by Anne Stuart
She could see a table for two, set with crystal and china and silver candlesticks. She could smell the delicious scent of broiled chicken and could see the rain lashing against the windows outside, while inside all was warmth and comfort. She steeled herself against the insidious effect John Patrick Blackheart always had on her, but all she had to do was look at him to know she was fighting a losing battle.
Blackheart wasn’t spectacularly tall, nor spectacularly handsome, nor even spectacularly kind. But he had a wiry, catlike grace that enabled him to leap tall buildings in a single bound, insinuate himself into the oddest of places, and sneak up on his fiancée when she least expected it. He wore his dark brown hair too long, the humor that twisted his sensual mouth was occasionally at someone’s else’s expense, and his tawny-brown eyes were distant, cool and assessing—except when they looked at her, as they were doing now, and then they warmed to an almost blazing heat.
“I didn’t realize this was a formal occasion,” she said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he murmured, his voice sliding down her backbone like a hawk’s feather. “What happened to Alf?”
“I sent him home with the rest of the champagne, even though he said he’d rather have Guinness than Moet. We had an interesting talk about your childhood on the way over.”
He didn’t like that, not one tiny bit, she realized, but was making every effort to control his annoyance. “I expect it was very boring. Why don’t you set those flowers down and come here?”
“Because I don’t trust myself within touching distance of you,” she said frankly, setting down the roses anyway.
“Don’t trust yourself?” he said softly. “Or me?”
The room was very quiet. He’d started a fire in his fireplace, and the soft hiss and crackle of dry wood blended with the tap-tap of the rain against the windows. Ferris opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. The moment of truth was at hand. It was a perfect opening for all the questions, all the doubts. All she had to do was ask.
“I trust you, Blackheart,” she said.
He moved toward her then, his face in shadow, unreadable, his body taut with a tension she couldn’t begin to understand. “No, you don’t,” he said, putting his hands on her, his devilish, wonderful hands. “But right now I don’t care.”
All her sanity and good intentions flew out the window at the feel of his hands on her shoulders. The heat burned through the fleece of her sweat suit, the scent of roses mingled with the wood smoke and coffee and cooking, and Blackheart was so close to her that she could feel the heat, the tension thrumming through him. Neither do I, she thought, half believing it. But she couldn’t say the words out loud, couldn’t give him that much solace.
Instead she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him, her mouth soft and full of promise. He groaned deep in his throat, and then there was no longer any room for doubt, trust or conscious thought. He pushed her gently back against the wall, and in one swift movement he’d stripped the sweatshirt from her willing body. She kicked off her sneakers, the loose pants followed, and she stood there in a lavender silk teddy and nothing else.
“You dressed for the occasion, after all,” Blackheart murmured in her ear, his hands possessive and dangerous on her suddenly heated skin.
She wanted to deny it. She made one last attempt, catching his long, clever hands at her waist and stopping their errant path along her sensitized body. “No, Blackheart,” she whispered, her voice a raw thread of sound. “Please don’t.”
He was suddenly very still, his hands hard and motionless within hers. “No?” he echoed, his voice quizzical. “I’ve never forced a woman in my life, Francesca, and I’m certainly not about to start with you.” Still his hands didn’t move; he stayed where he was, inches, millimeters from her, his body a promise. And a threat.
She recognized the threat for what it was—a threat of mindless, almost frightening pleasure. The threat of losing herself, when she’d only just found herself. The threat of becoming so caught up in John Patrick Blackheart that she’d cease to exist.
“No?” he murmured, his voice like silk.
At that moment she hated him, hated the power he had over her. But most of all she hated herself for giving in to that power. “Yes,” she said, closing her eyes and leaning against him, her slender body trembling. “Yes, Blackheart. Anything.”
He hesitated for only a moment, and a distant part of her wanted to open her eyes to see his expression. Would it be triumphant or troubled? Or both? And then he scooped her up in his strong arms, lifting her high against his chest. “Not anything, Francesca.” His voice was rough with promise. “Everything.”
He reached behind her and flicked off the lights, so that the living room was bathed in the fitful glow of firelight and candlelight. He set her on the big, comfortable sofa, following her down, his mouth catching, teasing hers, so that she could ask no more questions, make no more promises of a trust she couldn’t deliver, voice no more doubts. Quickly, efficiently he stripped off his clothes, then his body covered hers.
She ran her hands up his arms, her fingers caressing the taut muscles, and she shifted beneath him, her body instinctively ready to accommodate his, her long legs ready to wrap themselves around him, her hips ready to rise in mute supplication. She kept her eyes tightly shut, but her hands were growing more and more fevered, clutching at him as she kissed him back with a kind of desperate frenzy that had only something to do with love.
He pulled his mouth away, and she could feel his breath on her upturned face, warm and sweet and tasting of brandy and coffee and Blackheart. “Slow down,” he whispered. “This isn’t a race. We can take our time. . . .”
But that was just what Ferris was afraid of. “No,” she murmured. “I want you. Now.” She tugged at him, trying to pull him on top of her, but he caught her hands in his, shifting to the side, holding her still.
“Open your eyes, Francesca.” His voice was low, his tone inexorable. She tried to turn away, to hide her face against the rough cotton of the sofa, but his hand beneath her chin wouldn’t let her. “Open your eyes.”
She had no choice but to obey. She had no doubt he’d see the tears swimming in her eyes—the dim glow of the firelight would only make them shine. She had no doubt he’d see the fear and distrust there. Blackheart had always seen her far too clearly for her own peace of mind.
“Oh, Francesca,” he whispered, his face in shadow, his voice weary and very, very sad. “What have I done to you? What have you done to yourself?”
She tried to summon up a smile, but it was a miserable failure. “We need to talk.”
“Yes,” said Blackheart. “But not now.”
She could feel her heart beating at a rapid, headlong pace that matched his. His skin was a white gold in the firelight, shadow and light and dancing shadows gilding his flesh. “Not now,” she agreed, her voice a mere thread of sound.
He reached down and unsnapped the teddy, pulling it away and sending it sailing across the room. His body covered hers, shutting out the light, and he entered her, driving deep with a swift, sure stroke that left her breathless.
She made a small, whimpering noise in the back of her throat, but she was wet, ready, desperate for him. Her hands clutched at him, fingers digging in, and her mouth met his in a sudden, frenzied seeking.
His hands framed her face, pushing the cloud of hair away from her tear-streaked cheeks as his mouth caressed, aroused and promised.
It had been too long. She convulsed around him almost immediately, her heart beating in spasms, her body rigid, and he held her, waiting, his hands impossibly tender, until she was past the first peak and ready for more.
He knew her body so well. He knew when to go slowly, to give her time to accustom herself to his presence. He knew when to go fast,
to build up the tempo until she was ready to scream. He knew when to be gentle, when the softest of touches was exquisite pleasure. And he knew when to be rough, when gentle pressure wasn’t what she needed at all.
There were times when she resented his control, but just then she was beyond rational thought. As he began to move again and began the inexorable buildup, she simply wrapped her arms and legs around him and held on, lost, as always, in the wonder and mystery of making love with John Patrick Blackheart.
But even Blackheart’s control wasn’t absolute. She could feel him tremble in her arms, feel the sweat that covered his back as he struggled to keep the pace of his driving thrusts steady. But it had been three long weeks for him, too, of that she had no doubt, and when the second peak hit her Blackheart was with her, rigid in her arms, his voice rasping in her ear, whispering something she couldn’t hear as she found herself in that now-familiar darkness that was both haven and menace.
She would have fallen asleep if he’d let her. But when his heartbeat slowed to a semblance of normalcy, when his breathing was no longer labored, he pulled away, ignoring her clinging arms.
The lamp beside the couch glared as he switched it on. He sat at her feet, calmly ignoring his nudity, and stared at her, his eyes dark and shadowed. “All right, Francesca,” he said, resigned. “Let’s have it.”
She lay there for a moment, wanting to postpone the inevitable. Finally she pulled herself into a sitting position, grabbing his discarded chambray shirt from the floor and wrapping it around her. Maybe he could have a discussion like this in the nude, but she was feeling vulnerable after the last half hour. She needed all the defenses she could muster, even if her only defense was a soft cotton shirt that smelled all too enticingly of Blackheart.
“Where were you?” The question came out accusingly, but she couldn’t help it. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Why didn’t you call me?”
He shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the sofa with a pained expression. And then he turned to look at her, his face remote and guileless. “I had business.”
“Business.”
He must have known her reaction wasn’t promising. “In Europe,” he added. “It came up suddenly, and there was too much involved for me to be in touch. Kate was supposed to let you know what was happening.”
“Your secretary has never liked me and she never will,” Ferris said flatly. “Where in Europe?”
“London.”
“That’s all?”
“I can show you my passport if you need proof,” he snapped.
Ferris flinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cross-examine you.”
“Didn’t you?” His voice was cool. “What else did you want to know? I’m not going to tell you about the case. It’s private information, and if you can’t live with that . . .”
“I can live with that,” she said in a low voice. “As long as it has nothing to do with me.”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“Are you going to make a habit of that? Of just disappearing with no warning, no explanation?” She huddled deeper into the sofa, waiting for him to destroy her future.
He hesitated. “No,” he said finally. “This was unusual. I wish I could tell you what was going on, but this time you’re just going to have to trust me.”
A simple enough request of a woman in love, Ferris thought miserably, hating herself. “Of course,” she said, lying.
“You can tell me one thing,” he drawled, and she knew enough to hate that tone of voice. “Exactly what did you think I was doing the last three weeks?”
“I hadn’t the faintest idea.”
“I don’t suppose you were aware of the fact that there has been a rash of burglaries in Lisbon and Madrid during that time.”
He couldn’t see the guilty color stain her face—the bright pool of light beside him cast it into shadow. Didn’t it? “I hadn’t realized that,” she lied easily. And then the question slipped out when she least expected it. “Did you have anything to do with them?”
She couldn’t believe she’d actually asked him that. She sat motionless, waiting for the ax to fall.
Blackheart’s reaction was surprisingly sanguine. “Such trust,” he murmured. “No, Francesca. I didn’t.”
At least he still called her Francesca. If he were really angry with her he would have called her Ferris. He was looking at her quite calmly, expectantly.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
She looked at him, guilt and something else twisting inside her, something she didn’t want to examine too closely. She looked at him and didn’t believe him.
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then let’s go to bed.”
She could think of a million reasons not to, but not one rose to her lips. She just sat there, waiting, and he leaned over, brushing the wetness of tears from her cheeks. “Come to bed with me, Francesca,” he said again, his voice low and loving. “We can work this out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, ignoring her better judgment. He held out his hand, and she placed her smaller one in his, noting its whiteness against his, his long, clever fingers, flat palm, strong wrist. She lifted his hand against her face, holding it there as she let out a pent-up breath. “Tomorrow,” she said.
MARCO WAS LYING, Dany thought, shivering beneath the light raincoat as she leaned over the railing. He couldn’t tell the truth if his life depended on it. But whether he intended it or not, this was going to be the last time she helped him. She’d been a miserable, sniveling coward for too long. This endless time on the ocean had done more than make her horribly sick. It had given her the chance to think, to realize that she didn’t have to be a victim. After this last job was over she was going to walk away. America was a very big country—it should be a simple enough matter to lose one small female in its vastness. Particularly if that one small female had enough money.
She’d help him on this last job, for several reasons. The most important was that she needed enough money to escape. She wouldn’t get very far on the pesetas she had rattling around in her pocket. America was big but it was expensive, and she needed her share, whether Marco gave it willingly or not.
She also had an old score to settle. A lifelong grievance that she’d finally be able to settle added to the allure of this last, dangerous enterprise, and she intended to take full advantage of that fact. When it was over she’d be gone, her purse full of American dollars, Marco Porcini would be richer but missing his helpful patsy, and her nemesis would be ruined. Her only regret was that she wouldn’t be able to wait around and watch as John Patrick Blackheart got what he deserved.
But then, life was never that convenient. All that mattered was that life finally evened things out a bit. Blackheart would rot in jail, and Dany Bunce, better known as Danielle Porcini, would finally have revenge. It was enough to make her smile for one brief moment before the ocean shifted and her stomach shifted with it. Soon it would all be over. It couldn’t be soon enough.
FERRIS SLOWLY opened her eyes. The rain had stopped, the bedroom was shrouded in darkness, and only the faint light of approaching dawn was to be seen over the city rooftops. Ferris looked at those rooftops and shuddered in memory.
She squinted at the bedside clock. Blackheart hated digital clocks, but the round dial with the small gilt hands was too difficult to see in the predawn light. She shifted slightly in the navy-blue sheets, turning to look at the man sleeping beside her.
He was lying on his stomach, his arms over his head, his long brown hair rumpled. Like all men he looked innocent and boyish in sleep, years younger than the thirty-eight that he admitted to. At some point during the endless, too-brief night she’d scratched his back, and a blush
rose to her cheeks as she looked at the shallow red marks. She tried to remember when she’d done it, but the whole night had dissolved into a mindless blur of pleasure. But done it she had, during the second, or maybe it was the third time they’d made love. Probably the third, she thought. The second had been slow, gentle, languorous, reminding each of them that they were in love. The third had been full of resurfacing anger and doubt, and they’d taken it out on each other, ending spent and lonely in the big bed.
She put out a hand and ran it ever so softly along the smooth warm skin of his back. He barely stirred. She leaned down, resting her cheek against one shoulder blade, and he murmured something approving in his sleep, shifting to take her into his arms.
Instead she scuttled away, not without deep regret, and he settled once more into a sound sleep, barely aware of her absence as she slipped from the bed and padded silently into the bathroom.
The long hot shower did wonders to improve her equilibrium. As she surveyed her damp reflection in Blackheart’s steamed-up mirror, she could almost convince herself that she was immune to her fiancé’s charm, that the last few questions could be dealt with over coffee and something, anything to eat.
She suddenly realized she was famished. She could only hope Blackheart had something better than moldy bread and beer in his refrigerator. She knew for a fact that he’d left the chicken out all night, making it a dangerous possibility for breakfast, but if there was nothing else she’d risk salmonella for the sake of her empty stomach.
She grabbed Blackheart’s navy-blue terry bathrobe and wrapped it around her, then searched for a comb.
He’d left his leather shaving kit on the back of the toilet. Without even a moment’s hesitation she dived into it, searching for something to tame her thick wet hair.