by Denise Dietz
No. She’d shed her mind, her brain. In the romance novels she borrowed from Marianne, the hero and heroine didn’t make love until chapter fifteen or sixteen, well into the book. First they messed around a little, until they were interrupted by a gunshot. Or the heroine’s maiden aunt. Or the hero’s horse.
Or the hero’s scruples.
Gabe had scruples. She didn’t know all that much about him, but she knew that much.
So she would have to initiate the seduction.
She pictured Neil’s shocked expression. “It isn’t as if Gabe and I just met,” she told her brother’s image. “We met a hundred years ago. A hundred years is a long pause, wouldn’t you agree? And I don’t care if that’s a justification, Neil. It’s a legitimate justification. And, to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to wait until chapter sixteen.”
What should she wear? The white camisole? No. Much too demure. How about the delicate pink peignoir? It was sheer but it cloaked her legs. Legs. Stockings. Black net stockings had been draped over a clothes rack. Inside a bureau drawer she found garters and several white velvet ribbons. Yes. Definitely ribbons. Shedding her jeans, she drew the stockings up her legs and tied the ribbons in bows, well above her knees. That kept the stockings in place, but now her white cotton undies looked ridiculous. A pair of red silk panties complimented the lacy white camisole, which, in retrospect, was not the least bit demure.
Did she look like a woman of easy virtue? Or a bratty kid playing dress-up? Gabe’s expression would reveal the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Gabe’s expression revealed nothing. He was busy adjusting lights and checking his camera for exposure settings.
“I’m ready,” she purred.
“Hop up onto the platform, honey. There are props to your left. A teddy bear, a painted fan, a feathered boa. You choose.”
She snatched up the teddy bear and struck what she hoped was a provocative pose.
Gabe was all business. “Relax,” he said.
“I am relaxed.”
“No, you’re not. If I bent you over, you’d break in half like a dry stick. Lean back a little and hold the bear against your cheek. Now you’re hiding your face. Let’s try some music.”
“Maybe I need some more champagne,” she shot back, cheeks aflame, the bear dangling from her fingertips.
“Champagne’s the last thing you need. I want you alert, not droopy. Are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“I look stu-stupid.”
“You look stunning.”
“I should have worn the peignoir.”
“Aw, don’t.” Leaping up onto the platform, Gabe gathered her into his arms.
“I wanted to look sexy,” she murmured against his shirt.
“Hallie, you’d look sexy if you wore a gunny sack.”
“Really?”
“Cross my heart.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “Prove it,” she said, winding her arms, teddy bear and all, around his neck.
“I’ll prove it with my photos.”
“I think you’re sexy and I’m not a photographer.”
“I’ll ‘shoot’ you tomorrow,” he said. “I think it’s time for bed.”
“Put me to bed. No. Put me to couch. Don’t you want me, Gabe?”
His reply was a long, slow exploration of her mouth that left her gasping for breath. Then he scooped her up and carried her to the couch.
“I want to touch you,” she said, dropping the teddy bear. “I want to touch you all over.”
Gabe placed her on the couch, shed his clothes, and lay next to her. “This couch isn’t very big,” he said, unbuttoning her camisole. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable upstairs?”
“There’s plenty of room,” she murmured, “if you climb on top.”
“Oh no, my love. We’ve got things to do before I climb.”
“What things?”
Sliding from the couch, Gabe knelt. Very slowly, very deliberately, he untied her stocking bows, his fingers lingering. After drawing the stockings down her legs, over her ankles and feet, he stroked her inner thighs.
“What a waste of time, choosing a sexy outfit,” she murmured.
“That’s part of the fun,” he said.
“Choosing an outfit?”
“Taking it off.”
“I didn’t give you much to take off.”
“You gave me enough.”
He pulled her panties below her belly-button and circled the small indentation with his tongue. A throb began between her thighs, and she felt her nipples grow taut. “I want to touch you,” she cried.
“Soon. I need to get you wet first.”
“Why?”
“It will hurt less.”
“I don’t plan to hurt.”
“You have no choice, little one. Unfortunately, it’s not an option. I wish it were.”
“You know I’m a virgin! How?”
“Last night you said you were pure.”
“I did?”
“Yup. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not turned off. I feel awed. And honored.”
“Have you bedded virgins before?”
“One.”
“The girl who called you a frog?”
“No. That was the fifth grade. I had the desire but not the technology.”
Gently, he stroked her eyelids, forcing her to shut her eyes. Then he turned her head sideways and licked her inner ear. She tried to pull away from this new, intimate invasion, but his tongue probed deeper and deeper. Aroused beyond belief, she arched her back and thrust her breasts forward.
“Good girl,” he whispered, his lips moving from her ear to her breasts.
She felt liquid fire slide throughout her body. Gabe licked her nipples. Then he sucked her breast until she was nearly crazed with desire. Vaguely, she understood that he was waiting for her to indicate which portion of her body she wanted him to taste next. A difficult task since every portion of her body cried out for his attention. Furthermore, she wanted to taste him, or at least touch him. Soon, he’d said. But soon had no meaning when, without conscious thought, she brought her knees up and dug her heels into the couch.
“Good girl,” he repeated, drawing her panties down until he reached her ankles, then waiting for her to thrust her feet toward the ceiling. Quickly, he tossed her panties aside and climbed up onto the couch. When her feet descended, her legs were draped over his shoulders and his mouth was just below her navel. Frightened, she whimpered.
Rising to his feet, Gabe lowered her legs. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to make you wet but I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He reached for the discarded teddy bear and placed the plush animal between her thighs, making sure its button-eyes stared at the ceiling.
Up on the stage, the teddy bear had looked and felt lifeless, inanimate, impassive.
Hallie didn’t feel lifeless or inanimate. Nor did she feel impassive.
What was the opposite of impassive? Expressive?
Writhing pleasurably, she panted in short gasps, her tongue pressed against one corner of her lips.
Gabe moved the teddy bear’s furry pelt back and forth, applying more and more pressure, until she was slick with her own moisture.
Consumed by exquisite sensations, at first she didn’t realize that Gabe had removed the bear and straddled her hips. Then she felt new fur, Gabe’s fur. In the midst of his fur, his erection rose hot and hard against her belly. With a moan, she thrust her breasts closer to the warmth of his lips and tongue.
Lifting his face, he said, “Tell me what you want.”
“I want … to … to touch you,” she panted.
“Where?”
“Here.” She traced his buttocks. “And here.” She wedged her fingers between their bodies until she had him firmly in the grasp of her hand. “Holy Moses! It’s so big. Does it fit?”
Gabe swallowed his laughter. “Let’s find out,” he said as he began to penetrate.
“It
doesn’t fit,” she said mournfully.
“Lord, Hallie, you’re adorable.” This time, he allowed his laughter to spill over. “Wind your legs around my waist, honey, and ride me like you’d ride a horse.”
“I’m from New York,” she said. “I’ve never ridden a horse in my life.”
“How about a rocking horse?”
“Oh. Yes. I can do that.”
She seesawed back and forth. As Gabe penetrated deeper, he heard her gasp with pain.
“I’ll pull out,” he said.
“No. Give me a minute.” She held her breath, released it slowly, and began to rock again.
Gabe adjusted his rhythm to hers. He felt her first flex, an instinctive tightening of muscles reluctant to give way. He felt her second contraction, a stretching. He felt her third contraction, and finally a series of violent quivers. Then her muscles were stroking him inside her as he thrust again and again, until their two bodies blended into one joyful hymn of deliverance.
“That was the first time for both of us,” he murmured, his lips caressing the dimple that lurked below the sensual curve of her kiss-bruised mouth.
SIXTEEN
Hallie opened her eyes.
She lay on Gabe’s bed, her body dovetailed against his. Gabe’s hand palmed her left breast, his index finger resting near her nipple, as if he crossed her heart. She smiled. From now on the phrase “cross my heart” would have a significant meaning.
Tempted to wake her heart crosser and practice anew the pleasurable sensations he inspired, she felt her fingers curl around an imaginary paintbrush.
Not now. Oh, please, not now.
Rather than smearing canvas with her brush, she wanted to paint Gabe’s rock-hard chest with her tongue. She wanted his tongue to erase bothersome Cripple Creek images and bring her to the very brink of forgetful ecstasy.
That was what he’d done the second time. Which, he said afterwards, was the first time all over again, minus her pain. No longer timid, she had urged his entry, rising up to meet his thrusts, memorizing the contours of his buttocks with her heels. Their frenzied motions caused the backless, armless couch to topple over. Laughing, Gabe had carried her upstairs, into his bedroom. There, she’d soared toward the starry skylight while they finished her second lesson in love.
Now she felt like purring. Song lyrics couldn’t begin to capture her emotions. She needed a whole orchestra: violins and thundering snare drums and the vibratory clash of cymbals. During her sojourn through galaxies called Desire, Passion and Ecstasy, she’d heard the orchestra. She had also heard a young girl whispering: “It was worth the wait, Gabriel,” but she had ignored that whisper by letting Gabe’s hands and lips consume all coherent thought.
With a sigh, she rose from the bed. Where was her bra? Downstairs. Forget the bra. Her compulsion to paint had become overwhelming.
Donning her raggedy tee-shirt and denim shorts, she exited the bedroom and raced toward the costume alcove.
* * *
Usually Gabe slept like the proverbial log. But an almost unbearable sense of loss brought him fully awake. The overhead skylight showed a few stars; light, bright, wishing stars. Sitting up, he lifted his hand, planning to caress Hallie’s perfumed curls.
She was gone.
Okay, he warned himself, don’t panic. She wasn’t gone for good. If she had “tranced,” her body would still be lying next to him. Perhaps, thirsty, she’d wandered into the bathroom or kitchenette. And why was he just sitting here, like some damn bump on some damn log?
He never wore pajamas. Where was his robe? Downstairs, on top of the family room sofa, along with Monday night’s blanket and pillow. He hadn’t planned to share Hallie’s bed, not even after his brother’s confession. It was too soon, even if she thought they’d known each other for a hundred years. Her Gabriel memories didn’t count. He wasn’t Gabriel.
Then she had posed for his camera, posed for him, bathed in lights that had turned her velvety skin amber. She had pressed a teddy bear against her breasts. Lucky bear, he had thought, trying to remain stoic, impassive, until she said, “Don’t you want me, Gabe?”
Yes, he wanted her. He wanted to kiss her non-stop and erase the past. Permanently. He had a feeling her trances were risky. What if she lapsed into one and couldn’t come out of it?
Rising from the bed, he yanked open a bureau drawer and retrieved a pair of jeans that were air-conditioned at the knees. Stuffing his right leg into the jeans, hopping on his left leg, he suddenly realized that his left leg felt strong and whole, nary a trace of the stiffness he usually experienced after strenuous exercise.
Strenuous exercise? Hallie had done all the legwork. He hadn’t exactly busted a gut while removing her camisole. He hadn’t exactly strained an arm or wrist muscle while stripping off her stockings and panties. He hadn’t exactly knocked himself out by nuzzling her supremely supple body.
On the other hand, he had downshifted the Blazer, walked through the streets of Cripple Creek, danced with Napkin, and carried Hallie upstairs.
Maybe the doctors were right. Maybe all those months of disciplined swimming and weight-lifting had fortified his muscles. If he could leap and bound again, he need only make a few phone calls—
Hold your horses, Gabriel Q!
Did he really want to pack up his cameras and leave the country? Leave Hallie? Sometimes his assignments took him places where a woman wasn’t safe; where a wife wasn’t welcome.
Wife? Why was he counting chickens? After all, he had known Hallie O’Brien less than two days.
Or had he?
Like a merry-go-round, his thoughts kept circling, never leaving the place of origin. According to Hallie, they’d met and loved each other a hundred years ago. Even though her justification was a convenient justification for him, too, he had to change that belief, convince her that focusing her energy on the present, possibly the future, was much more rewarding.
But first he had to find her.
The bathroom door gaped open. The kitchenette was empty. The vestibule light only emphasized the dark family room. He began striding toward the studio, but halted when he heard the muffled sounds of a woman weeping.
The costume alcove!
Hallie sat in the corner, hugging her knees to her chest, shuddering from the intensity of her sobs.
“What’s wrong?” Gabe rushed forward and hunkered down. “Earlier … on the couch … did I hurt you?”
She raised her tear-drenched eyes and shook her head. Then she pointed toward the easel.
He gazed incredulously at what looked like a child’s finger painting. Thick-smeared red, orange and yellow swirls completely covered the canvas.
“I kept adding more paint and I couldn’t make myself stop,” she cried, hiding her face against her bare knees.
“It’s, um, different.”
“Don’t be tactful, Gabe. It’s awful.” She jerked her chin up so fast that tears sprayed like rain. “Do you see the man and woman at the window?”
“What window?”
“You’ve got to look very closely, beyond the flames. There’s the vague suggestion of a roof line.”
Ah, the colorful swirls were flames! With this new perspective, Gabe approached the canvas. Just below the hazy roof line was a small, open window. Through the window, Gabe could see the silhouettes of a man with his arm extended, his hand fisted, and a woman who appeared to be falling backwards. The figures were so tiny, Gabe could be wrong. But he didn’t think so. Because he knew the legend of the Cripple Creek fire.
In April, 1896, a bartender named Otto Floto had crossed the intersection of Myers and Third, walked into the Central Dance Hall, climbed stairs to the second floor, and entered a room furnished with a bed, a washstand, two chairs and a table. Waiting inside was Otto’s lady friend. One historian said her name was Minta, another said Lettie. In any case, Otto had fought with Minta or Lettie. On top of the table was a kerosene stove. On top of the stove was a pot of squirrel stew. During their violent
struggles, the woman had fallen against the table and knocked over the stove.
Cripple Creek’s Central Dance Hall, along with most of the other structures, had been built with green lumber cut from nearby government land during the first gold bonanza of 1892. The lumber had subsequently dried and the structures were in a bad state of dilapidation. When the Central Dance Hall flared, other stores and houses caught like boxes of match sticks.
Gabe had a sudden thought that almost knocked him off his feet. Could Lettie be a nickname for Scarlet? Was the woman in the window Lady Scarlet?
Kneeling directly in front of Hallie, Gabe told her about the fire, but kept the Lady Scarlet theory to himself. Why agitate Hallie further? She was already so upset, her gaspy gulps sounded as if a pillow smothered her face.
“Honey, calm down. Take a deep breath.” Gabe shook her very gently. She released her knees and crumpled forward. Hot tears immediately soaked his jeans, all the way through to his thigh. “Okay, okay, shhhh,” he crooned, stroking her back. “Okay, little love, I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”
Finally, inevitably, her sobs became small shudders. Gabe shifted positions, sitting with his back against the wall. Then he settled Hallie across his lap. Her curls tickled his chin.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “I haven’t cried like that since Gabriel threw my scent against the wall and broke the bottle.”
“Gabriel threw your scent against the wall?”
“Did I say Gabriel? I meant Neil. My brother. He was angry at something I said, so he reached for the first thing at hand. It just happened to be a bottle of expensive perfume, a birthday present.”
“Which birthday, Hallie?”
“My sixteenth.”
“What did you say to make Neil angry?”
“I don’t remember.”
Gabe remembered her plea to Gabriel. Why do you hesitate? Is it because I’m pure?
Had Gabriel, rather than her brother, been angry enough to throw her perfume, her scent against the wall? Had Knickers initiated a seduction? That would explain Gabriel’s reaction. It would also mean that Hallie had been “trancing” since age sixteen.