by Nora Roberts
She seemed to be floating, clinging to him as she glided inches above the floor. She could imagine herself drifting endlessly like this, steeped in sensation, weak—weak enough to be guided by someone else.
When he dipped his head to slick those hot kisses along her throat, she saw that she wasn’t floating at all, but being led slowly out of the office, into the living room, to the base of the stairs.
That was reality. In the real world being led too often equaled surrender.
“Where are we going?” Was that her voice, that throaty, breathless murmur?
“This time, this first time, you need a bed.”
“But …” She tried to clear her head, but his mouth skimmed back to hers. “It’s the middle of the morning.”
His laugh was quick and as unsteady as his pulse. He was half wild to get his hands on her, to feel her under him, to feel himself inside her. “God, you’re sweet.” Then his eyes flashed back to hers. “I want more, Julia. You’ve got one chance to tell me what you want.” He tugged off her sweatshirt and let it drop at the top of the stairs. Beneath it she wore nothing but the lingering scent of soap and perfumed oils. “Do you want me to wait until sundown?”
She let out a little cry, part alarm, part delight as his hand closed over her. “No.”
He had her back to the wall, letting those rough, clever hands do the seducing. His breath was heaving as if he’d scaled a mountain rather than a staircase. She felt it flutter hot over her throat, her cheek, into her mouth.
She was small and firm in his hands, and smooth as lake water. He knew he’d go mad if he didn’t taste that soft, trembling flesh. “What do you want, Julia?”
“This.” Her mouth moved frantically under his. And now it was she pulling him away from the wall and into the bedroom. “You.” When she reached for the buttons of his shirt, her fingers were shaking. She fumbled, swore. God, she needed to touch him. Wherever this terrible hunger had come from, it was burning her up from the inside out. “I can’t—it’s been so long.” Finally she let her clumsy hands drop and closed her eyes on the humiliation.
“You’re doing fine.” He’d nearly laughed, but he’d seen she’d had no idea what her frantic, inexpert attempts were doing to him. For him. “Relax, Julia,” he murmured as he lay her on the bed. “The best things always come back to you.”
The best she could manage was a small, panicked smile. His body was like iron over hers. “They say that about riding bikes, too, but I tend to lose my balance and fall off.”
He traced his tongue along her jaw, stunned by the way her single quick tremor racked his system. “I’ll let you know if you start to wobble.”
When she reached for him again, he braceleted her wrists in his hand and made love to her fingers. Too fast, he berated himself as he watched her in the light that slanted through the blinds. He’d been rushing her, fueled by his own needs. She needed care, and patience, and whatever tenderness he had to give.
Something had changed. She wasn’t certain what it was, but the mood had altered. The grinding in her stomach had become a quickening—every bit as exciting, but so much sweeter. His touch was no longer possessive, but experimental, fingers cruising over her. When he kissed her, the frustration was gone, and there was persuasion. Irresistible.
He could feel her relax, muscle by muscle, until she was like hot wax melting beneath him. He hadn’t known that kind of surrender, that level of trust could make him feel like a hero.
So he wanted to give her more, show her more. Promise her more.
Slowly, his eyes on her face, he drew the band from her hair so that it fanned dark gold over the rose-colored spread. As her lips opened, he touched his to them, but softly, waiting for her to deepen that most basic and complex of contacts. When her tongue sought his, he sank in.
Arousal clouded her mind, racked her breathing. Though her fingers still trembled, she fought his buttons loose, letting out a long sigh of satisfaction as she felt his flesh slide over hers. With her eyes closed she thought she could hear his heartbeat vying with the pace of her own for speed.
A cloak of sensation covered her, a misty veil that allowed her to do as she wished with her mouth and hands, without hesitation or regret. Feed ravenously. Yes, she would. A soul that had known hunger for so long understood greed as well as abstinence. She wanted the feast.
Her lips, fully tempted, raced over his face, down his throat, as she filled herself with the rich animal flavor of man. He said something, fast and harsh, and she heard her own laugh, a laugh that ended on a gasp when he pressed desperately against her, center to center.
When his tongue flicked over the point of her breast, that sharp pleasure had her arching beneath him, body straining up as the vibrations sang through her. The scrape of his teeth, the sudden greed of his mouth, the glory of the ageless hunger for the taste of flesh. With a groan caught deep in her throat she pressed his head against her, demanding and offering what he had asked for. More.
And this was a freedom, this heedless grasping of desires, that she had denied, even spurned, for so long.
The air around them was redolent with the perfume of the camelias in the bowl on her nightstand. Beneath them, the bed moaned as they tumbled over it. The sun creeping in through the blinds turned the light a warm and seductive gold. Whenever he touched her, that light would explode behind her heavy lids into fractured rainbows.
This was where he wanted her, climbing slowly toward the peak of passions. Clamping down hard on the need to take, he gave, he teased, he tormented—and was given the satisfaction of hearing his name erupt from her lips.
Her skin was smooth as silk, fragrant from the oils that had been worked so diligently into her muscles. Wanting all of it, he tugged the pants over her hips, groaning when he found her naked beneath the sweats.
Yet he found he could wait, still longer, contenting himself with the feel of those long, slim thighs under his hands. The taste of them against his lips. When he shifted, the slightest touch had her leaping over the edge where he’d held her, and soaring beyond.
The climax ripped through her, then left her stunned and dazed and staggered. After such a gentle introduction, the torrid pleasure was terrifying. And addicting. Even as she groped for him, he drove her up again and watched her eyes glaze over with passion, felt her body shudder from the thrill of it, heard her breath catch from the shock, expel from the glory.
As she went limp, he levered himself over her, his own body trembling as he waited for her heavy eyes to open, meet his. He slid inside her. She rose to meet him. Iron into velvet. Merged, they moved together, the rhythm instinctive, ancient, beautiful. When her lids shuddered down again, her arms opened to bring him close. This time when she leapt off the edge, she took him with her.
He lay quiet, still steeped in her. The scent of her skin, heated with passion, drifted through his senses and merged with the fragile fragrance of the camelias. The light, shadowed by the blinds, seemed neither of day nor night, but of some timeless space hidden between. Captured in his arms, her body moved gently, softly, with each quiet breath she took. When he lifted his head he could see her face, the glow of passion still flushing it. He had only to kiss her mouth to taste those warm and sweet remnants of mutual pleasure.
He had thought he knew romance, understood it, appreciated it. How many times had he used it to seduce a woman? How often had he woven it cleverly into a plot? But this was different. This time—or this woman—had taken it all to another plane. He intended to make her understand that they would both go there together, again and again.
“I told you it would come back to you.”
Her eyes opened slowly. They were huge and dark and sleepy. She smiled. It was no use telling him nothing had come back, because she had never experienced anything like what they had just shared.
“Is that similar to was it good for you?”
His grin flashed before he nipped her earlobe. “It’s saying a lot more than that. In fact, I was j
ust thinking that we could have a very productive day if neither of us moved from this spot.”
“Productive?” She let her fingers comb through his hair, dance down his spine as he nuzzled her throat. She didn’t feel like the cat who’d licked up the cream, but like the one who’d discovered a direct line to the cow. “Interesting, maybe. Enjoyable, certainly, but productive’s another matter. My interview with Anna should—mmm—be productive.” Lazily, she glanced toward the clock. On a quick cry, she struggled to get up, only to be held firmly in place. “It’s eleven-fifteen. How can it be eleven-fifteen? It was only a little past nine when we—”
“Time flies,” he murmured, more than a little flattered. “You’ll never make it.”
“But—”
“It’ll take you the better part of an hour to get dressed and make the drive. Reschedule.”
“Shit. This is completely unprofessional.” She wiggled free and hauled open the drawer of the nightstand to search for the number. “It’ll be my own fault if she refuses to give me another chance.”
“I like you like this,” he said as she dragged at the phone. “All hot and frazzled.”
“Be quiet while I think.” After pushing the hair out of her eyes, she punched in the number, then let out a gasp.
Paul merely grinned and continued to nibble on her toes. “Sorry. This is one particular fantasy I’ve got to fulfill.”
“Now’s hardly the time—” Pleasure arrowed in, had her head jerking back. “Paul, please. I have to … oh, God! What?” She fought to catch her breath as the receptionist repeated the standard greeting. “Yes, I’m sorry.” He was working on her other foot now, sliding his tongue over the arch. Jesus, who would have thought sensation could ripple out from there all the way to her hairline? “I—this is Julia Summers. I have an eleven-thirty with Ms. del Rio.” He was up to her ankles now. Julia heard the blood roaring in her head. “I, ah, I need to reschedule. I’ve had a …” Hot, open-mouthed kisses along her calf. “An unexpected emergency. Unavoidable. Please give Ms.…”
“Del Rio,” Paul supplied, then grazed his teeth over the back of her knee. Julia’s fingers knotted in the tangled sheets.
“Give her my apologies, and tell her …” A trail of hot, wet kisses up her inner thigh. “Tell her I’ll get back to her. Thank you.”
The phone clattered to the floor.
Drake gave the guard at the gate a cheery salute. As he drove through, he began digging at his thighs and grinding his teeth. Nerves had brought on an itchy, spreading rash that none of the over-the-counter creams and lotions he’d applied helped. By the time he’d arrived at the guest house he was whimpering and talking to himself.
“It’s gonna be all right. Nothing to worry about. In and out in five minutes and everything’s fixed up.” Sweat trickled, turning his raw thighs into a blazing agony.
There were forty-eight hours left until his deadline. The image of what Joseph could do to him with those big cinder-block fists was enough to have him sprinting out of the car.
It was safe. At least he was sure of that. Eve was in Bur-bank filming, and Julia was off interviewing the witch Anna. All he had to do was walk in, dub the tapes, then walk out.
It took him nearly a full minute of rattling the doorknob to realize the place was locked. With the breath whistling through his teeth, he raced around the house, checking all the windows and doors. By the time he got back to his starting point, he was dripping with sweat.
He couldn’t go away empty-handed. No matter how well Drake deluded himself, he knew he would never find the nerve to come back. It had to be now. Raking his fingers over his blazing thighs, he made it to the terrace in a stumbling run. He cast furtive glances over his shoulder as he picked up a small clay pot of petunias. The tinkle of breaking glass seemed as loud to him as the boom of an assault rifle, but the marines didn’t come come running in counterattack.
The pot dropped from his nerveless fingers to shatter on the terrace stones. Still watching his back, he reached in through the hole he’d made and tripped the latch.
Standing inside the empty house brought him a tingle of satisfaction and bolstered his courage. As he moved from kitchen to office, his stride was firm and confident. He was smiling when he opened the drawer. His eyes went blank for a moment, then he laughed to himself and pulled open another drawer. And another.
The smile had turned to a grimace as he continued to yank open the empty drawers and ram them shut again.
Julia couldn’t remember ever having a single interview exhaust her as much as her session with Anna. The woman was like an LP run on 78. Julia had a feeling she might find some interesting and entertaining tidbits mired in the orgy of words Anna had indulged in—once she had the energy to review the tape.
She stopped in front of the house and sat in the car, eyes closed, head back. At least she hadn’t had to push or pry to get Anna to open up. The woman gushed like water through a broken pipe, her mind on constant overdrive, and her stick-figure body never settled in one place for more than a few intense minutes. All Julia had had to do was ask what it was like to design wardrobes for Eve Benedict.
Anna had been off and running about Eve’s outrageous and often unrealistic expectations, her impatient demands, her last-minute brainstorms. It was Anna—according to Anna—who had made Eve look like a queen in Lady Love. Anna who had made her sparkle in Paradise Found. There had been no mention, as there had been in Kinsky’s and Marilyn Day’s interviews that it had been Eve who had given Anna her first real break by insisting that she be used as costume designer on Lady Love.
The lack of gratitude reminded Julia of Drake.
It was beginning to rain when Julia sighed and climbed from the car. It was a fast, thin rain that looked as though it could go on for days. Like Anna, she thought as she dashed to the front door. Julia would have preferred to close the door on that particular tape as she would close the door against the chilling rain.
But as she searched out her keys, she knew that whatever her personal feelings, she would review the tape. If Anna came across as catty, spoiled, and ungrateful in the book, she had no one to blame but herself.
Wondering if she should make pork chops or chicken for dinner, Julia opened the door, and the scent of wet, crushed flowers poured out. The living room, which had been neat if not orderly, was now a jumble of overturned tables, broken lamps, torn cushions. In the moment it took her mind to register what her eyes were seeing, she stood, briefcase clutched in one hand, keys in the other. Then she dropped them both and walked through the destruction of what she had tried to make home.
Every room was the same—broken glass, overturned furniture. Pictures had been torn off the wall. Drawers had been broken. In the kitchen, boxes and bottles had been yanked out of cupboards so that their contents made an unappetizing stew on the tiled floor.
She turned and fled upstairs. In her room her clothes were strewn around the floor. The mattress had been dragged partially off the bed, the linens in torn and tangled knots. The contents of her dresser were scattered on top of it.
But it was Brandon’s room that snapped the control she was desperately trying to cling to. Her child’s room had been invaded, his toys, his clothes, his books, pawed through. Julia picked up the top of his Batman pajamas, and balling them in her hands, went to the phone.
“Miss Benedict’s residence.”
“Travers. I need Eve.”
Travers answered that demand with a snort. “Miss Benedict’s at the studio. I expect her around seven.”
“You get in touch with her now. Someone’s broken into the guest house and trashed it. I’ll give her an hour before I call the police myself.” She hung up on Travers’s squawking questions.
Her hands were shaking. That was good, she decided. It was anger, and she didn’t mind shaking with anger. She wanted to hold on to it, it and every other vicious emotion that pounded through her.
Very deliberately she went downstairs again, walking over t
he wreckage of the living room. She crouched in front of a section of wainscoting and pressed the hidden mechanism as Eve had showed her. The panel slid open, revealing the safe inside. Julia spun the dial, mentally reciting the combination. When it was open, she took inventory of the contents. Her tapes, her notes, the few boxes of jewelry. Satisfied, she closed it again, then went to the rain-splattered window to wait.
Thirty minutes later, Julia watched Paul’s Studebaker slide to a halt. His face was set and expressionless when she met him at the door. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Travers called you?”
“Yes, she called me—which is something you neglected to do.”
“It didn’t occur to me.”
He was silent until he’d worked past the anger her remark caused. “Obviously. What’s this about another break-in?”
“See for yourself.” She stepped aside so that he could walk in ahead of her. Seeing it again brought on a fresh, red rage. It took everything she had to whip it down. Her fingers linked together until the knuckles were white. “First guess is that someone was upset when they couldn’t find the tapes, and decided to tear the place up until they did.” She nudged some broken crockery aside with her foot. “They didn’t.”
Fury, and the coppery flavor of fear in the back of his throat, had him whirling on her. His eyes were a blazing blue that had her backing up a step before she stiffened her spine. “Is that all you can think of?”
“It’s the only reason,” she said. “I don’t know anyone who would do this because of a personal grudge.”
He shook his head, struggling to ignore the twisting of his gut when he looked at a hacked cushion. What if he had found her like that—torn and tattered and tossed on the floor? His voice was cold as iron when he managed to speak again.
“So the tapes are safe, and that’s that?”
“No, that is not that.” She pulled her fingers apart, and as though that had been her only restraint, the fury she’d been strapping down broke loose. “They went into Brandon’s room. They touched his things.” Rather than nudging wreckage aside, she kicked at it, her eyes the color of the storm clouds that were shooting down that steady, driving rain. “No one, no one gets that close to my son. When I find out who did this, they’ll pay.”