Taken by the Pirate Tycoon

by Daphne Clair

  Did he know that? Had he reciprocated in kind? Or did he always make love like that, wholly absorbed in his partner, knowing intuitively what she wanted from him, leading her to unthought-of heights, giving so generously of himself?

  He looked back at her, his eyes shining, even in the near-darkness. “All right, princess?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.” I love you. She couldn’t say it aloud. It would put him under an obligation. He didn’t love her and probably never would. It would be stupid to think love had anything to do with this, on his part. Stupid and futile.

  She closed her eyes, hoping he didn’t see the incipient tears, despising them. She’d gone into this knowingly, prepared for once to take a risk such as she usually only dared take in business. No one had forced her, certainly not Jase. Now she had to live with whatever consequences ensued.

  “I knew,” he said quietly. “Deep down I always knew. You can’t hide from me any more.”

  His lips touched her temple, then her eyelids one by one. “Sleep, princess,” he said, and gathered her closer in his arms.

  And, strangely comforted by that, after a few minutes she did.

  She woke to sunlight and the sound of the shower in her bathroom. The bedclothes were rumpled, the pillow next to her dented in the middle, and for a few moments she didn’t know why she felt so…replete and rested, or why the shower was running.

  Then she remembered, and sat bolt upright, grabbing at the sheet as she realised she was naked.

  What had she done?

  The shower stopped, and she fought the tangled sheet to get out of the bed and find a short satin robe, belting it round her middle. She picked up a brush from the dressing table and swiped it over her hair, the mirror showing flushed cheeks and wild eyes. Calm down, she told herself, dropping the brush when she heard the bathroom doorknob turn.

  She took a deep breath and slowly turned in time to see Jase appear in the doorway, heartbreakingly, magnificently sexy in only his jeans, zipped but not fastened, the leather belt hanging loose.

  “Hi,” he said, looking almost as wary as she felt. “Did I wake you? Sorry, but I have to work today.”

  “So do I.” She watched him walk toward her, with the easy, confident and very masculine stride she’d come to love. In fact she loved everything about him.

  “You look…different this morning,” he said, tipping her face up with his long fingers and regarding her curiously.

  “No makeup,” she said. It had disappeared during their lovemaking, or else through the night. He’d see how plain she really was.

  A smile touched his lips. “It’s more than that, beautiful.” The word was an endearment, like sweetheart or darling, and her heart turned over. He kissed her lightly, then lingered, his lips tracing the shape of hers. “I have to go,” he said gruffly, finally stepping back. “Will you be here if I come back tonight?” His eyes searched hers, as if he might not be sure of the answer.

  “Yes.” She’d already taken the first, fatal step into the unknown. Too late to go back now.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  A sliver of fear entered her chest. “Last night you said only one thing mattered.”

  “Last night—” he gave her a crooked grin “—I was overcome by lust.”

  Samantha blinked. To Jase a digging implement would always be a spade. She knew that. The only surprise should have been that the words he’d used the previous night to tell her what he wanted to do with her hadn’t begun with F.

  Come to think of it, she’d never heard him really swear. In so many ways he had the manners of a true gentleman—the difference between an outward show of etiquette and real consideration and courtesy born of respect.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her smile was a little bleak. “I was just thinking of a Bible story about the son who said he’d go to the vineyard when his father asked, but didn’t, and the one who refused but went anyway.” Deeds spoke louder than words. Surely he couldn’t have made love to her with such passion and such gentleness, such care for her pleasure, and appreciation of her pleasuring him, if he still despised and mistrusted her. Could he?

  He gave her an extremely quizzical, taken-aback look, obviously not understanding the allusion. “Tell me tonight.” Then he touched her cheek and walked to the door.

  Samantha bought a bouquet of roses, baby’s breath and violets from the florist near her office before entering the building, and got Judy to find a vase and place them on her desk, where they scented her day. Several times she caught herself staring at them and thinking of Jase, and checking her watch as the hours crawled by.

  Sex, she warned herself, didn’t mean Jase would suddenly see her as a maligned innocent. It hadn’t solved the problem; more likely it had compounded it.

  That didn’t stop her longing to see him that night, although uncertain as to what might come of it. When she got home she showered, and ensured her skin all over was smooth and soft before putting one dab of expensive perfume at the hollow of her throat.

  She riffled through her wardrobe and chose a simple flowered silk dress she’d hardly worn, having dubbed it a mistake because it was too feminine for business and too casual for formal functions. The lined crossover bodice dipped low in the front—too low for a bra, hence the lining—and the skirt flared at the hem.

  After reapplying a discreet amount of makeup, she slid her feet into slipper-style flat shoes, then busied herself opening a bottle of a very good red wine to let it breathe, wondering what time Jase was likely to arrive. She supposed he must be still in Auckland, rather than driving back to Hamilton this morning, though he hadn’t said where he had to be and she hadn’t thought to ask.

  After watching the six o’clock news and an hour of current affairs she made herself a snack and poured a glass of wine that she drank slowly, with a CD of classical favourites playing in the background, and the day’s newspaper spread across the kitchen table. She’d read the business section and almost all the news and comment when the doorbell rang. She stood up, smoothed her hair and her dress, and waited for half a minute before walking to the door. The bell rang again before she got there.

  Jase was wearing a white self-striped business shirt with dark trousers, but no jacket, and his collar was undone. In one hand he had a fat, long-necked bottle with a gold foil top.

  He walked in and surveyed her from top to toe and back again. “I like the dress,” he said. “Though I like what’s in it even better.”

  She closed the door behind him, saying dryly, “Do come in!” as he headed for the living room.

  He sent her a grin over his shoulder and stepped back to let her go first. Holding out the bottle, he said, “I got this on the way. It’s already chilled.”

  As she took the bottle from him he studied her and said, “And maybe that’s not all that’s chilled. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  But as she made to turn from him he caught her wrist and commanded, “Come on, tell me.”

  Not wanting to start an argument, she looked away.

  “What?” he insisted. “You had a bad day? I should have sent flowers? I’m too early?” He looked her over again, and some penny seemed to drop. “Or too late?” Something must have shown in her face because he paused, and then said, “Sorry. I didn’t want to take anything for granted—like you giving me dinner. So I figured you’d need time to eat first.”

  “I did,” she said. A few bits of cheese and leftover dip with crackers. “We didn’t arrange a time. It’s quite all right.”

  She made to pull away from him, but his grip on her wrist tightened. “Hey,” he said, “it’s not all right. I’m the guy you slept with last night, and that I hope you’re going to sleep with tonight. If you’re wild with me, say so. Don’t go all gracious lady on me.” He tipped his head with a quizzical smile. “Should I have brought flowers?”

  “I don’t think you’re the flowers type.”

  “Uh-huh,�
� he said noncommittally. “What type am I?” His hand slipped from her wrist to close about her fingers.

  Not a type at all. He was uniquely Jase, quite unlike any other man she’d known, and certainly not one she’d ever thought she’d fall for, so heavily, so irrevocably. She shook her head. “Indescribable.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said again, his eyes wary and much too inquisitive. “I’m hoping that’s a compliment.”

  She didn’t enlighten him, and he dragged her closer, dropped a kiss on her mouth and said, “If it’s any help, I’ve spent all day counting the minutes.”

  She didn’t say Me too. Pulling away from him, she asked, “Do you want to open this?” and led the way across the lounge to the kitchen.

  He dealt with the bottle efficiently, but must have noticed the open bottle of red on the counter top. “Would you rather have that?”

  “Not now.” She set two flutes in front of him. “Are we celebrating?”

  “I am.” He cocked an inquiring brow at her.

  Samantha didn’t respond, and he picked up the filled glasses, handed one to her and touched his against it. “To last night,” he said. “And many more to come.” It didn’t sound like a question but she knew it was.

  He waited until she’d taken a sip, feeling the bubbles explode in her mouth and tasting the cool crispness of the wine, before he lifted his own glass to his lips. It was the only sign she gave that she had accepted his toast, accepted that they were lovers.

  They took the drinks and the bottle into the living room, and he pulled her down beside him onto one of the couches, drawing her close with an arm about her shoulders. Gradually she felt herself relax against him, enjoying the warmth and male muscularity of his body, the slight rise and fall of his breathing, the subtle masculine scent of skin and cotton and a hint of leather.

  For a while they sat in silence. The CD she’d put on earlier had automatically restarted, and was playing “None But the Lonely Heart.” Years ago in a fit of teenage melancholy she’d decided it was her very own theme song, and even though she’d grown out of feeling sorry for herself the tune still had the power to stir her emotions. She sighed, and Jase said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  She took another sip from her glass, and he said, “When are you going to talk to me?”

  “You were the one who said you wanted to talk.”

  “I said we need to talk.”

  Samantha eased out of his hold and reached for the wine bottle, topping up her glass although it was only half empty. “Do we?” She leaned back into the corner of the two-seater and drank some more, then regarded him with deliberate provocation over the rim of the glass. “You weren’t so keen last night.”

  He smiled. “I’m easily distracted. One of the complaints my teachers had.” But his eyes were watchful, perhaps even troubled. “I’ll have to tell Rachel, you know.”

  Samantha stiffened. “Tell her what?”

  “About you and me…being together.”

  Samantha’s heart plunged. She stood up, uncaring that sparkling wine spilled from her glass onto the carpet.

  Tell Rachel? It would be the end of…of any chance to make Jase believe in her, realise how wrong he’d been about the kind of person she was. Maybe even love her.

  She put the glass down on the low table. “No!” she said. “No!”

  She knew she sounded panic-stricken, terrified.

  Rachel had done enough damage, wrecked not only her own marriage to Bryn, but what might have been the beginnings of trust between her brother and Samantha. The woman was a loose cannon, and who knew where her next fatal shot would land?

  Frowning, Jase put down his glass, his expression intransigent. “She’s bound to find out eventually, even way down in Dunedin,” he said. “I don’t want her hearing it from someone else.”

  Fear and hope tangled in her breast. He was suggesting their relationship might be long-term, but how long could it last if his sister was determined to break it up? Which surely she would be, in case Jase found out she’d lied to him.

  Should she tell him the truth? That the boot—or the stiletto—had been on the other foot, Rachel apparently covering for her own infidelity? But Bryn hadn’t told him, and Samantha knew he’d implicitly relied on her silence. Whether he was protecting his faithless wife or his own masculine pride, Samantha couldn’t breach his confidence.

  “No,” she repeated yet again. “No one needs to know about us. At least not yet.”

  She could see Jase’s expression beginning to set. Trepidation made her heart beat harder. Mustering every weapon in her arsenal, leaning towards him, she let her shoes fall to the floor as she tucked her legs behind her. The bodice of her dress gaped, giving him an eyeful of cleavage. Her hand rested on the buttons of his shirt, her mouth inches from his, her eyes pleading. “It can wait,” she breathed. “Can’t it?” She wasn’t, after all, her mother’s daughter for nothing.

  Her fingers deftly undid a button, then another, and she lowered her head, kissed his bare skin, and smiled to herself as she heard—felt—his indrawn breath.

  “Sam,” he said. “Samantha—”

  He pulled her away, holding her head in his hands, looked at her searchingly, and must have seen the desperation in her eyes. His mouth for a moment went taut, his eyes stormy. Then his fingers in her hair dragged her up to him, and he kissed her with a kind of wild abandon, his hand delving into the low neckline of her dress, making her pulse roar, her head spin as he caressed her. “No bra,” he muttered against her lips, shifting their position so her head rested on the back of the sofa.

  She smiled again. “No,” she agreed, their lips still touching while his fingers did amazing things to her breasts. “Not with this dress.”

  He made a small sound like a groan, said, “It’s a great dress,” and kissed her thoroughly again.

  When they came up for air he grumbled, “Why don’t you get a decent sofa?” He pulled her up with him and headed for her bedroom.

  Her last conscious thought was that she’d at least gained some precious time.

  In the weeks following they took unending pleasure in each other’s bodies, insatiable for the touch, the taste, the knowledge of each other.

  She hadn’t known that sex could be both passionate and playful, that delight could be found in a man’s fingertip caress or his lightest kiss on any part of her body. That her greatest pleasure would be in seeing him react to her reciprocal stroking and kissing, or that she would dare offer him the most intimate of foreplay and find her own arousal so overwhelming, her climax so completely shattering.

  Sometimes they were in her bed five minutes from Jase’s arrival; other times they talked for hours, listened to music or watched DVDs while nibbling snacks, Jase’s arm about her, his hand on her breast, her head tucked close to his chin. He was the only man she had snuggled up to since as a small child she’d sat on her father’s lap. It felt good. Almost wondrous.

  He introduced her to more computer games, laughing at her ferocious determination to win, her flushed, crowing pleasure when she did. And she taught him how to do the cryptic crosswords that she wrestled with each weekend, not giving up until she’d solved them. They played strip poker and invented forfeit games that inevitably ended in her bed.

  They never discussed his sister, and never went out together. She even refused to visit Jase at his Auckland base, let alone go back to his Waikato home. She knew it frustrated him, but also that as soon as their affair became public he would insist on telling his sister. And if Rachel stuck to her story…

  He’d have to make a choice. And Samantha was deathly afraid it wouldn’t be her he chose.

  She knew he chafed at the restrictions. A secret affair was against his nature. In her more pragmatic moods she told herself this couldn’t last anyway, that one day Jase would tire of the situation, the complications—of her—and break it off. On more hopeful days she dreamed about breaking out of the prison of doubt and fear, of seeing Ja
se stand by her against his sister, his family and the world, declare his faith in her. That he believed her no matter what.

  But she didn’t dare test it.

  One day as she was talking to Bryn at a fundraising dinner they’d attended, he said, in the middle of a discussion on the latest financial crisis, “Has Jase ever said anything about Rachel to you?”

  Taken by surprise, she didn’t answer immediately. “Why are you asking me?” she parried, giving herself time to think, a tactic she’d learned to use in business.

  “You must have talked sometimes when you were working together on your new systems. Did he mention where she is now?”

  “Dunedin,” she answered automatically, remembering Jase had mentioned it the night they’d argued about him telling Rachel they were lovers.

  “Where in Dunedin?” Bryn demanded, leaning forward across the table where they were having drinks.

  Samantha shook her head. “That’s all I know. Why?”

  He looked down into the whisky glass before him. She saw his fingers curl about it, his knuckles turning white. “I want her back, Sam,” he said, his voice low but determined. “I don’t care what she’s done, or why. She must have had a reason, though I’m damned if I can say I understand, or ever will. All I know is she belongs with me at Rivermeadows.”

  Struck dumb, she felt first terror, then a fierce, furious wave of jealousy. Why couldn’t Jase be like his brother-in-law, who loved his errant wife so much that nothing else mattered, even the ultimate betrayal of adultery?

  She wanted that kind of faith from Jase. The kind that went with love. Commitment. Promises and vows.

  She could try to dissuade Bryn, remind him of all the reasons Rachel didn’t deserve a second chance. But he was her friend, whose pain she’d seen for months, however he tried to hide it. So she sat silent.

  “I have to find her,” Bryn said, strain in his eyes, his voice. “I have to see her. Her parents say she asked the family not to tell me where she’s living.”