Impulse

by Nora Roberts

  “I’m going to set the timer,” Rebecca went on, blissfully unaware of Stephen’s thoughts. “All you have to do is stand there. Once I get this damn thing set, I’m going to run over so it’ll take one of both— There.” She interrupted herself, crossed her fingers and ran to Stephen’s side in a dash. “Unless I messed up, it’ll snap all by itself in—”

  The rest of the words slid down her throat as he crushed her against him and captured her mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Heat. Light. Speed. Rebecca felt them, felt each separate, distinct sensation. Urgency. Demand. Impatience. She tasted them, as clearly as wild honey, on his lips. Though she’d never experienced it, she had known exactly what it would be like to be with him, mouth to mouth and need to need.

  In an instant the world had narrowed from what could be seen and understood to a pure, seamless blanket of emotion. It cloaked her, not softly, not in comfort, but tightly, hotly, irresistibly. Caught between fear and delight, she lifted a hand to his cheek.

  God, she was sweet. Even as he dragged her closer, aroused by the simplicity of her acceptance, he was struck by—disarmed by—her sweetness. There had been a hesitation, almost too brief to be measured, before her lips had parted beneath his. Parted, invited, accepted.

  There was a sigh, so soft it could barely be heard, as she stroked her hands up his back to his shoulders. Curious, simple, generous. A man could drown in such sweetness, fall prisoner to such pliancy. And be saved by it. Beneath the patterned shade of the olive tree, she gave him more than passion. She gave him hope.

  Charmed, he murmured some careless Greek phrase lovers might exchange. The words meant nothing to her, but the sound of them on the still air, the feel of them stroking across her lips … seduction. Glorious seduction.

  Pleasure burst in her blood, in her head, in her heart, thousands of tiny bubbles of it, until she was straining against him.

  The quiet explosion rocked him. It tightened his chest, fuddled his mind. She fitted into his arms as if she’d been born for him. As if, somehow, they had known each other before, loved before, hungered before. Something seemed to erupt between them, something molten, powerful, dangerous. But it wasn’t new. It was ancient, a whispering echo of ageless passions.

  She began to tremble. How could this be so right, so familiar? It wasn’t possible to feel safe and threatened at the same time. But she did. She clung to him while a dim, floating image danced through her head. She had kissed him before. Just like this. As her mind spun, she heard her own mindless murmurs answer his. As freely, as inescapably as the sun poured light, response flowed from her. She couldn’t stop it. Frightened by her sudden loss of control, she struggled against him, against herself.

  He slipped his hands up to her shoulders, but not to free her, to look at her. To look at how their coming together had changed her. It had changed him. Passion had made her eyes heavy, seductive. Fear had clouded them. Her lips were full, softened and parted by his. Her breath shivered through them. Under his hands he could feel the heat of her skin and the quick, involuntary trembling of her muscles.

  No pretense here, he decided as he studied her. He was holding both innocence and delight in his hands.

  “Stephen, I—”

  “Again.”

  Then his face filled her vision and she was lost.

  Differently. Should she have known that one man could hold one woman in so many different ways? That one man could kiss one woman with such stunning variety? There was gentleness now, as familiar and as novel as the urgency. His lips persuaded rather than demanded. They savored instead of devouring. Her surrender came as quietly, and as unmistakably, as her earlier passion. The trembling stopped; the fear vanished. With a complete trust that surprised them both, she leaned against him, giving.

  More aroused by her serenity than by the storm that had come before, Stephen pulled back. He had to, or what had begun would finish without either of them saying a word. As he swore and pulled out a cigar, Rebecca placed a hand on the olive tree for support.

  Moments, she thought. It had been only moments, and yet she felt as though years had passed, racing backward or forward, perhaps spinning in circles. In a place like this, with a man like this, what difference did it make what year it was? What century?

  Half terrified, she lifted a hand to her lips. Despite her fear, they curved under her touch. She could still taste him. Still feel him. And nothing, nothing, would ever be quite the same again.

  He stared out at the rough and dusty land he’d known as a boy, and beyond, to the stark, tumbling rocks where he and other wild things had climbed.

  What was he doing with her? Furious with himself, he drew on the cigar. What was he feeling? It was new, and far from comfortable. And it was comfort he preferred, he reminded himself. Comfort and freedom. Bringing himself under control, he turned to her again, determined to treat what had happened as a man should—lightly.

  She just stood there, with the sun and the shade falling over her. There was neither recrimination nor invitation in her eyes. She didn’t flinch or step forward, but merely stood, watching him with the faintest of smiles, as if … As if, Stephen realized, she knew what questions he was asking himself—and the answers.

  “It grows late.”

  She felt the ache and fought not to let it show on her face. “I guess you’re right.” She dragged a hand through her hair—it was the first sign of her agitation—then walked over to pick up her camera. “I should have a picture to remember all this by,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. Her breath caught when his fingers closed over her arm and whirled her around.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” The emotion burst out before she could stop it. “I don’t know what you want.”

  With one jerk he had her tumbling against him. “You know what I want.”

  Her heart was in her throat, beating wildly. She found it strange that it was not fear but desire that she felt. She hadn’t known she was capable of feeling a need that was so unreasonable, so reckless. It was almost purifying to experience it, and to see it mirrored in his eyes.

  “It takes more than one afternoon.” Didn’t it? Her voice rose as she tried to convince herself. “It takes more than a picnic and a walk in the moonlight for me.”

  “One moment the temptress, the next the outraged innocent. Do you do it to intrigue me, Rebecca?” She shook her head, and his fingers tightened. “It works,” he murmured. “You’ve hardly been out of my mind since I first saw you. I want to make love with you, here, in the sun.”

  Color flooded her face, not because she was embarrassed, but because she could imagine it, perfectly. And then what? Carefully she leveled her breathing. Whatever impulses she had followed, whatever bridges she had burned, she still needed answers.

  “No.” It cost her to go against her own needs and say it. “Not when I’m unsure and you’re angry.” She took a deep breath and kept her eyes on him. “You’re hurting me, Stephen. I don’t think you mean to.”

  Slowly he released her arm. He was angry, furious, but not at her refusal. The anger stemmed from the need she pulled from him, a need that had come too fast and too strong for him to channel. “We’ll go back.”

  Rebecca merely nodded, then knelt to gather the remains of the picnic.

  He was a busy man, much too busy to brood about a woman he barely knew and didn’t understand at all. That was what Stephen told himself. He had reports to read, calls to make and paperwork—which he had both a talent and a distaste for—to deal with. A couple of simple kisses weren’t enough to take a man’s mind off his work.

  But there hadn’t been anything simple about them. Disgusted, Stephen pushed away from his desk and wandered to the terrace doors. He’d left them open because the breeze, and the fragrances it brought, helped him forget he was obligated to be inside.

  For days he’d worked his way through his responsibilities, trying to
ignore the nagging itch at the back of his mind—the itch that was Rebecca. There was no reason for him to stay on Corfu. He could have handled his business in Athens, or Crete, or in London, for that matter. Still, he’d made no plans to leave, though he’d also made no attempt to approach her.

  She … concerned him, he decided. To be drawn to an attractive woman was as natural as breathing. To have the attraction cause discomfort, confusion, even annoyance was anything but natural. A taste of her hadn’t been enough. Yet he hesitated.

  She was … mysterious. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t push her from his mind. On the surface she appeared to be an attractive, free-spirited woman who grabbed life with both hands. Yet there were undercurrents. The hints of innocence, of shyness. The sweetness. The complexity of her kept him wondering, thinking, imagining.

  Perhaps that was her trick. Women had them … were entitled to them. It was a waste of time to begrudge them their illusions and their feminine magic. More than a waste of time, it was foolish, when a man could enjoy the benefits. But there was more, and somehow less, to Rebecca than innate feminine magic.

  When he had kissed her, though it had been the first time, it had been like coming back to a lover, to a love, after a painful separation. When his lips had found hers, something had filled him. A heat, an impatience, a knowledge.

  He knew her, knew more than her name and her background and the color of her eyes. He knew all of her. Yet he knew nothing.

  Fantasies, he told himself. He didn’t have time for them. Leaning a hip against the railing, he lit a cigar and watched the sea.

  As always, it pulled at him, bringing back memories of a childhood that had been careless and too short. There were times, rare times, when he allowed himself to regret. Times when the sun was a white flash of heat and the water was blue and endless. His father had taught him a great deal. How to fish, how to see both beauty and excitement in new places, how to drink like a man.

  Fifteen years, Stephen thought, a smile ghosting around his mouth. He still missed him, missed the companionship, the robust laughter. They had been friends, as well as parent and child, with a bond as easy, and as strong, as any Stephen had ever known. But his father had died as he would have wanted to, at sea and in his prime.

  He would have taken one look at Rebecca, rolled his eyes, kissed his fingers and urged his son to enjoy. But Stephen wasn’t the boy he had once been. He was more cautious, more aware of consequences. If a man dived into the sea, he should know the depth and the currents.

  Then he saw her, coming from the sea. Water ran down her body, glistening in the strong sun, sparkling against skin that had warmed in the last few days to a dusky gold. As he looked, as he wanted, he felt his muscles clench, one by one, shoulders, stomach, thighs. Without his being aware, his fingers tightened, snapping the cigar in two. He hadn’t known that desire could arouse a reaction so akin to anger.

  She stopped, and though he knew she was unaware of him, she might easily have been posing. To taunt, to tease, to invite. As drops of water slid down her, she stretched, lifting her face skyward. Her skimpy suit rested low over her boyish hips, shifted enticingly over the subtle curve of her breasts. At that moment, she was totally absorbed in her own pleasure and as unself-conscious as any young animal standing in the sun. Nothing had ever been so alluring.

  Then, slowly, seductively, she combed her fingers through her hair, smiling, as if she enjoyed the wet, silky feel of it. Watching her, he felt the air back up and clog in his lungs. He could have murdered her for it, for making him want so unreasonably what he did not yet understand.

  She plucked a long, mannish T-shirt from a straw bag and, after tugging it on, strolled barefoot into the hotel.

  He stood there, waiting for the need to pass. But it built, layered with an ache that infuriated him and a longing that baffled him.

  He should ignore her. Instinct warned him that if he didn’t his life would never be the same. She was nothing more than a distraction, a momentary impulse he should resist. He should turn away, go back to work. He had commitments, obligations, and no time to waste on fantasies. With an oath, he tossed the broken cigar over the rail.

  There were times, he thought, when a man had to trust in fate and dive in.

  Chapter Four

  Rebecca had hardly shut the door behind her before she turned back to answer the knock. The sun and the water had left her pleasantly tired, but all thoughts of a lazy catnap vanished when she saw Stephen.

  He looked wonderful. Cool, a little windblown, intense. For days she’d wondered about him, wondered and wished. She felt her pulse skip and her lips curve just at the sight of him. With an effort, she kept her voice breezy.

  “Hello. I wasn’t sure you were still on the island.”

  It wasn’t really a lie, she told herself. An offhand inquiry had assured her that Mr. Nickodemus hadn’t checked out, but she hadn’t actually seen him.

  “I saw you come up from the beach.”

  “Oh.” Unconsciously she tugged at the hem of her cover-up. To Stephen the small gesture was one more contradictory signal. “I can’t seem to get enough of the sun and the sea. Would you like to come in?”

  By way of an answer he stepped through and shut the door behind him. It made a very quiet, a very final sound. Rebecca’s carefully built poise began to crumble. “I never thanked you for the flowers.” She made a gesture indicating the vase near the window, then brought her hands back together and linked them in front of her. “They’re still beautiful. I … I thought I might run into you, in the dining room, on the beach, or …” Her words trailed off when he lifted a hand to her hair.

  “I’ve been busy.” He watched her eyes, eyes that were as clear as rainwater, blur at the slight touch. “Business.”

  It was ridiculous, she knew, but she wasn’t at all sure she could speak. “If you have to work, I doubt you could pick a more beautiful place.”

  He stepped closer. She smelled of the water and the sun. “You’re enjoying the resort, and the island.”

  Her hand was in his now, caught lightly. It took only that to make her knees weak. “Yes, very much.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to see it from a different perspective.” Deliberately, wanting to test them both, he lifted her hand to his lips. He grazed her knuckles—it was barely a whisper of contact—and felt the jolt. She felt it, and he could see that she did, so it couldn’t just be his imagination. “Spend the day with me tomorrow on my boat.”

  “What?”

  He smiled, delighted with her response. “Will you come with me?”

  Anywhere. Astonished, she stepped back. “I haven’t any plans.”

  “Good.” He closed the distance between them again. Her hands fluttered up in flustered defense, then settled again when he made no attempt to touch her. “Then I’ll make them for you. I’ll come for you in the morning. Nine?”

  A boat. He’d said something about a boat. Rebecca drew in a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. This wasn’t like her—going off into daydreams, feeling weak-kneed, being flooded with waves of desire. And it felt wonderful.

  “I’d like that.” She gave him what she hoped was an easy woman-of-the-world smile.

  “Until tomorrow, then.” He started for the door, then turned, a hand on the knob. “Rebecca, don’t forget your camera.”

  She waited until he’d closed the door before she spun in three quick circles.

  * * *

  When Stephen had said “boat,” Rebecca had pictured a trim little cabin cruiser. Instead, she stepped onto the glossy mahogany deck of a streamlined hundred-foot yacht.

  “You could live on this,” Rebecca said, then wished she’d bitten her tongue. But he only laughed.

  “I often do.”

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” a white-uniformed man with a British accent said.

  “Grady. This is my guest, Miss Malone.”

  “Ma’am.” Grady’s cool British reserve didn’t flicker for an instant, b
ut Rebecca felt herself being summed up.

  “Cast off when you’re ready.” Stephen took Rebecca’s arm. “Would you like a tour?”

  “Yes.” A yacht. She was on a yacht. It took all her willpower to keep her camera in the bag. “I’d love to see it all.”

  He took her below, through four elegantly appointed cabins. Her comment about living on board had been said impulsively, but she could see now that it could be done easily, even luxuriously.

  Above there was a large glassed-in cabin in which one could stretch out comfortably, out of the sun, and watch the sea, whatever the weather. She had known that there were people who lived like this. Part of her job had been to research and calculate so that those who did paid the government as little as possible. But to be there, to see it, to be surrounded by it, was entirely different from adding figures on paper.

  There was a masculine feel to the cabin, to the entire boat—leather, wood, muted colors. There were shelves filled with books and a fully stocked bar, as well as a stereo system.

  “All the comforts of home,” Rebecca murmured, but she’d noted that there were doors and panels that could be secured in case of rough weather. What would it be like to ride out a storm at sea, to watch the rain lash the windows and feel the deck heave?

  She gave a quick gasp when she felt the floor move. Stephen took her arm again to steady her.

  “We’re under way.” Curious, he turned her to face him. “Are you afraid of boats?”

  “No.” She could hardly admit that the biggest one she’d been on before this had been a two-passenger canoe at summer camp. “It just startled me.” Under way, she thought as she prayed that her system would settle. It was such an exciting, adventurous word. “Can we go out on deck? I’d like to watch.”

  It was exciting. She felt it the moment the wind hit her face and rushed through her hair. At the rail, she leaned out, delighted to see the island shrink and the sea spread. Because she couldn’t resist and he didn’t laugh at her, she took half a dozen pictures as the boat sped away from land.