He continued to watch her, his eyes hooded. "Your room is exactly as you left it. Good night, Sheridan." He turned away.
"Richard!" He looked back at her, and she smiled briefly before growing serious, not nervous, but aware, very aware, of what she was thinking and feeling and wanting. "Richard, what do you want? Now, I mean. Tell me. Please."
He didn't move, but she could feel the heat emanating from him, the hunger. "You." His voice was husky. "Sheridan, all I want is you."
Still she held back, unable to go to him, unable to speak.
"I'm not asking for any promises, Sheridan," he went on quietly. "And I don't want to push you into anything you're not ready for. I only want to make love to you now, tonight."
"Richard…" She moved toward him, gliding, as if through a fog, and reached him, felt his strong arms slip around her, his lips on her cheeks, then her mouth, until she was breathing in the scent of him, responding, aching.
"Let's go upstairs," he whispered into her mouth.
She smiled, took his hand, kissed it and then kissed his mouth. They walked up the stairs together. There was no weakness in Sheridan's knees, and only the fluttering of longing in her stomach. She had no doubts. Because all she wanted was Richard St. Charles.
His room was all gleaming woods and beiges with dean lines and open spaces, as frank and sensual as he was. Sheridan didn't feel the least bit strange or out of place. She felt at home. As if she belonged.
"Sometimes," she said as she sat on the edge of the wide bed, "I feel as though I've known you forever, and yet I actually know very little about you. Tell me, who is Richard St. Charles?"
He smiled. "A man who finds Sheridan Weaver fascinating and lovely, talented and zany—"
"You're talking about me, not yourself."
"You know me, Sheridan." He was serious now. "What you don't know are details. I want you to know them. I want you to see where I work, meet my family, wander through the fields and hills of my farm, explore everything I own. I want all that to happen, but that's not what's important between us." He came to her and sat down beside her, only their thighs touching. "I want to be a part of your life, Sheridan, and I want you to be a part of mine."
"That's what I want, too… I think."
But she could say no more. Richard draped an arm over her shoulder and pressed his lips into her hair; she could feel him breathing in the scent of her. With a deep, aching sigh she placed her hand on the wall of his chest, smiling up into his eyes. "I've never known anyone like you," she managed to say, her voice hoarse, different even to her own ears.
"Good," he murmured, bringing his mouth down. His tongue outlined her lips, slowly, erotically, and she was lost to the myriad sensations evoked by caressing him and having him caress her.
"I want to touch you everywhere," she said, not bold, not pleading, but stating the truth.
He pulled off his clothes, moving quickly, unabashed. His body was browned and hard, she noted with pleasure as he lay down alongside her. There was a small smile on his lips, but she saw the need in his eyes. "Please feel free to touch…"
Sheridan knelt beside him and ran her hands over his entire body, exulting in the feel of every hair, every muscle, loving the hardness of his skin under her fingertips, the changes in texture, the signs of his own brimming passion.
And then he shuddered, and she could feel under her hands the desire rippling through him. He didn't remain still for long. He wrapped one long arm around her waist and brought her down beside him. "Your turn," he murmured and went for the buttons on her top. Yet she could see he was showing great restraint Judging by the tension visible in his fingers, the intensity in his eyes, she knew he would have preferred to rip off her top. She didn't blame him. She wanted it to be gone, nothing between them.
Before the thought was formed, the top was cast aside, and Richard was tackling her bra. Her skin fell cool in the air of the shadowy room. "Sometimes," she said, her voice choked with emotion and longing, "I can't really remember what my life was like before I me you. It's only been a few days, but…"
"It seems like a lifetime," he said, completing her thought, and smiled into her eyes. "I know."
The job was complete then, her clothes scattered, nothing to bar his touch. He whispered her name and placed tiny feathery kisses on her eyelids and cheeks, until his mouth came to hers and opened, his tongue plunging between her lips, circling, probing. They both quaked with a hunger that was almost palpable. "You feel so right, so good." As his hands traveled down her body, even his voice was a caress.
"You don't have to say anything." She wrapped her arms tightly around his lean waist, wanting to pull him into her now, forever. "Just love me,"
"All night and all day, darlin'," he breathed, and she could feel the primitive, encompassing tension within him. "All our lives."
She moved against him, her slender body trim from years of hard physical exercise, yet soft and trembling with want. Instinctively she knew they both were ready. Ever since they had met, this moment had been ordained, and when her legs parted and he plunged into her pliant warmth, she cried out with the newness of his body in hers, the pure physical excitement of it. At the same time she felt as if she'd come home, as if she had found a place in him, with him, where she belonged, a place she knew and adored and wanted to be. They were gliding together through a sunset of light and flashing color: cool lavenders, gentle pinks, warm oranges and bright searing reds. Their bodies were molded, pulsing with the rhythm of time, their souls merged, one not absorbing the other, but sharing, each making the other whole, vivid, vibrant.
Soon they were no longer gliding. They were flying, skidding through the moonlight, reaching out for the stars. Closing her eyes, Sheridan saw only the bright pure light of her love and the boundless joy and energy of her passion, until there was that single flash, brighter than light. Together they cried out with wonder and fulfillment and lay still.
It was a long time before either spoke. Richard stirred first, opening his eyes, as soft and incandescent as she had ever seen them. "I don't ever want to lose you, love," he said quietly.
"Richard—"
He pressed her lips shut with a kiss. "Nothing about your two selves now. Please. Let's just enjoy the moment."
"I am." She smiled and touched the hard line of his chin. "As I have no other."
Sheridan awoke early in the morning and slipped out of bed, not daring to touch the slumbering hulk of a man beside her, for she knew if she did she would have to touch him some more, awaken him, kiss him, make love to him. And today was a different day. She didn't regret what she had done. There would be no unforeseen consequences; they were responsible adults and had seen to that. But she didn't go for one-night stands, and neither, she believed, did Richard. Which meant their friendship had taken a decidedly intimate turn. Last night emotions and physical needs had prevailed; it was right that they should have. Today she had to rein in her emotions, control her physical desires and
consider what she was letting herself in for. A love affair with Richard St. Charles. Or something more?
Clearly decisions had to be made. She had to sit Richard down and discuss their relationship. That was a must. Before they landed in each other's arms again, certain parameters had to be established.
But there would be no talk and no decisions until she had J.B. Weaver safe in his office and back to work.
With a look of longing, of pure sexual hunger, Sheridan left Richard sleeping and went downstairs, carrying with her the image of the browned well-defined muscles of his naked shoulders and back and that mass of wild dark hair.
She found her things in the guest room, showered and changed into slim-cut linen pants and a bright raspberry silk shirt. In a carefree gesture she wound her thick hair into a single braid trailing down her back.
She felt terrific… until Richard wandered into the kitchen wearing nothing but a dark-brown terry-cloth bathrobe. The bathrobe, she had a feeling, was purely for her sake.
With a pang that penetrated to the pit of her stomach, she recalled all that had passed between them the night before.
"'Morning, Sheridan," he murmured, pouring himself coffee. "Sleep well?"
"Like a rock."
He smiled. "Did you?"
When he sat down, his robe opened at the front, revealing dark hair and a stretch of hard chest muscle. It was all Sheridan could do to keep from groaning aloud.
His hair was more tousled and wilder than usual, prompting visions of him in bed, his face above hers in the shadows, his kisses. Looking at his long brown feet, she recalled the tingles that had shot through her when his toes had climbed up her bare legs.
He sipped his coffee. "Something wrong?"
"Uh-uh." She licked her lips and warned herself to keep the conversation brisk and professional. One personal remark from him and there was no telling how she'd react. "I was thinking about running by the office this morning, seeing if Lucille has anything for me—us. Since you're, um, not dressed, why don't I go and meet you back here?"
"You could always just call."
"No, I'd rather just run by. Okay?"
"Fine, but you know you don't need my permission."
"Right, that's true. I was just… making conversation." She shot up from her chair. "Give me an hour or so."
He eyed her with some amusement, as if he could tell exactly what was going through her mind. And, more to the point, through her body. She was flushed, trembling, burning with a desire so sudden and so intense that she wasn't sure an hour's jaunt to J.B.'s office would temper it. Obviously self-restraint wasn't doing her a damned bit of good! Why not go ahead and make love with the man? He wanted to; she wanted to.
"Bite your tongue, woman," she muttered.
"Sheridan, for heaven's sake, sit down," Richard urged. "I'm not going to attack you."
"You're right. I'm acting like an ass." She sat. "But I do want to run over to J.B,'s. Richard, I have to do something. I'll go crazy!"
He smiled. "I understand. I think I'll run by my office this morning. I haven't stopped in in quite some time."
"Ah-ha," she said, amused. "So the loose and hip Mr. St. Charles does work, after all."
"Only when the spirit moves me, sweet Sheridan. I'm not the workaholic you are."
"I'm not a workaholic," she countered. "I have excellent work habits, a routine that allows me to get done everything I need to. I even pencil spontaneous time into my schedule—Richard, what are you laughing at?"
"How the hell can you schedule time to be spontaneous?"
She sniffed, caught. "I could pitch you out on your ear—"
"Or you can admit I'm right. You shouldn't always opt for violence when someone sees through you, love."
"I just call it spontaneous time. I suppose free time would be more accurate. You would understand if you ever worked."
She was just teasing, but unexpectedly his eyes grew distant. "I used to work and damned hard, too. I'd be in the office by seven and out, on a good day, by nine— and come home and work until midnight. It wasn't much of a life. But I wanted to build what my family had given me into something of my own, something I could be proud of, that they could be proud of, too. I wanted my parents to know I cared and that I was honored to be a St. Charles, to have what I'd been born to. The best way to do that seemed to be to make more money." He settled back in the chair, stretching out his long legs. "I was wrong."
"They didn't appreciate your efforts?"
He looked at her. "They knew I was working hard, but they didn't know I loved them. In those days it seemed as if I loved only myself. And maybe I did, I don't know. It doesn't matter now. I finally discovered the best way to let someone know you love them is to say so. My life-style was killing me, and it was turning away people I cared about. So I changed."
"Just like that?" She could hear the doubt in her voice, but she couldn't believe Richard was a man who changed easily.
"It was difficult at first, in some ways like ending an addiction. But I knew I had enough money to last a lifetime, and I could run my businesses with a trusted staff. I haven't retired, but I could. Knowing that has made it easier to pull back. I don't want to own the world, Sheridan. I realized I most want to see the world, experience it and, if I can, leave my mark one day, not by adding to my net worth, but by doing something worthwhile. I'm not sure yet what that is."
"You're a man of many sides."
"People are like that, Sheridan. Most are, anyway. We're complex and contradictory. If we weren't, life would be dull. I don't spend a great deal of time analyzing myself. I try to accept what I can and change what I can't."
She nodded solemnly, thinking not only of him but of her.
"So you see," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "I'm not just the careless playboy who dropped a hundred and some odd grand at a high-stakes poker game."
"But you enjoy your fun."
"I enjoy my life." He drank some of his steaming coffee. "We all have certain duties, though, and mine is to let my staff know I'm still alive. Why don't you meet me at the yacht? I won't be long. We can have lunch and go for a sail around the bay. What do you think?"
"I don't know. I hate to leave in case J.B. needs me."
"We won't go out, then. Leave my number with Lucy. Or would you prefer to stay here?"
She frowned, thinking. "Let me see if Lucy has anything for me."
Richard laughed, both with amusement and understanding. "It's hard for you to sit on the sidelines, isn't it?"
"Not your style, either, I wouldn't think."
"True." He set his mug on the table. "You'll be all right, won't you? You won't do anything crazy—and you'll be careful?"
She looked at him. "No, I think I'll just be my reckless, impulsive, cocky self and get into trouble—"
"Sheridan," he warned.
"I'm sorry. But you don't have to worry about me."
"Why, is it too confining to have someone care about you?" He didn't raise his voice; it was still even, controlled. "Sheridan, I'm not asking you to give up your independence or your sense of self. I'm only asking you to be careful."
She smiled tenderly, remembering the joy and delight of their lovemaking and the sense of freedom she felt with him. "I'll be careful if you will."
"Of course. I'm always careful."
And they both laughed.
Sheridan went straight over to J.B.'s office, where Lucy was fussing and fuming over the mess the search party had left her. Yesterday had been her day off, but she'd stopped by, assessed the damage and come in at seven the next morning. "It's one way to keep the files up-to-date, I suppose," she grumbled to Sheridan. "You hear from himself?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Sheridan sat on the floor next to Lucy, who was lining up papers in little stacks in front of the file cabinet. Sheridan told J.B.'s secretary everything.
"Damned fool," Lucy said. "Should have left well enough alone. There's a message on your desk, by the way. It was on the machine."
Her desk? Sheridan went into J.B.'s office, and there, on her old desk, was a "while you were out" slip efficiently filled out. She chuckled and grabbed the phone to return Miriam Knight's call.
Miriam answered on the first ring. "What's up?" Sheridan asked.
"Humph. That's my line, Sher. The grapevine has it you've been seen around town with St. Charles. What gives?"
Sheridan smiled, not at all surprised word had already gotten to Miriam. Miriam was like that. Either she gravitated to gossip or gossip gravitated to her, but she always managed to hear things. "Nothing. We just share a professional interest."
"In what?"
"I can't say."
"I heard he lost a pile in a poker game with Vinnie D'Amours. Your pop was there, too."
"How do you know?"
"Oh, word gets around."
"Especially when you're nosy and ask a lot of questions," Sheridan said good-naturedly. "Miriam, please, leave this alone for a while, okay? I'll let you know when
the story breaks."
"All right, all right. I'm just impatient, I guess. Things have been quiet around here. Keep me posted, will you? And you and St. Charles… if you need a sympathetic ear, I'm here, you know that."
"Thanks, Miriam, but there's no need to worry."
Miriam grunted. "I'll bet. Keep in touch, okay?"
Sheridan padded around the quiet office for an hour, sharpening already sharp pencils, peering out the window, straightening a paper clip and bending it back again. Thinking about J.B. Richard. Herself. Finally Lucille had had all she was going to take. "Go do something," she said. "You're driving me crazy."
"I'm worried about J.B."
"Sharpening pencils down to the nub isn't going to help."
Sheridan sighed. "I suppose."
"Sheridan, he'll be all right."
"How do you know?"
"Because he always is."
"I'd still feel better if I were doing something. Having lunch aboard a yacht while J.B. is locking horns with Vincent D'Amours doesn't seem right somehow." Especially, she thought, when lunch was with Richard St. Charles. "Well, I guess I don't have too many choices—"
The telephone rang. Breaking form, Lucy picked it up on the first ring and said, "Weaver Investigations… yes, she's right here." She handed the receiver over. "For you."
"Richard? J.B.?"
Lucy shook her head.
It must be Agnew looking for a way out of some crisis, she thought, taking the phone. "Sheridan Weaver."
"Welcome back to San Francisco, Ms. Weaver," said the silky-smooth voice of Vincent D'Amours.
Her ulcer began to bum, but she kept the tension out of her voice. "Thank you, Mr. D'Amours."
"Working for J.B. again?"
"No, just visiting."
"Having a good time, hmm? I didn't think a lady dick would go for a playboy like Richard St. Charles—or that he'd go for you."
"Lady dick?" She laughed, just managing not to sound derisive. "Only you, Vinnie. Now what can I do for you?"
"That's the question I've been waiting for. I've got a t simple painless job for you, Sher."
His pause left her enough time to tell him she hated sleazes like him to call her Sher, but she said nothing. As J.B. would have put it, the ball was in D'Amours's court.
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