool me into eating your food and making you go hungry. And then you let me make love to you without telling me you were a virgin. I was so damn eager, I was clumsy as hell and probably hurt—”

  “You didn’t hurt me,” she said, interrupting quickly.

  “The hell I didn’t. I must have—”

  “No, really, it was wonderful. I enjoyed every m
inute of it. I’m only sorry you didn’t find it pleasurable.” She frowned worriedly. “I feel terribly guilty about that.”

  He was clearly exasperated. “You feel guilty? How do you think I’m reacting? I feel like a child molester.”

  “I’m not a child, and if anything, I’m the one who molested you.”

  “Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?” It was evident she didn’t, for she was gazing at him with the puzzlement of a child.

  “It’s not ridiculous at all. I thought I was being exceptionally aggressive. Maybe not very skilled, but you have to admit I was enthusiastic. Would you like to do it again? If you’ll help me, I’ll try to please you more this time.”

  He wanted her. His body was hardening at just the thought of entering her again. Why the hell not? He could be very careful with her this time. She was willing, and he had never before been shy about taking what he wanted from a woman. Yet now he was experiencing a hesitation that was incomprehensible to him. “You said you were sleepy.”

  “I think you could wake me up.” Her lips trembled as she smiled at him. “And I’d like you to hold me again. I felt so safe.”

  Safe. It was fear that had driven her to him before, and she was still afraid now, he realized. There might be desire mixed with that fear, but it wasn’t the paramount emotion at the moment. She was bargaining something she thought he wanted for a fleeting moment of forgetfulness and security. Though she didn’t realize it, she was using him again, and he found he was feeling no resentment, only aching sympathy.

  He rose to his feet in one lithe movement and crossed the few paces between them. He dropped down beside her, gathering her into his arms, blanket and all. He settled her against him, her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. “Go to sleep,” he said gruffly.

  “You don’t want me?” She cuddled close, her hair splaying out over his bare shoulder in a silken cloud.

  “No,” he lied. “Not now.”

  “Well, if you’re sure …” Her eyes closed, and she turned boneless in his arms. “I am a little tired.”

  Tired? She was nearly asleep, he thought ruefully. “I’m sure.” His arms tightened around her. “We’ll talk in the morning. Go to sleep now.”

  “All right. Thank you.” Her breathing was steadying, deepening. “It’s very nice of …” She was asleep.

  She was weightless in his embrace, and her long lashes feathered her cheeks, accenting her delicate bone structure and the thinness of her face. He felt a wave of overpowering tenderness and possessiveness. His lips lowered slowly to brush against her temple as he tried to settle himself for the night. The ground was stony, and the ache in his groin reminded him that he still wanted this child-woman in his arms.

  Lord, he hoped this attack of uncharacteristic gallantry would pass into oblivion as quickly as it had come. He had an idea it was going to be the cause of a damnably uncomfortable night.

  FOUR

  THE RICH AROMA of freshly brewed coffee drifted to Samantha, piercing the last lingering mists of sleep.

  She opened her eyes.

  “It’s about time you decided to wake up.” Fletch was pouring steaming coffee into a cup a few yards away. “I had no idea ladies of the guerrilla persuasion were so slothful. It’s almost noon.”

  “I was tired.” Sudden color flooded her cheeks as she remembered the reason she had been so exhausted that she had slept without stirring for all these hours. She scrambled to a sitting position, clutching the blanket around her. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “Not very.” He put the coffeepot on one of the stones edging the fire and rose to his feet. “You wriggle. It’s disconcerting.” He crossed the few yards separating them and knelt beside her, offering her the cup. “Drink this. It will wake you up. We’ve got to get you some proper nourishment, though.”

  “Thank you.” She took the cup and sipped the hot liquid gingerly, gazing at him over the rim. He looked robust, vigorous, burning with restless energy. He wore his jeans and cream-colored shirt, but his hair was now damp and twisting in tight, rebellious curls, and she caught the fragrance of soap. “Your hair is wet. Have you been in the spring?”

  He made a face. “That bucket of ice? No way. I told you I had the tastes of a sybarite. I borrowed your soap and a towel and went down to that lake you showed me from your window last night.”

  Her hand tightened on the cup. “You shouldn’t have done that. What if the patrol had seen you?”

  “The patrol didn’t see me. I’m not a complete fool, Samantha. I chose a spot that was relatively screened from view.” He reached out and pushed a stray chestnut lock behind her ear. “And it wasn’t complete self-indulgence. I might have tried your ice bath if I hadn’t had to leave the cave for another reason, anyway.”

  “What reason?”

  “Food.” He smiled grimly. “I wasn’t about to let you go without eating any longer than necessary.” He gestured to a bucket to the left of the fire. “Lord knows, it’s not much. Just some berries and melons. I was afraid to run the risk of rigging a trap to capture any game with the patrols around.”

  “Could you have done that?” she asked in surprise. “Are you a hunter?”

  “Not anymore.” A shadow flitted across his face. “Not for a long time now.”

  “You don’t like hunting?”

  “I never liked it. It was something that had to be done.” He abruptly rose to his feet and turned away. “I was in the special forces in ’Nam.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. He seemed to be charged with explosive tension. She took a sip of coffee. “The newspaper article I read didn’t mention that you fought in Vietnam.”

  “It wasn’t fighting, it was—” He broke off, reached for the coffeepot, and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You may think I have the instincts of a warrior, but I assure you I had no liking for that kind of warfare. Now I do my battling in ways that don’t involve bloodbaths for women and children.” He looked down at his cup. “What did your newspaper article tell you about me?”

  “Not much, really. That you have interests in oil, shipping, and computers.” She smiled. “That you own an island in the Carribbean called Damon’s Reef, a château in France on the outskirts of Paris, a fabulous mansion on one of the islands off the Oregon coast. It all sounds very glamorous.”

  “Nothing else?”

  She avoided his gaze as she took another sip of coffee. “Well, it did mention Monette Santore, the actress. Is she as beautiful as the article said?”

  “She’s not beautiful at all. She has a certain earthy appeal and the elegance and gloss that most Frenchwomen seem to be born with.”

  “She sounds fascinating. Has she been with you a long time?”

  “She’s not with me at all,” he said bluntly. “She has her own career, and when I have time, I send for her and she flies to wherever I am.”

  “It must prove inconvenient for her to have to drop everything when you whistle.”

  He smiled cynically. “She sees that I make it up to her. Monette is a very practical lady.” He paused. “Does she bother you?”

  “Bother me that you have a mistress?” She shook her head. “Why should it? I know last night meant nothing to you. I guess I sort of counted on it.”

  “How perceptive of you,” he snapped. He leaned down and set his cup on the ground. “I suppose you intend to immerse yourself in that icy spring?”

  She nodded. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it.” She finished her coffee in one swallow and set her cup down. “I’ll just—” She broke off as he lifted her to her feet and began to unwind the blanket from around her. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you.” His expression was enigmatic as he pulled the blanket away and dropped it on the ground, leaving her naked. “You don’t mind, do you? After all, seeing you nude means nothing to a hardened womanizer like me.” He turned her around and urged her toward the pool with a pat on her fanny that was more of a slap. “Get going.
I’ll get you a towel and some clean clothes. Where are they?”

  “In that trunk over there, but I can—”

  “I’ll get them,” he repeated impatiently. “Get your bath over. You need something to eat.”

  She hesitated, but he was already striding across the room toward the battered aluminum trunk she had indicated. She turned and walked slowly toward the pool. It felt odd being naked and vulnerable before a man, but Fletch seemed to be completely at ease and as unaffected as he had claimed. Moments later she was standing shivering in the pool, waiting for her body to become accustomed to the numbing cold.

  “What’s this?” Fletch was coming toward her, carrying the towel, washcloth, and clothes he had taken from the trunk in one hand, and in the other a polished, seven-inch wooden statue. He tossed her the washcloth, dropped the towel and clothes on the stony bank, and held out the statue. “Did you do this?”

  She nodded. “That’s Paco. Doesn’t he have an interesting face? He has an elfin quality.”

  “At least he’s not another Greek god,” Fletch muttered. He sat down on the bank and crossed his legs Indian-fashion, studying the statue critically. “This is remarkable. You’ve brought him to life.”

  “Thank you. I like it, but Paco says I didn’t do him justice.” She chuckled reminiscently. “He said his soul was far more handsome than Ricardo’s and the eyes of any artist should be able to detect it.”

  “Did you do one of Lazaro too?”

  She nodded as she ran the washcloth over her face and shoulders. “It’s in the trunk. Didn’t you see it?”

  He shook his head. “Is it as good as this?”

  “It’s better.”

  His gaze lifted from the statue to her face. “No false modesty. I like that.”

  “I know I’m good,” she said simply. “It started as a hobby, something to make the time pass, but it’s not that now.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Pleasure, excitement, accomplishment. The same thing your work is to you.” She shrugged. “I guess ‘creative purpose’ pretty well encompasses it.”