Undercover Mistress

by Kathleen Creighton

  “You’re upset,” she said. And she knew upset didn’t come close to describing the man’s state of mind just then.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t understand, in her own heart, what he must be feeling-at least, she was pretty sure she did. An actress needed to be capable of recognizing and responding to a whole range of human emotions, and Celia considered herself more empathetic than most. But now it occurred to her that in terms of subtle shadings, the range of emotions she’d had to deal with in the past couple of days made all the rest of her emotional life so far seem like children’s crayon drawings in primary colors.

  She said mildly, “I don’t know why you’re so upset. Just because I heard you talking in your sleep.”

  “Delirious,” he growled, tearing his gaze from the tray on his lap and throwing her a black look. “I wasn’t asleep, I was out of my head. What you heard was garbage. It wasn’t real.” He picked up a fork and stabbed at a bite of pot roast.

  “Max is real,” she pointed out. And completely independent of the tense conversation she was engaged in, a warm little spring of happiness-primitive and uniquely feminine-bubbled up inside her as she watched him put the food she’d prepared for him-all right, she’d only microwaved it, but still-into his mouth, and chew and swallow it with obvious enjoyment. It was a whole new experience for her.

  “Yeah, well,” he said between quick, savage bites, barely tasting, “the rest of it isn’t. So you can just forget about it, you hear? It’s just…nightmares.”

  “Then why,” she asked, “are you so upset that I know?”

  He paused long enough to throw her another glare. “I’m not upset-just don’t want you getting a bunch of wrong ideas.”

  His air of affronted masculinity amused her, and she couldn’t resist saying, with exaggerated innocence, “Wrong ideas? Oh-you mean like, that you’re a government agent working undercover trying to stop terrorists from bringing some sort of weapon of mass destruction into Los Angeles by boat? And that you were caught in the act of trying to sabotage some Arab prince’s yacht-” She broke off when her patient erupted in a paroxysm of coughing and leaned over to pluck a napkin from the tray and hand it to him.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, voice muffled.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He dabbed at his eyes, tear-reddened and furious. “You…have one hell of an imagination.”

  “I do. I also have a helluva good memory,” she said calmly. “Especially for dialogue-I have to memorize pages and pages of it every day, you know. I remember every word you said. It sounded like…” She paused to ponder it. “I think you must have thought I was this Max person, and you were giving him-me-a full report. With lots of details. In fact,” she added, returning his stony stare, “there wasn’t much left for me to imagine. Plus the cold hard fact that I found you washed up on the beach, half-dead from a gunshot wound.” Celia hated being patronized and belittled. Anger embers flared as she nodded toward the damp bandages stuck to his chest with adhesive tape. “Tell me I’m imagining that.”

  Then, as a new thought occurred to her, she caught her breath and leaned toward him to peer interestedly at the wounds. “You know…I just realized…Doc said the angle was strange. He couldn’t figure out how the exit wound could be up here, and the entrance way down there, on your side. He said it was like you’d been shot from below. But you weren’t! I can see it now-you were diving!” She was up off the bed and on her feet, now, acting out the scenario. “Someone on the boat shot you as you were diving into the water. That’s the way it happened-right?” She spun toward him on the last word-then halted. “What are you doing?”

  He’d set the dinner tray aside and was pulling his legs from under the covers. Aiming a smoky glare past her, he muttered, “Gettin’ the hell out of this bed, that’s what I’m doing. What does it look like?”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What does it look like? It looks like you’ve lost your mind. You’re not strong enough. You’re going to-”

  “I’m fine.” Having succeeded in planting two bony bare feet squarely on the carpet, he transferred the glare to Celia. “Max’ll be here in a minute. I’m not gonna have him find me lying here like some damn helpless invalid.”

  He’d never looked less like an invalid, in her opinion-or more like a buccaneer. Not a sick buccaneer, either, not any longer. The truth was, with his thickening beard and shower-rumpled hair, eyes throwing daggers, he looked more than capable of wreaking havoc on pretty much any venue he chose.

  Her heart stumbled. She couldn’t bear to look just then at the reasons for the irrational protests and denials that were screaming inside her head, so she told herself he was simply too weak, too sick to go. She told herself he needed her. Because she couldn’t bring herself to admit the simple truth behind the protests, which was that it was she who needed him.

  She stepped forward, reaching instinctively for him as he lurched to his feet, at that moment not sure in her heart whether she meant to help him…or stop him.

  What happened next happened quickly. He swayed, uttering a muffled, “Whoa…” as his hands came up to clutch wildly at the only support within reach-which he did manage to grab hold of in the last instant before he toppled backward onto the bed.

  As she felt his arms come around her, as she felt herself pitching forward, tightly wrapped in a surprisingly strong and wiry embrace, Celia had time for one electric flash of thought: Oh, please don’t let me hurt him.

  She heard a sharp exhalation-whose, she couldn’t have said for certain-and the next thing she knew she was lying sprawled full-length on top of a hard masculine body. A thankfully no longer nude, but rather badly bruised, battered and recently gunshot body. A body, it further occurred to her, that had grown suddenly and alarmingly still.

  Icy with fear, she carefully raised her head. Relief-and warmth-flooded back into her when she saw her patient’s eyes were open and focused. He appeared to be staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Although she did think his breathing was somewhat shallow and constricted, and it seemed to her his heart was beating awfully fast. For that matter, so was hers.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  She felt his abdominal muscles clench as he lifted his head in order to see her. He shook his head slightly, and his voice seemed to rumble inside her own chest. “Uh-uh…how ’bout you?”

  “I’m okay.” Which wasn’t quite true. For starters, was that raspy croak hers? Then there was the way her heart was banging against the walls of her chest-for all the world, she thought in dawning horror, as if it were trying to get through it, to get closer to him.

  In fact, her whole body, waking up from the numbness of shock, seemed overjoyed with the circumstances it now found itself in. All across the surface of her skin, happy little nerve endings were springing to delighted attention-particularly those lucky enough to be in direct contact with some part of him. Pulses pounded through her veins like excited signal drummers racing to spread glad tidings. And who could blame them? It had been a long time since they’d had anything much to get excited about.

  “I told you you weren’t ready,” she said thickly, desperately trying to throw a net over her voracious senses. “Naturally, you wouldn’t listen. What is it with men? Always think you have to-”

  “Do you know,” he interrupted in a conversational tone, “that you are a damned exasperatin’ woman?”

  Exasperating? For a moment she couldn’t think of a response; she’d never heard that word applied to herself before. She decided she sort of liked it. Warmth crept through her and into her face, bringing a smile with it. “Thank you. That’s very…John Wayne of you,” she breathed, gazing down into his eyes. Eyes…like dark vortices, pulling her in…

  Her perspective…her world…slowly narrowed until nothing existed in it except for those eyes…then slowly it expanded outward again like a window spiraling open into a whole new world. A world that now included the hot, hard body bene
ath her, a furious pounding in her chest that seemed to leave no room for breathing, and the sweet, warm weight of his hands on her back. In this new world, she was deaf to reason and warnings of conscience. If, somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind, a voice was shrieking, Are you out of your mind? He’s injured, remember? she didn’t hear it.

  And so, when his belly again tightened under hers, when his hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, when his head lifted and his mouth claimed hers, she was blissfully, eagerly waiting.

  Chapter 7

  The kiss tasted like pot roast and hot, hungry man, and all Celia could think about was how delicious it was, and how long it had been since she’d indulged herself with either of those, and how sorry she was about that now, and…what had she been thinking, anyway? Because this-the hungry-man part-was as good as anything in life ever gets, and she kissed him back with blissful abandon, unhurried, aching with the unbearable sweetness of it, like someone savoring a bite of chocolate cake after a long, wretched denial.

  When he pulled away from her-though not far-she licked her lips and let go a careful breath, vibrant with regret.

  “Wow.” His voice was muffled, the word soft on her face.

  “Yeah,” she said, eyes still closed, still smiling-before she remembered she was Celia Cross, a TV star, for God’s sake, and she ought to have some pride, dammit.

  She opened her eyes and got them focused on the face so unnervingly near to hers, and was faintly surprised at the expression she saw there. Puzzled, she thought. Or maybe the word was…bemused.

  “Tell me something…Roy,” she said, trying his name out loud for the first time-and again was surprised, this time by the queer little tremor that went through her when she said it. As when she’d seen his face in the light for the first time, it made him seem more real…brought her one step closer to knowing him…and did she really want that? She couldn’t think-didn’t want to. “Why on earth did you do that?”

  His breath was warm on her face. “Tell you the truth, I’m not sure.” He was frowning; his fingers moved in her hair as if testing the texture of some fine, rare fabric.

  Shivers cascaded through her; goose bumps prickled her scalp and poured over her body. Her nipples hardened. Solemn as a doctor delivering bad news, she said, “You’re badly injured, you know. You must’ve lost an awful lot of blood. You can’t stand up without fainting.” And then, sternly, “What were you thinking?”

  “I dunno…something about…proving I’m still alive, I guess.” His lips tilted in a smile of charming irony that affected her the way the smell of baking bread would a starving man. She swallowed as he went on, “You know-the drive to survive…something primitive like that.”

  She made a disparaging sound, but her heart wasn’t in it. Maybe because his hand had found its way under her shirt, and his fingers were brushing her back in that exploring way…as if acquainting himself with the feel, the unique texture of her.

  “But…doesn’t it…hurt?” Her voice had grown breathless and hushed. His hand felt so good. “Your wound, I mean. I’d think-”

  “Oh, hell yeah. But who-”

  “Oh God-I’m sorry-you should’ve said-”

  She was trying to shift her weight when his arms tightened around her with surprising strength. “Like I started to say, who cares?” His eyes seemed to smoulder as they looked at her. “Tell you what, though,” he growled. “You really want to make me feel better, you can kiss me again. And this time, come here to me. I’m an injured man-don’t make me come up there and get you.”

  He is a pirate, she thought, quaking with laughter and a strange and delicious fear. At this moment, he could have just about anything he wanted from me, and I wouldn’t know how to defend myself against him.

  And from somewhere far away, as she slowly dipped her smile to touch his, came the thought: Why on earth would I want to?

  A pleased little chuckle bubbled up from her chest, and he answered it with one so fat with masculine smugness it should have enraged her-but didn’t. Then the pressure of his hand cupping the back of her head closed the last of the distance between her mouth and his, and she gave up thinking entirely. She plunged into the kiss, the moment, the fantasy like a giddy child into a vat of ping-pong balls, fully aware that what she was doing bore about as much resemblance to real life as that.

  But, oh, how good it felt! And what marvelous, wonderful fun it was…

  And then, suddenly, it wasn’t fun anymore. Oh, the desire still sizzled along her nerves and thumped in her body’s secret places, but now, instead of joy, it was tears stinging behind her eyelids, and pain cramped her belly just beneath the places where the newly healed scars puckered her skin. Somewhere inside her, an anguished child was crying, This is good-but it’s not enough! I want more!

  She wanted him to make love to her, yes-so badly her whole body ached with it-and that in itself was astonishing. But at the same time she felt grief-stricken, because she knew if he did, it would never be enough.

  I want more! I want…I want…

  But she couldn’t say it, not even in her mind. Because what she wanted was a fantasy not even she, who’d lived in a fantasy world all her life, could find a way to describe with words.

  Roy knew the moment it went haywire. He felt a shudder go through her, which could have been good, but somehow wasn’t. Instead of a vibrant, passionate woman, what this reminded him of was the way it felt to hold a captured rabbit in his hands.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She’d torn her mouth from his and tilted her face downward, so his words emerged, rasping and guttural, against the watermark frown in the middle of her forehead. Her skin felt moist on his lips, as if she were coming out of a fever.

  Her head rolled from side to side. In a muffled voice, she mumbled, “We can’t do this. How can you, even? You’ve been shot…you almost died…”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Hell, how did he know? Some kind of biological imperative, maybe? Survival of the species? All he knew for certain was, he’d never felt a more powerful hunger for a woman than he did for her at that moment.

  “Doc could walk in. Your friend Max-you said he’d be here ‘in a minute.’”

  “He’s not my friend, he’s my handler,” he muttered. Then he swore softly and vehemently. After that, for a long time he didn’t say anything, because he wanted in the worst way to deny the sense in what she’d said and was flashing back to a time in his youth when he’d tried hard to delude himself-and others-into believing it really was possible to die from unresolved arousal. But breathing in her scent, that light, sweet flower fragrance he couldn’t place, he felt her body grow still in his arms. Inevitably, a similar acceptance came like cool rain to dampen his own raging fires.

  After a while, he said in an aggrieved tone, “Did I mention you’re a very exasperatin’ woman?”

  “You did.” She said it without lifting her head, aiming the words at his chest, but he thought he could hear a smile come into her voice. “And if I recall, I took it as a compliment.”

  “Exasperating…and weird. When I said you were beautiful, which I thought was a compliment, you took it as an insult.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  Regret sliced through him like physical pain as she eased herself off of him, careful to avoid his wounded side, and scooted to the edge of the bed. She sat there for several moments, hands braced beside her, rocking herself slightly, face turned away from him, letting the silence lengthen.

  Consoling himself with the visual feast of her…the long, supple lines, the graceful curve of neck and shoulder, the rapturous tumble of sun-shot hair, it struck Roy once more how beautiful she really was-easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Holding her in his arms, kissing her, he’d managed to forget that-and pretty much everything else, too, of course, including how much every part of him really did still hurt, and the vital nature of the mission he’d failed to complete-but especially that. Now, th
ough, with the truth of it staring him in the face, the thought smacked him upside the head: Man, what were you thinking?

  “What’s up with that?” He pillowed his head on one folded arm and aimed the question at her back, his voice an abrasive intrusion in a silence that had been allowed to linger too long. “I thought women liked to be told they’re pretty.”

  She threw him a fierce dark look over one shoulder, a look he couldn’t read. “It’s nothing. Except, just once, I’d like-”

  “What?” he demanded when she broke it off with a frustrated exhalation. “Don’t do that. What would you like? Tell me.”

  It was nervy of him to say that to her, he supposed, and for a while he was sure she wouldn’t answer him. She sat very still, gazing along her shoulder at nothing, her profile revealing the same sad look she’d worn before when he’d mentioned how beautiful she was. He couldn’t explain it, but he really wanted to know why. He felt a strange certainty the answer was going to provide an important key to what made this woman tick.

  With an equally strange certainty, he knew he wanted that key. What he wasn’t sure about was what he might do with it once he had it.

  “Just once,” Celia said softly, “I’d like to be admired for something I’m responsible for. Do you understand?”

  She shifted around to look at him then, a frown rippling the center of her forehead, and he forgot about the fact that she was an actress and thought about all the expressions he’d seen her wear on that lovely face of hers, and how none of them had tugged at his heart the way this one did.

  “Listen. I look the way I do because I got good genes-big deal. My looks…and my acting ability…they were a gift. An inheritance.” Her gaze shifted again, this time to the pictures on the wall. “I’ve been beautiful and famous since the day I was born. And don’t get me wrong-” her smile was wry, now, but it didn’t entirely erase the wistfulness “-I’m very grateful to my parents. But I’m thirty-two years old, and I’d like to think I’ve done something with my life that I could be proud of.”