Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  She stared at him stonily, and then, just as he turned away, the other shoe dropped. She’d chattered away at him in French, using that language for her most embarrassing confessions. And he’d understood every word.

  She rolled on her stomach, barely managing to stifle her moan of sheer mortification. She’d thought things could only improve. She was wrong.

  He made spaghetti. She could smell the tomato sauce wafting through the house on the tropical breezes, and her stomach growled. No one could ruin spaghetti, and she was absolutely starving.

  One more night to get through, she reminded herself. One more night, curled up in this concave bed, and then she’d be out of here. She didn’t really need to eat dinner—she’d gone longer without eating. So she was starving. There were worse things in the world. Like trying to ignore John while she ate.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  Well, maybe starving wasn’t as easy as she thought. Besides, there was still half a tray of brownies left and her chocolate cravings had barely been touched. Tucking the book under the covers, she climbed out of bed and headed into the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, watching her. She still couldn’t get used to his face, his hair. If she’d had any sense she should have found him less attractive. She couldn’t see any sign of the wild man who’d carried her off into the jungle, saved her life, protected her, and she missed him.

  But not as much as she was going to miss John Hunter when the boat carried her away the next morning.

  “I was going to set the table on the porch, but I figured you wouldn’t want to sit with me, so I served you a plate and you can take it somewhere and eat it in private. Since I cooked you get to do the dishes, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  She kept her gaze averted, picking up one of the plates of spaghetti and the fork he’d set out. She glanced around for the brownies, far more interested in them, but they’d disappeared from their place on the counter.

  It was enough to make her look at him. His smile was calmly infuriating. “Nice of you to make dessert,” he observed. “I didn’t know it was possible to make brownies out of the stuff I had kicking around here. Now all you have to do is ask me where they are and I’ll tell you.”

  Kidnapping was one thing. The bruises on her wrist were another. Lies, treachery and deceit were more nails in the coffin. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing worse than separating a woman from her chocolate. She gave him a glare that would have frozen hell.

  He shrugged, singularly unmoved by her silent fury. “You’ll have to do better than that, Libby. Ask me where the brownies are, or do without.”

  She was, after all, a lady. She didn’t hurl the plate of spaghetti at his head, no matter how much she wanted to. She simply set it down on the counter, untouched, and went out to the front porch, closing the door behind her.

  He didn’t make the mistake of coming after her, and she didn’t waste her time going back in. She wasn’t going to cry over lost brownies or abandoned spaghetti, and she certainly wasn’t going to cry over leaving this remote, abandoned, empty, derelict, ill-kept, utterly serene piece of paradise.

  And most of all, she wasn’t going to cry about walking away from her wild man. He’d disappeared into the mists, leaving a stranger behind. A stranger who frightened her even more than the savage.

  There was a thin sliver of moon hanging low over the ocean, and the stars were out in force. She put her feet up on the railing, watching as the tide receded and the evening air grew cool around her. She had to make it through one more night without falling apart. Once she got back to Chicago she could go into a Victorian decline and not come out of it for months. For now she had to tough it out.

  She’d left her watch behind at Ghost Island, so she had no idea what time it was. She’d left everything behind, including her common sense, and she hadn’t even thought of it. But he had. She was in the middle of nowhere, no clothes, no identification, no money, no passport, thanks to him. No, that wasn’t true. It had been her choice to free him. She just hadn’t realized how much she’d be giving up. Her career was one thing. Her computer, her cell phone and her peace of mind made it a different situation altogether.

  The door to his bedroom was closed, and one lone oil lamp stood burning on the kitchen counter. The food had been put away, and she wondered whether there’d be cold spaghetti in the fridge. It might be worth a try.

  At least she wouldn’t have to see him again. She wouldn’t have to be tempted again by…

  His door opened, and he stood there, filling it, still in his shorts and T-shirt, holding the tinfoil pan of brownies in one hand. “Looking for these?” he asked in as dulcet a tone as his ruined voice could manage.

  It was the last straw. She grabbed for them, but he moved them out of reach, deftly, and she followed, in a blind fury, into his room, not even realizing where she was until he kicked the door shut behind her.

  “That’s better,” he said calmly. “And now you and I are going to have a talk, whether you like it or not.”

  She spun around, ready to run, but he caught her, his hand closing around her bruised wrist, and she let out an involuntary yelp of pain, shocking him.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, releasing her wrist but catching her elbow so she couldn’t escape. He looked down at the marks on her wrist, and a second later he released her, horrified. “I didn’t do that,” he said flatly.

  She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have a clear shot to the door, but it was close. If she just held still long enough to allay his suspicions, she could make a run for it.

  She wasn’t afraid of him. Not afraid that he would deliberately hurt her. Just afraid that she wouldn’t be able to fight him anymore. That she’d start yelling at him, and if she did she’d start crying, and she didn’t think she could stand it.

  “Those are old bruises,” he said. “Did Alf do that to you? Mick?”

  She said nothing. She didn’t need to. He looked at her and knew the truth, and he began to curse, foul, colorful obscenities directed at himself. “I didn’t know, Libby,” he said. “It must have been when they shot me so full of drugs. I didn’t realize. No wonder you’re frightened of me.”

  She couldn’t very well tell him otherwise. She simply nodded and started for the door, grateful for the easy escape.

  Unfortunately he got there ahead of her, and she realized her relief was premature. He leaned up against the door, blocking her way, and she halted. Why did he have to be so big, she thought desperately, and why did she have to be so damned short? It wasn’t that his size was particularly menacing, at least not anymore. But it was…distracting. Disturbing.

  “But that doesn’t explain why you’d have sex with me after I did that to you. And I’m not going to start believing anything kinky, like you’re into pain—I know that’s not true. So you obviously forgave me for hurting you. But you’re not about to forgive me now, are you?”

  In fact, she couldn’t forgive him when he hadn’t even said he was sorry, but she wasn’t about to point that out to him. She just waited for him to move, certain that he’d have to, sooner or later. She could be just as stubborn as he was, and the longer this went on, the more determined she was not to speak.

  “So while we’re having this heart-to-heart chat, Libby,” he continued, “why don’t you explain to me why some of the lousiest sex in my life was the best you ever had?”

  It was so unexpectedly cruel that her defenses were ripped away, so cruel that words, which should have come then, failed her. She looked up at him in stunned shock, and realized that her eyes were stinging. Oh, God, don’t let me cry in front of him, she begged. I’ll do anything, anything, just don’t let me cry.

  It was small comfort that he looked equally horrified. “I didn’t mean that,” he said quickly. “Not that way. I meant…oh, for God’s sake!”

  She was crying now, and she wasn’t going to stand in front of him and let him watch. She charged him like a bull, trying to move him out of th
e way of the door, but she might as well have been a mosquito dive-bombing a bear. He could hold her off one-handed.

  “Cut it out, Libby! I just meant you must have had a lousy time. I still can’t figure out why you wanted to do it when you wouldn’t even let me touch you. Ouch!” She kicked him, hard, though she stubbed her toes doing it. She considered kneeing him in the balls, but he was too tall for her to reach, so she punched him in the stomach.

  “You’re a violent little thing when you’re pissed off, aren’t you?” he said calmly. “So instead of hitting me, why don’t you just tell me how you were able to enjoy sex when it was over just as you were getting turned on? Or has it just been so long since you’ve been laid that anything would do? Because trust me, I can do a much better job than that given the right time and place. Like now.”

  She stopped hitting him, as real panic washed over her. He was holding her arms, carefully, so he wouldn’t hurt her, but enough to keep her from doing any real damage. Enough to keep her from running away. She looked up at him, not bothering to disguise her panic.

  “It’s very simple, Libby. Tell me no. That’s all you have to do. Just say no. Because if you’re not going to, I’m going to take you over to that bed and show you what the best sex in your life ought to be. And that’s a promise.”

  She couldn’t get her mouth to work. Her voice had caught in her throat, and there was no way she could bring the word out that she needed.

  He waited, patiently, and then he nodded, a faint, satisfied smile on his face. “Nothing to say? Good. Get on the bed.”

  He caught her elbow before it landed in his stomach, turned her around and picked her up, carrying her over to the bed and dropping her in the middle of it. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it on the floor, and suddenly he looked like John again. Clean-shaven, long-haired, wild and dangerous, he looked like the creature she’d seen trapped in that phony jungle room.

  Say something, she told herself urgently. He’ll listen. He said he would. Tell him no. But she kept her mouth shut, silent, as he climbed onto the big high bed, crawling toward her like a sleek, dangerous jungle cat.

  He reached for the hem of her T-shirt, and she didn’t stop him as he pulled it over her head, tossing it after his, exposing her breasts. He sat back and looked at her in the flickering candlelight, and she wanted to cover herself with her hands. She didn’t. She just sat there, defiant, waiting. Waiting for him to change his mind? Waiting for him to do what he promised? She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted. Only that she wouldn’t speak and end it.

  Strange, but his gaze felt hot where it touched her skin. The night was warm but she shivered, anyway, and he moved, pushing her down on the bed before his hands slid down to cover her breasts.

  They were too small, but he didn’t seem to mind. His touch was feather soft, arousing, frustrating, and then he leaned forward and put his open mouth against hers, kissing her.

  She held very still, trying to be calm as he kissed her, but when he pushed his tongue into her mouth she jumped, panicked, trying to scoot away from him.

  He didn’t let her, catching her shoulders and hauling her back. “That’s nothing, Libby,” he said. “You may as well relax and get used to it. My mouth, my tongue, my fingers. I’m going to touch you, taste you, everywhere, until you don’t know where you end and I begin. And all you have to do, love—” he brushed his lips against hers “—is say no.”

  She held her breath, and he put his mouth against hers again, lingering for a long, tantalizing moment. “Just say no,” he whispered in his harsh, strained voice. He covered her mouth, using his tongue again, and this time she didn’t jump. “Oh, God, please don’t say no,” he whispered.

  She lifted her clenched hands off the mattress beside her and slid them around his neck. And she kissed him back, badly, she knew, but it didn’t matter. Anger had vanished, shame and wisdom and second thoughts. He’d promised to show her, and she was going to take him up on that promise. She needed to know what it was like.

  But first he showed her how to kiss. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, slowly, deliberately, toying with her, calming her, arousing her, using his lips and his tongue and his teeth, coaxing her into doing the same, until she was suddenly breathless, panting, not with fear but with the first raw tendrils of desire.

  “That’s good, Libby,” he murmured, letting his lips trail down the side of her neck. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. And there’s no hurry. No one’s going to interrupt us—we’ve got all night, and I intend to take my time with you. I think you need to come twice…maybe three times before I do. To make up for lost time.” He licked her nipple, and she fought back a little squeak.

  He looked up at her through his long, tousled hair and grinned. “You can make noises, you know. You can moan and shriek without using words, and they won’t count, I promise you. Go ahead, Libby. Let me hear you moan.”

  She wouldn’t have, of course, except that he’d covered her breast with his mouth, sucking on her, and it seemed to strike a nerve that went straight down between her legs, and there was nothing she could do but make a strangled noise of sheer pleasure.

  “That’s a start,” he said, blowing on her nipple where it was wet from his mouth. Her breath caught in her throat, and she found she was clutching the bed again, grabbing the sheet in her fists. “You have perfect breasts. Not too big, not too small. Absolutely perfect.” He put his mouth on her other breast, while his fingers toyed with the first, and she bit her lip, afraid she might cry out when she felt the faint, incredibly arousing touch of his teeth against her.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore he moved his mouth away, down her belly, tasting, biting, nibbling at her skin. She was too dazed to realize that at some point he’d unfastened her shorts, and by the time she knew what he was doing he’d pulled them off her legs and thrown them on the floor. “That’s better,” he murmured. “I was getting impatient. Let’s get the first one out of the way.” And he put his mouth between her legs.

  She felt a moment of grim satisfaction. If he thought that would work he was going to be surprised. Other men had tried it, and it had left her entirely unmoved. It had seemed to excite Richard, though, so she’d let him do it, but if John thought it was going to have any effect on her…

  She caught her breath as an odd shiver danced across her skin. What had she been thinking about? Oh, yes, that it wouldn’t have any effect on her…

  Another shiver, this one harder, longer, and she realized she might possibly have been mistaken. She unfastened her death grip on the sheets and tried to push him away, but he simply caught her hands in his so she couldn’t interfere.

  It was like a slow fire licking at her, a strange sort of tickle that made her crazy, and she jerked, trying to move him, but he ignored her, concentrating on the task at hand, and she opened her mouth to tell him to stop when her body convulsed in a sharp, deep spasm, so intense it was almost painful. She fought it, panicked, and he slid up beside her.

  “You did it again,” he said. “What are you afraid of?”

  She was trembling, her body feeling almost cramped from the small explosion that had raced through her. She wanted this done and over with—it was too disturbing, too upsetting, too impossible.

  He kissed her mouth, and he tasted like sex. “We’ll count that one, but just barely,” he said. “Let’s try something else.”

  Enough was enough. She tried to scramble off the bed, not quite certain her legs would hold her, but he simply hauled her back, against him, her back up against his stomach, his arms holding her tight. She remembered waking that way in the rain forest. It seemed centuries ago, and yet it had only been yesterday. But there was no safety in his arms now, only demand and danger, as he wrapped an imprisoning arm around her waist, pulling her tight against him, and put his other hand between her legs.

  “I know, you hate this,” he mocked in a gentle whisper. “I’m doing terrible things to you and yo
u can’t make me stop, and all you want is for me to go away and leave you alone. Is that it?”

  How did he know just how to touch her, just where? She squirmed in his arms, but it only felt better, and she knew that this time she wouldn’t be able to stop, wouldn’t be able to control it, and she wasn’t sure why she even wanted to.

  “That’s right, love,” he whispered against her ear. “That’s better. Move against me. Show me what you like. Do you like it hard? Or softer? Or a little bit of both? I’m here to please.”

  She was shaking and she couldn’t stop. Everything he did to her was one more frustration, one more delight. When he licked her ear she wanted to howl. When he bit her shoulder she climaxed, and this time she couldn’t stop it. It rocked her body, and she heard her voice cry out, a thin, high-pitched wail, as her body shook and twisted in dark, unthinkable pleasure.

  She could barely breathe when he turned her on her back and covered her, sliding deep inside her, so deep she choked. She wanted to beg him to stop, to give her time. She needed to find her defenses, to find safety somewhere, but there was no safety with him in her body, surging, pushing deeper, faster. He caught her legs and pulled them around his hips, and unbelievably she wanted more, she wanted all of him. She clutched his shoulders, her fingers digging in tight, and his answering growl was one of animal pleasure, and she knew that this time she wouldn’t be able to climax, not this way, not at all, not again.

  They were both slippery with sweat in the night air, sliding against each other, and she could barely hold on to him. She let out a soft, despairing cry, afraid he was slipping away from her as she felt the ice begin to freeze her once more, when he muttered, “No you don’t, love. Not this time.” And he reached between their bodies and touched her, hard, just as he filled her so deeply he pushed her halfway across the bed.

  She screamed, but it didn’t stop, it just went on, endlessly, rolling over and over in the darkness, wave upon wave of hot, prickly sensation that threatened to shatter her. She felt him go rigid in her arms, the sweet flow between them, and she knew she was crying again, those damned tears.