by Kay Hooper
She felt a strange flare of heat at the last word and didn’t know if it was the word itself or the husky way he said it that caused her reaction. She didn’t dare meet his eyes because she was half afraid of what she might find in his gaze. Tension wound tightly inside her, like a spring coiling, and she couldn’t seem to hold her breathing steady.
“Michele?”
Softly, still without looking at him, she said, “When I was a little girl, I didn’t know that Stuart was a name. I’d heard my father say it many times, but all I knew from his tone of voice was that a ‘Stuart’ was something bad.”
Very deliberately, he reached across the table and covered her folded hands with one of his own. “I thought Logan was a curse until I was seven. But I’m not seven anymore. And you’re not a little girl. We have to start with just us, Michele. Or else blindly follow twenty generations of tradition in our families.”
She stared at the big hand covering hers, feeling the warmth and heavy strength of it. Finally, she raised her eyes to his, seeing in them some of the intensity that she had felt earlier. “I don’t think I’d be a very good trailblazer,” she said unsteadily. “There’s so much I’d be risking. So much I could lose. Would lose.” Her father’s love. Her brother’s.
For a brief moment, Ian’s hand tightened over hers, then he leaned back and withdrew from her. “All right,” he said quietly. “I suppose that not hating is something.”
Ian signaled the waiter, going on in the same mild tone. “We can at least have dinner in peace; the families don’t have to know we’re even on the same island.”
Michele gave her order and listened as he gave his. She felt a strong sense of loss and also a bitter feeling of failure. She had never really failed in her life, not at anything that mattered to her—and somehow Ian mattered to her very much. She wasn’t sure why, perhaps simply because it was her nature to make up her own mind about things. Sometimes, there was no choice to make. If she could have believed that the feud could be stopped because she and Ian made peace between them, she would have risked it, she told herself fiercely. But she knew both her father and brother too well to think that was possible.
“Don’t look so troubled,” Ian said softly. “Maybe when it’s our turn to carry the torch, we can do a better job with it.”
“No,” she said. “Maybe you don’t want to hate, but Jon does. Dad’s poisoned him. He’s heard so much more than I have. I don’t know, maybe he got the brunt of it because he was older. Or maybe because he’d always keep the Logan name. Dad isn’t rational where you’re concerned. And no matter how good your intentions are, Ian, if somebody hates you long enough and tries to hurt you often enough, you’ll hate, too.”
Ian frowned slightly. “It sounds as if your father is more bitter than mine. Do you know why?”
She shook her head. “No. But Jon knows something. When we were younger he said that your father had done something terrible to ours a long time ago. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
“It must have had something to do with a woman.”
She was surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“Otherwise, Jon would have told you.”
Michele thought about that, and somewhere deep inside she felt a little chill. Had some unknown woman intensified an already bitter rivalry? What had happened? Women were vulnerable when men feuded; they could be hurt in so many ways. They could be used as weapon or as victim. As soon as that thought occurred to her, she felt another chill and then anger hard on the heels of it. These damned suspicions! Ian had merely suggested that the two of them make peace, not crawl into bed together.
Into bed…together…
Her breathing seemed to stop for an instant, and a wave of dizziness swept over her. Images flashed in her mind, images that were raw and powerful—and undeniably exciting. For the first time in her life, she felt the shocked awareness of her own sexuality, and the images were so strong they were almost overpowering. The thought of being in bed with Ian Stuart triggered a surge of emotions as confused as they were complex.
“What are you thinking?” he asked suddenly.
Michele felt heat rise in her face. She wasn’t about to confess the erotic images still playing through her mind, not the least because they shocked her to her bones. “I was…wishing that it was simple. Wishing it was just us.” She heard the husky words emerge, and felt another jolt because she knew it was true.
“Would you trust me then?”
“I don’t know. But I’d only be risking myself if I took the chance.”
The waiter arrived and began to serve their food just then, and Ian didn’t respond to what she’d said. Michele was grateful for the reprieve, using it to try desperately to cope with these stunning, unexpected, and wholly unfamiliar feelings. She ate food she didn’t taste, bewildered by what had happened to her—and why it had happened.
Why had it happened? Why had her chance encounter with Ian and the reckless act of having dinner with him sparked these wild surges of desire? How could she possibly feel such things for this man of all men? She had never felt desire until now, not at all; her strongest interest in a man had been mild and detached compared to this.
But now…
Tension coiled in her as her emotions churned chaotically. Make peace with Ian? No, that would never be possible now. Even if it were just the two of them, she knew that what she wanted of him had little to do with peace. It was as if some barrier inside her had collapsed into rubble at the slightest touch, and what she saw beyond that shattered wall terrified her.
“Michele?”
She looked up at him, seeing a lean, handsome face that was all too dreadfully familiar now, because something, some deeply buried instinct, told her it had always been behind that wall. Waiting.
It was too much to accept, to think about; she had to get away from it. She set her fork aside automatically and pushed her chair back. “Excuse me,” she murmured, rising jerkily to her feet.
“Michele, what’s wrong?” He was on his feet as well, staring at her with concern and something else in his eyes.
She couldn’t answer him, because all the answers were so terribly dangerous. Without another word, she hurried away from their table. She heard him call after her, but the sound of her name only made her move faster. She was almost running by the time she reached the lobby, and barely noticed a few startled faces as she raced across and fled out into the night.
The hotel boasted a strip of private beach, deserted this late, and it was there Michele ran. She kicked off her heels almost as soon as she left the hotel, leaving them where they fell. She passed the blue-lit pool and blindly followed the path through the lush garden until she felt sand under her feet and saw the moonlit darkness of the ocean.
When she reached the water she turned, racing on the wet sand. For years she’d made a habit of morning runs to keep in shape. She ran fast now, the wind tearing her hair free of its braid and whipping her skirt out behind her. She ran because she had to escape.
Chapter 2
“Michele!”
He caught up with her at the northwest end of the beach as she approached a ridge of volcanic rock jutting up from the sand that marked the boundary of the hotel’s private beach.
When he grabbed her hand and forced her to stop, pulling her around to face him, she felt an instant of anger and half raised her free hand as if she would have pounded on his broad chest.
She stared up at him, her clenched hand motionless now. She could see him clearly in the moonlight, and she wished it was dark because she knew he could see her just as clearly.
“What are you running from?” he demanded.
Almost idly, she noted that he was in excellent shape since he wasn’t even breathing hard from the race. Her own heart was pounding, and she couldn’t seem to draw enough air into her lungs. “Let me go,” she demanded.
He released her hand but only so that he could grasp both her shoulders firmly. “I want to know why you’re
running, Michele.”
She felt smothered by him, trapped, despite the open space all around them. He was so big, and he’d caught her all too easily and quickly in spite of her head start. She couldn’t escape him. But she had to stop this before something irrevocable happened, before it was too late. Panic rose in her, and this time her fists did pound against his chest.
“Let me go! I won’t let you do this to me, I won’t!”
Ian barely felt the blows. He had run after her instinctively, thinking only of stopping her because there had been something wild and frightened in her eyes. It was in her voice now, in the supple strength of her slender body as she fought desperately to get away from him. Her words made no sense to him, but the thin sound of her voice did. She was afraid of him somehow, almost terrified, and the realization was like a knife in his chest.
He should have released her simply to reassure her that he wouldn’t hurt her, but he didn’t want to see her run away from him again. Without stopping to think, he pulled her into his arms, trapping her hands between them and holding her firmly.
“Michele, stop it. Be still. I’m not going to hurt you.” He forced himself to speak quietly. She went on struggling for a moment, but then her breath caught as her movements made her lower body press against his, and she seemed to freeze.
A small wave lapped over their feet gently. His hands were on her bare back now, and her skin was every bit as soft and smooth as it looked. Her hair had come loose, tumbling down her back and over his hands like warm, heavy silk. She was utterly still, hardly seeming to breathe, but her delicate body was pressed against his and he could feel every curve, feel the warmth of her.
“No,” she said in a very soft but distinct voice. Her head tilted back slowly as she looked up at him, and moonlight shimmered darkly in her eyes. Against his chest, her fingers uncurled and spread, but she didn’t try to push him away.
His own fingers were moving, lightly probing the straightness of her spine as one hand slid up toward her nape and the other found the small of her back. She felt so fragile against him, so feminine, and his entire body was reacting wildly, all his senses so sharpened it was almost painful. His heart hammered against his ribs, and a jolt of pure, raw desire settled in his loins with a throbbing ache.
“No?” he murmured, knowing that they weren’t talking about fear now. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his face, her lips slightly parted and trembling.
“Don’t do this. Don’t let this happen.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
His arms tightened around her. “You knew it would happen, didn’t you? That’s why you ran.”
The admission she had made horrified her, leaving her painfully vulnerable. “That’s insane! How could I possibly even think— Let me go, Ian!”
“You knew,” he repeated, his voice deepening and going rough. “You felt it, too.”
Michele shook her head, but it was a helpless not a negative gesture. If she had felt trapped before, it was nothing compared to this feeling. The very suddenness and stark force of the attraction had granted her no time to find a defense, and her effort to escape had been useless. And somewhere inside her, deeper than thought, was an acknowledgment of inevitability.
Being in his arms felt so right. Her body had known that the instant it had touched his, and she couldn’t deny the sharp excitement surging through her.
Michele felt him move, a subtle shifting that brought her more intimately against him. She gasped at the sensation and managed a single, strangled protest. “Don’t.”
Ian bent his head slowly, blocking out the moonlight until all she could see was the glimmer of his eyes. Her own eyes closed slowly as his lips touched hers. For an instant she sensed that she was poised on the brink, as if she still had a choice. But then the choice was made, and there was no going back. She felt herself melt even closer against him, her arms lifting to his neck, her mouth opening wildly beneath the increasing pressure of his.
As easily and simply as that, something detonated between them, and the shock waves of it made them both shudder. Ian gathered her even closer, lifting her up against him so that she was nearly off her feet. Her breasts were pressed to his chest, burning him even through their clothing, and her yielding loins fit his as if their bodies had been made for each other.
Michele was drowning in waves of heat, totally helpless against what was happening. She had been kissed before, but the experience had always left her unmoved. Apparently she wasn’t a sensual woman; she had never felt the slightest urge to go beyond kisses. In Ian’s arms, though, no simple urge drove her; the need to be closer, to have more of him, was a compulsion stronger than anything she’d ever felt before.
His mouth was hard and hungry, the deep exploration of his tongue making her entire body quiver. She responded without thought or hesitation, the urgency inside her sweeping all else before it in a tide of need. Every stark, new sensation was somehow familiar, as if she had always known how it would be with him. The hard strength of his chest compressing her aching breasts, his taut belly against hers, the throbbing fullness of his loins nestled intimately in her yielding softness—it was all familiar and what her body craved.
His hand tangled in her hair, and his legs widened as his other hand slid below the small of her back to hold her harder against him. Pleasure exploded inside her, hot and dizzying, and a moan of desire caught raggedly in her throat. Then he lifted his head abruptly, and the sound she made in response was a murmur of disappointment.
“Michele.” His voice was dark, liquid, the heavy need in it a sound that was almost pain. His entire body was taut, and his chest rose and fell as if he had run some desperate race.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, tightening her arms around his neck as she tried to pull his head back down.
For an instant, Ian almost gave in. The slender body in his arms was warm and willing, moving against him even now with a need that matched his own. And her breathy plea snatched at his control, the implicit surrender filling his mind until he could hardly think of anything but drawing her down to the wet sand and fusing their bodies together in a heated mating. Only the sure knowledge that she would hate him afterward gave him the will to stop.
Both his hands found her hips, and he gently forced her lower body away from his. She squirmed in his hold, trying to move closer again, and Ian bit back a groan. Harshly, he demanded, “Who am I, Michele?”
She blinked up at him, bewildered. “Ian,” she murmured.
His hands tightened, and he made himself go on, hating this. “Ian what? Finish it.”
Her lips, pouty from his kisses, quivered suddenly, and she went still in his grasp. “Stuart,” she whispered.
“Is that who you want in your bed?”
The stark question went through Michele like a cold knife, bringing sanity at last. Her arms were still around his neck. She removed them slowly, then stepped jerkily back until his hands dropped from her. Her legs were shaking, her body was shaking, and it hurt to breathe. Part of her wanted to cry out to him in anguish, demanding to know why he had spoiled it, why he’d had to remind her of what they were; another part of her was trying to cope with the enormity of what she’d almost done.
“Thanks…for reminding me,” she forced herself to say as steadily as possible.
“I want you, Michele,” he said in a low voice that was almost guttural. “Right now, right here in the sand, I want you.”
She was dimly aware of understanding that he had stopped because the choice she would have made in the heat of desire was a blind one.
Michele knew it, too. Her mind had been programmed implacably against him for twenty years, yet her body craved his desperately at the first touch. There was no way to reconcile that conflict. No way at all.
She drew herself up stiffly. “You shouldn’t have come out here after me,” she murmured. “You should have let me run.”
He shook his head slowly. “You can’t run from this.”
“I
have to.”
“Michele—”
“I have to. I won’t destroy my family, Ian. That price is too high; I can’t pay it. There can’t be anything between us. Not even peace.”
“There is something between us. It isn’t hate, and God knows it isn’t peace, but it’s real, Michele. You can’t ignore it. And you can’t run away from it.”
“Watch me.”
He swore under his breath, then said roughly, “And if I pulled you down in the sand right now? If I kissed you and touched you until you were holding on to me just the way you were a few minutes ago? Could you run then?”
With naked, simple honesty, she answered, “No.”
He took half a step toward her, almost as if her admission had yanked at him, then stopped and held himself as stiffly as she. “But you’d hate me, wouldn’t you?”
“I think I would.” She felt tears sting her eyes and blinked them back. Her hands spread unconsciously in a gesture of helplessness, then fell. “Stay away from me, Ian. For both our sakes. For the sake of that torch we might be able to carry better than our fathers have.”
“And that’s it?”
Michele felt impossibly tired; her entire body ached dully with the throbbing echoes of what he had awakened in her. She nodded and turned away from him.
“Wait.” He hesitated, then muttered an oath and shook his head as if he were at a loss. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew her small clutch bag. Holding it out to her, he said, “You left this at the table.”
She accepted the purse automatically, and then kept walking back up the beach toward the hotel.
He didn’t follow her.
She found her shoes near the door she’d run out earlier and picked them up without bothering to put them on. Her hose was ruined, she knew, and both sand and the residue of salt water clung to her feet and ankles. She didn’t care. Ignoring the few curious stares she garnered in the lobby, she crossed to the elevators and rode up to her floor.