by Kay Hooper
Flaming coppery hair was piled high on her head, adding a new and disconcerting dignity, and she moved like a queen. Her gown was stark black with a plunging V-neckline, and it clung to her body with more affection than a second skin. Her eyes were green-flecked gold tonight, emphasized by lightly shadowing makeup…and they were vividly alive. There were diamonds around her throat and circling one wrist; high heels added inches and still more dignity to an innate sinuous grace that was riveting.
Dallas swallowed the remainder of his drink and automatically set it on the tray of a passing maid.
Troy spoke lightly and casually as she reached the bottom step, refusing to allow the intensity in his eyes to disturb her. “Hello. Enjoying the party?”
Dallas found that he had to clear his throat before words would emerge. “I am now,” he told her huskily.
Unlike most redheads Troy wasn’t a blushing woman, but she felt heat sweep up her throat. Leaning an elbow on the banister, she strove for blasé acceptance of the compliment. “How sweet,” she murmured languidly, long lashes dropping to veil her eyes in a perfect imitation of a bored society deb.
Laughter abruptly lit his blue eyes. “You do that very well,” he noted approvingly. “Have you tried it on the quarterback?”
The society deb vanished and Troy fought to hide a grin. “You mean, Rick? Is he moping again?”
“If by moping you mean, is he boring everyone silly with his hangdog look and monologues about you, the answer is yes. How many other callow youths will I find entangled in your web, Miss Bennett?”
“Scores of them,” she answered solemnly. “I collect them, you see.” Then, abruptly serious, she said, “His team had a losing season, poor kid, so he’s feeling generally morose.”
Testing her reaction, Dallas murmured, “He seems to be suffering more under the weight of unrequited love at the moment.”
Gazing at him with that disquieting little smile in her remarkable eyes, Troy shook her head slightly. “Trying to see me as coldhearted as well as a thief, Cameron?”
“And if I were?”
“Then you will.” A crooked smile lifted one corner of her mouth and flashed an elusive dimple. “Your opinions are your own; I’m not responsible for them.”
For some reason Dallas couldn’t let the subject drop. And the memory of the young quarterback’s besotted expression when he spoke of Troy roused something deep within Dallas from a peaceful sleep. “That kid’s in love with you,” he said flatly, all teasing and testing over.
Troy started to step past him, but halted to stare down at the hand encircling her wrist. Her eyes lifted slowly to lock with his, and the green fire in hers should have warned him.
It really should have.
“Mr. Cameron,” she said in a deceptively mild voice. “You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I give a damn what you think. Banish it. And please try to remember that you’re a guest under my roof.”
“I’ve had a look at what’s under this roof,” he said roughly, still clasping her wrist, “and I can’t help but wonder how you came to—uh—acquire the art treasures I’ve seen.”
“Why, Mr. Cameron, you mean, you don’t know?” With a sudden and unexpectedly powerful twist, she freed her wrist. Stepping past him, she added smoothly over her shoulder, “I stole them, of course.”
Dallas could have kicked himself for provoking her, wondering with a confused mixture of anger and bewilderment why he couldn’t seem to stop himself from constantly digging. He watched her move away from him, noting the immediate smiles her presence caused, and the sleeping beast, roused by the callow youth’s smitten eyes, lunged on its chain.
He wanted to—had to—understand her. Never in his life had a woman ignited his body and mind the way Troy did. Never before had primitive urges tormented him awake and asleep. And never before had the two sides of his own nature, the ruthless and the sensitive, been so at odds with each other.
He had always found a delicate balance within himself. Ruthless up to a point, his sensitivity always announced itself and restrained him from injuring another or breaking his own moral code. But his ruthless side was clamoring now, demanding with a voice out of the caves of man’s distant past. And the demand was for possession.
Still and silent, watching her from the bottom of the stairs, Dallas fought an inner battle that was no less violent for its absence of sound. The emotions welling up inside of him were unfamiliar, yet he understood them. And in that moment he realized for the first time in his life the meaning of the word obsession.
He was well on his way to being obsessed with Troy Bennett.
Troy deliberately and consciously lost track of Dallas Cameron. She moved among her guests, chatting and laughing, automatically performing the duties of a hostess even while inwardly seething.
How dare he judge her? How dare he? Damn the man! And to imply that she had callously ignored poor Rick’s open adoration! Didn’t he realize that she was well aware of the crush, and was handling it the best way she knew by treating it lightly?
She clamped a lid on her temper, and it spoke volumes for her self-control that no one she talked to realized that she was absolutely furious.
After two hours, however, with the party still in full swing, the strain of smiling and talking lightly began to wear on Troy. Refusing to search for his face in the crowd—had he left?—she slipped away and found the library thankfully empty of guests.
Wandering over to the big leather chair that had been her father’s, Troy rested her hands on the high back and overcame an impulse to throw something. Then inexplicably she felt tears rise in her eyes. She was suddenly tired clear down to her bones. It all seemed so empty: the house her parents had loved, the round of parties she was expected to attend, the once heady excitement of recovering stolen property.
She wondered absently if it would have made a difference if she’d told Dallas that she was a licensed private investigator or that insurance companies often hired her to investigate thefts of art objects.
No. He had met a thief in the night, and probably nothing would alter that crucial negative first impression.
Idiot. She was just tired, that was all. How many years had it been since she’d last taken a real vacation? Too many. Yes, she was just tired.
But Troy recognized it was more than that. Brooding silently over the vagaries of fate, she heard the library door close softly, and knew who would be there even before she looked up.
He was leaning back against the door, staring across the softly lighted room at her. There was something in his gaze, a curiously beaten expression that tugged at her, and Troy wondered what it meant.
“More taunting?” she asked, her voice level.
“No.” He shook his head slightly, adding quietly, “I’ve come to apologize.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
With a tremendous effort Troy managed to keep her voice impersonal. “You and I are like two flints, Cameron—bound to strike sparks off each other.”
Slowly he said, “Sparks can start a fire that warms.”
“Or consumes.” She gazed at him steadily.
“I’ve never put much faith in pretty speeches or euphemistic terms, Cameron, so tell me now exactly what you want of me.”
“I want to know you,” he answered immediately.
Troy laughed shortly. “Know me how? As a novelty?”
“No, dammit.” Dallas pushed himself away from the door and crossed the room to stand beside her. “You’re a fascinating woman, Troy Bennett. And I’m very much afraid that you’ve become an obsession with me.”
Troy felt a lump in her throat, felt her heart pounding in a suddenly uneven rhythm, and looked down at her hands in an attempt to ignore the intense blue of his eyes. “Why?” she murmured, not sure she wanted to hear his answer.
Dimly, the sound muffled by walls and shelves of books, the strains of a love song came from the sitting room as the musicians retur
ned from their break. Dallas turned his head slightly, listening, then looked back at her. Ignoring her question, he asked a soft one of his own. “Dance with me?”
Troy looked up at him slowly, disturbed by his eyes, by his oddly taut face, by his request. “I don’t think—”
“Dance with me.” He reached for her hand, holding it firmly as he stepped back and drew her away from the chair. “Let me hold you.”
It was the last husky plea that weakened her defenses, and Troy went into his arms silently. Stiff, wary, she felt his breath softly stirring the tendrils of hair at her temple and wondered at the fluttering in her belly.
You’ve danced with princes, she reminded herself in confusion. With princes and sheikhs, presidents and movie stars. With men who moved the world through their actions.
Why did this man, and only this man, shake her?
He held her as closely as possible without using force, aware of her resistance. Unhurriedly he lifted both her hands to his neck, dropping his own to her waist and easily spanning its tiny girth. Inch by inch, with only a gentle pressure, he drew her even closer.
The movement was so insidious, so perfectly timed with the slow steps of their dance, that Troy became aware of the lessening distance between them only when she felt her breasts brush his dinner jacket. Her breath caught in her throat with a gasp, the silky slide of her dress over the bare flesh it covered intensified by the rough material of his jacket. She wanted to draw away, but there was a weakness in her legs and in her soul, and she experienced a sudden need for a strength not her own.
She could feel his chin move against her temple, feel his chest rise and fall in a quickening rhythm. Without conscious volition her hands curled at the nape of his neck, her fingers losing themselves in his thick black hair. Breathless, suspended, she was dimly aware of their steps slowing even more until they were barely moving—outwardly.
Inwardly Troy felt violent surges, a red-hot movement of feelings and impulses she’d never experienced before. They tore through her body with the speed and devastation of a tornado, leaving weakness and bubbling desire in their aftermath. She wanted to break free of his embrace, but didn’t have the strength; wanted to speak, but didn’t have the breath.
God, oh, God, what was he doing to her?
She felt his hands slide up her back, scorching the flesh left bare by the low-cut gown, then drop suddenly to mold her hips and pull her hard against his lower body with abrupt impatience. What little breath she could command left her lips in a rush as the hard throbbing of his desire ignited her senses. Troy hid her face in his shoulder in an instinctive attempt to prevent him from seeing the helpless reaction.
“Troy…” His voice was deep, choked off somewhere in his throat, and his movements against her had become a primitive and sensuous dance needing no music.
She closed her eyes, breathing rapidly through parted lips, her fingers tangling fiercely in his hair. The kiss on the steps yesterday, she realized vaguely, had barely hinted that he could make her feel like this. He had stolen her breath then, but she sensed that he was stealing far, far more now. Her willpower. Her strength. Her soul. Herself….
The familiar and comforting library vanished; time ground to a halt. The bubble of need within her grew, expanded, until it filled her entire body. It throbbed in rhythm with his desire, demanding an end to a sweet and mindless torture. She felt his hands searching, exploring, creating a sensual friction with the silky material of her gown, and the bubble of desire filled with a hot rush of hunger.
“God,” he whispered harshly, unevenly, “you’re not wearing a damn thing under this dress, are you?”
Troy heard the words, but the sensations in her body gripped and burned and refused to allow speech. She felt his lips moving down her cheek, along her jaw; felt the demanding heat of them stringing burning kisses down her throat. She lifted her head from his shoulder only to throw it back, the unconscious, provocative gesture allowing more scope for his explorations.
Mindless, eyes tightly closed, she stroked his silky hair helplessly and aided him in locking her body to his. Never in her life had she experienced such a burning hunger. She throbbed from head to toe, and she couldn’t be close enough to him to satisfy the need to touch him.
There was no rational voice in her mind, no whisper of logical warnings. There was only this building, smothering feeling of reaching for something unknown to her. Reaching, and her body yearned to find it. Reaching, and the tension was unbearable. She heard a groan rumble from deep within Dallas’s chest, and her senses spun dizzily.
And then, cutting suddenly through the layers of mindless desire and the silence of the library, the music, unheard by them for so long, now switched to a raucous, foot-tapping, jazz number.
Troy’s eyes snapped open in shock, and her hands fell away from him. She felt his hands release her, saw his head lift and eyes as dazed as her own look down at her. And the shock of interruption merged with the sudden shock of awareness as she realized just how far she’d been willing to go with this virtual stranger.
Dancing, she thought dimly. We were just dancing….
She stepped back, feeling the rush of air cooling heated flesh and the rush of sanity replacing blind desire. One step, two, three; she backed away from him as if from a suddenly recognized devil. The big leather chair halted her retreat, and her hand fumbled for the touch of rich leather and reality.
“Troy…” He hadn’t moved; he stood where she’d left him with every muscle tensed, and his face was white. A nerve pulsed erratically at one corner of his tightly held mouth. “You see why I have to know you?” His voice was uneven, harsh.
She swallowed hard, her nails leaving marks in the leather she was gripping. “Chemistry,” she choked, the lump in her throat refusing to dissolve.
He took a sudden step toward her, the movement filled with the tension and unfulfilled hunger that was still throbbing in the air between them. “I’ve felt chemistry before,” he bit out tautly. “But I’ve never felt anything like what just happened between us. And if you’re honest, you’ll admit the same thing.”
Troy fought for some hold over her churning emotions, some stable surface to stand on. “What makes you so sure I haven’t?” she challenged shakily. “I’m twenty-eight, Dallas, and I’ve seen a lot of the world. I could have had scores of lovers for all you know.”
“Have you?” he asked very quietly.
She stared at him, wanting to lie but sensing dimly that it wouldn’t matter to him. Driven by a curiosity she couldn’t fight, she murmured,
“What if I said yes?”
“It wouldn’t matter,” he answered flatly. “It wouldn’t change anything, Troy.”
“You’d just add promiscuity to my catalog of vices, I suppose?”
His head jerked slightly, denying the accusation. “No. If you told me you’d had scores of lovers, then I’d have to believe that you’d…cared…scores of times.”
“Generous of you,” she snapped softly, reaching for anger, for anything to combat the bewildered emotions she was feeling.
Dallas swore with a violence no less fierce in its quiet intensity. “Troy, I don’t want to know how many lovers you’ve had. Don’t tell me. All I want to know is that I’ll be the only lover in your life…now.”
Her body aching, Troy looked at him in silence. Then she shook her head. She didn’t want an affair with Dallas, and she knew very well that nothing else would develop—could develop—out of their attraction. Opposites could attract, certainly, but rarely did they cling permanently. “I don’t want a lover…now,” she whispered.
“Troy—”
“Don’t you understand?” Her voice was soft, driven. “When I see rain, I look for a rainbow. When I see thorns, I look for roses. But when I look at this—whatever it is—between us, I see only thorns and rain. All I see are the problems.”
“If you’ll just give it a chance—”
“And be left bleeding when it’s over?�
�� she interrupted, vulnerable, and not caring that he should see her vulnerability.
He took another step toward her. “You’re looking at endings before beginnings,” he told her huskily. “No one can say if it has to end—unless and until it does.”
Troy attempted desperately to make him understand, afraid of what he could take from her if he tried. “A relationship with at least a possibility of…continuity is worth taking a chance on. But something that’s impossible from the beginning—”
“It isn’t impossible,” he insisted softly.
Her smile was twisted. “Remember how we met? Remember your question not too long ago about how I ‘acquired’ the art treasures in this house? Your mistrust is a wall neither of us can break through.”
“You don’t have to be a thief,” he snapped, and realized immediately and with a sinking sensation that he had unintentionally built the wall higher.
Her eyes were vividly green; she’d found the stable surface of anger to stand on. “Thief.” She repeated his word with a soft and deadly emphasis. “You see? It’s between us like an ocean, and I won’t cross to your side, Dallas Cameron. I won’t be taunted, and I won’t be reformed. I am what I am, and you can’t accept it. And I won’t climb into bed with a man who calls me a thief.” She drew a deep breath, finishing quietly, “So there’s nothing to talk about, is there?”
Dallas gazed at her for a moment in silence. He fought the instincts urging him just to grab her and to hell with talk, leashing the violent emotions she had roused in him.
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving?” she suggested, wishing him gone because her anger had drained away and left behind it an urge to find a quiet corner and cry her eyes out….
“But I would mind,” he said abruptly. Before she could speak, he was going on unemotionally.
“Thief. Yes, that’s partly how I think of you. But if I’ve learned anything tonight, it’s that you’re a woman who…wears many hats. If I believed that you were just a thief, I wouldn’t be standing here arguing with you; I’d be gone.”