Bordering on Obsession

by Susan Kearney

  She spoke in her French accent, softly, seductively, with the strength of a woman who intended to incite uncontrollable lust. His. And hers. “And just as you think release is at hand, I’ll deny what you want most. Can you agree to that, Quinn?” she challenged.

  “Bring it on.”

  His pupils dilated until his eyes looked black. His mouth twisted with the pleasure and pain of waiting to see how and where she would stroke him next. And she took her time, lingering when he writhed. Marveling at the strength he used to let her do as she wished.

  She’d never before had her heart thunder with this kind of feminine power. Holding him in her hands, drawing his body so taut that his muscles clenched, learning his feel and his scent gave her a boost of conviction that she wasn’t tempting fate, but fulfilling her destiny.

  Tonight, at the height of the storm, with the lightning in the distance and the clouds raining down, she and Quinn were fated to be here. Together.

  With the waves pummeling the rocky beach below in her ears, urging her to do more, she kneeled and took Quinn into her mouth. He tasted of wind and rain and pure male heat. And just as she’d promised, she took him to the brink.

  And pulled away, to watch the wildfire in his eyes transform to a slow burn. Water spiked his lashes and trickled down his chiseled cheeks, accentuating the raging appetite consuming him and engulfing her.

  He loosened his grip on the rail and grasped her shoulders. “Tell me what you want,” he demanded.

  “You.”

  With his teeth, he tore open the condom. “You’re going to have me, darling.”

  She snatched the packet from his mouth and kissed him while she unrolled the condom over his straining sex. She took the opportunity to tease him again, to heat him up just another notch. But at the same time, his hands were all over her, sliding, stroking, seducing. Their mouths fused with a conflagration that should have melted them.

  He shocked her by breaking their kiss and whipping her around to face the storm-tossed sea. From behind her, he placed her fingers on the balcony, demanding in her ear, “Keep your eyes open.”

  “Why?”

  He parted her legs, eased them away from the railing, leaving her open and waiting for him, almost in the same position as when she’d teased him earlier by removing her panties. Water lashed her back, pooled, trickled between her legs.

  But he didn’t give her time to think. “Watch the storm as I take you.”

  She quivered, ready for him to enter her. She should not have been surprised that he chose to exhibit more finesse and draw out the pleasure. His hands dipped between her thighs, and in her high heels, her bottom was tipped up at just the right angle for him to place one finger inside her. One very erotic finger that stroked and caressed her G-spot until a new kind of pressure built.

  She needed him to touch her clit. Just one stroke would shoot her tumbling over the edge.

  But, of course, he made her wait. And squirm. And she watched the sea toss and churn, her breasts quivering, her mouth hungry, her body helpless to do more than take everything in, feel the need building to new heights, praying that she wouldn’t be reduced to begging.

  “Quinn?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you inside me, damn it.”

  “I know.”

  And he kept right on stroking her, ignoring her demand, until she gasped for air. “You don’t…know.”

  “Sure I do,” he teased with words and with his fingers. “You told me, remember?”

  “I take it back.”

  He chuckled. “Too late.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going to take you to the edge until you can taste it.” He tossed her own words back at her.

  Her legs trembled, communicating her need, spreading her desire until her entire body trembled, clenched with the fire he so carefully stoked. Despite his words, just one more caress and she would explode.

  And he stopped.

  He stood, pressed his chest against her back, his sex jerking urgently against her, his hot breath rasping in her ear. She bucked her hips to take him inside, but he reached for her breasts and tweaked her nipples, shooting electric heat to her core.

  He bit her ear. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

  “But—”

  “Watch the storm.”

  She’d been so busy with the storm inside, she’d forgotten to watch the thunderclouds scudding across the sky. Lifting her face to the rain, she observed the distant lightning. And Quinn nuzzled her neck, nibbled her shoulder and stroked her breasts. He tugged on her nipples, playing with the hard tight buds between thumb and forefinger. She writhed in need.

  Gulped back a scream.

  And finally, when he plunged into her, she was so hot, so slick that she climaxed in a wild tempest. She would have collapsed if his strong arms hadn’t held her.

  Her galloping heart eventually slowed, and she realized that he was still inside her, still hard. He dropped one hand between her thighs and began to play with her sensitive clit all over again.

  Oh my. Oh my. She’d thought she had no more to give. She’d thought she’d released every degree of passion she’d been storing up for Quinn. But she was wrong.

  From the embers of the inferno he’d created inside her, he rekindled the blaze. With his lips buried in her neck, his hand on her breast, his cock deep inside her heat, he was over her, around her, inside her. She was wrapped in Quinn. And nothing had ever felt so amazingly good.

  And this time when she exploded, shattered into a zillion tiny bundles of bliss, she shouted his name. Took him with her to new heights.

  She’d gone for broke to be here with him, and she’d succeeded beyond her wildest fantasies. Quinn had created the passion she’d craved, given her a night to keep her warm during the coldest winter. No matter what happened next, Maggie would never forget their time together. Quinn had filled these hours with the sweetest and most passionate lovemaking she’d ever experienced.

  A while later, as she slowly returned to sanity, she noted that the torrential downpour had abated to a sprinkle, and Quinn’s rasping breaths had ebbed to a steady rhythm. He held her close while the cooling rain washed over them in a cleansing downpour. She didn’t want to move, just wanted to remain with him, the contentment filling her completely.

  But, of course, as much as she would have liked to spend the entire night with him, she couldn’t—not without the risk of him learning her real identity.

  QUINN WOKE UP TO THE SOUND of his cell phone. Immediately wide-awake, his brain kicked into high gear. First, he noted that he was still at the hotel. Second, that he was alone. And third, that according to the time on his cell phone, he’d overslept. Caller ID told him that his father was on the line. Quinn held the phone up to his ear. “Hi, Dad.”

  “You’re late. Was she pretty?”

  Most fathers, most stars, would have been annoyed that their son had obviously slept in and forgotten their breakfast meeting. But not Jason Scott. Not the movie star who went through women faster than plastic surgeons used up silicone.

  “Very pretty,” Quinn answered.

  “Anyone I know?” At the question, Quinn winced. He didn’t want to think about the possibility that his father might know Laine in the biblical sense. Although this was her first time in the States, his father’s films had often been set in Europe. He and Laine would know the same people, attend the same parties.

  Quinn sighed and looked for a note on the pillow. Nothing—not a scrap of paper. Still suspicious of Laine’s motivations for making love with him last night, he realized he was surprised that she’d disappeared this morning without asking him for anything. Quinn ran a hand through his hair and restrained a sigh of frustration. “I can’t keep up with your women, Dad.”

  “You sound as disapproving as your mother.”

  “Sorry.” Quinn winced. While he wasn’t the playboy his father was, he would be hypocritical to pass judgment on anyone after last night. Laine and he had pra
ctically set the bed on fire. On the other end of the line, his father remained silent, waiting for Quinn’s explanation. “She was real special, and I hope you don’t know her.”

  Jason chuckled. “What’s her name?”

  “Laine Lamonde.”

  “You’re in Paris?” his father asked.

  Quinn rubbed his forehead. “I’m at the Vendaz.”

  “With Laine Lamonde?”

  It wasn’t like his father to question him so thoroughly. Quinn strode into the bathroom, looking for a note on the mirror. A clue that they would meet later and she’d finally tell him what she wanted from him. No note. Nothing. “She’s not here at the moment. Why?”

  “Well, the morning news said Laine’s jet had engine trouble, but that she set down safely in Paris last night.”

  “Dad, you know those rags are pure gossip. You can’t believe a word you read.”

  “Whatever. My agent just walked in. Catch you later.”

  Quinn wasn’t accustomed to spending the night with a woman and waking up alone—without any explanation. Odd. There was no note. No phone message. No Laine there to greet him with a kiss and whatever the hell she wanted.

  Last night might have been the most erotic encounter of his life, but the incredible sex hadn’t completely veiled his earlier suspicions. Laine had been sexy as hell. She possessed that incredible star quality, and yet she hadn’t wanted to talk about her role, her leading man, or the script as he’d expected. If she hadn’t bowled him over with her sexuality, he might have been more suspicious, asked more questions. But the moment she’d come on to him, he’d known what he’d wanted—her.

  Now, all his senses went on full alert. He could still smell her scent, but as he collected his clothes, he noted that hers were gone. He ducked into the bathroom. No personal items sat on the counter. No toothbrush. No cosmetics. Not even a hairbrush.

  He stalked back into the bedroom and opened the closet. Empty.

  The dresser drawers. Also empty.

  No note. Not a shoe or a stocking or a hairpin. And Laine had vanished without asking him for one damn thing.

  It didn’t add up.

  Quinn slipped back into his clothes with a smile. If she wanted to playact the mysterious lover to catch his attention, her scheme was definitely working. Laine had surprised him from the moment they’d met and she’d kept surprising him all night. Now again this morning with her disappearing act. The woman definitely had a flair for drama. However, now she really had upped his suspicions. What was the minx up to?

  No doubt he would find out soon enough.

  Quinn drove home, showered and changed before heading to the office, his body satiated from last night’s lovemaking. And the entire time he couldn’t get Laine out of his mind.

  Images of her standing there in her heels and panties and mask as she’d ordered him to strip. A vision of her bending over to remove those panties. A snapshot of her standing on the balcony in the storm, demanding that he enter her.

  If she could create half the heat on film that she had in the bedroom, they’d have a blockbuster on their hands and the lady might win an Academy Award. She’d been a fantastic lover. A seductive woman. A mysterious tease.

  He couldn’t wait to see her again. Mostly, he had let her call the shots and had enjoyed seeing her use her feminine powers to turn on the heat. And, oh, did she know how to ignite the fire. Although he’d had every intention of winning her agreement to sign a contract, he was far from disappointed. She’d thoroughly convinced him that her English was good enough, the French accent light enough, to wow American audiences. More important, mixing business and pleasure hadn’t been a mistake. There could be no doubt that she’d enjoyed herself as much as he had.

  While he looked forward to their next meeting, he still couldn’t keep his suspicions at bay. Why had she come on to him last night? Women frequently offered to make love with him, but they usually wanted something in return—and he ended up bothered that he wasn’t wanted for himself. Not for the writer-director-producer Quinn but for Quinn Scott, the man. Laine’s refusal to discuss business had intrigued him from the start, and after lovemaking when she still hadn’t mentioned a thing, he’d assumed her demands would come in the morning. But then she’d up and left before he’d awakened, and now he found her game even more fascinating.

  While the film would be shot in Vancouver, the city was just a short hop in the company jet, so Quinn could see her again. He wasn’t sure what exactly about her had so intrigued him, but she’d stolen his full attention and kept it from the moment they’d met. Exotic, erotic, she was a fascinating woman.

  But first Quinn would phone her agent, make the contract arrangements and perhaps take her to dinner tonight to celebrate.

  He parked his car and then strode into his office, pleased with himself and his plans. It wasn’t every day that Quinn so looked forward to working with a new star. It was even rarer that he got so stirred up over a new woman in his life.

  Maggie handed him a fistful of messages and a cup of coffee. “Morning.” She didn’t comment that he was late and he liked that about her.

  “Morning. Anything important?”

  “They’re all important.”

  He sipped the coffee, waited for a jolt of caffeine to hit him while he looked at her. As usual, Maggie had her hair up and wisps fluttered around her face. She had a stack of contracts on her left, bills on her right and in front of her was a computer screen that showed a log of every phone call into the office.

  “Tell me.”

  “Your dad—”

  “Already talked to him.”

  “Three agents. One director. Peter Rege—”

  “Who?”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “The writer of the film being shot at Malibu,” she reminded him, “has called every fifteen minutes for the past hour. He says it’s an emergency.”

  He could tell by her dry tone that she didn’t believe there was any emergency. He depended on Maggie to screen his calls and to remind him of his meetings, but he also respected her judgment. “What’s up?”

  Maggie grinned. “The director won’t let Poopsy on the set, and Rege can’t think up new dialogue without her.”

  Quinn lifted an eyebrow. “Poopsy?”

  “Rege’s pet poodle.”

  “Ah.”

  “Apparently Poopsy keeps barking at the leading lady, so the director barred the dog. Now Rege claims he can’t write any new dialogue.”

  “Take care of it, please.”

  Maggie made a note. “When Rege calls again, I’ll tell him that you’re thinking about hiring a new screenwriter.”

  Maggie was the best assistant Quinn had ever had. She knew how he thought, and he trusted her to make decisions in his absence. Sometimes he thought she could do his job as well as he could.

  “What else?”

  “Have you read the script Kimberly dropped on your desk?” Maggie could also nag. They both knew he hadn’t read the script. And he hadn’t missed the fact that she and Kimberly had become good friends. Which really made him avoid reading the script. Chances were it was good, but not fantastic, and Quinn only worked on the very best projects. Every idea had to be meticulously researched, authenticated and tested. And he didn’t want to have to tell Maggie or Kimberly that her work wasn’t up to his exacting standards. He didn’t want to hurt her or discourage her. So he avoided reading it. However, even he knew he couldn’t put off both women forever. Maggie was too loyal to Kimberly to let him forget, and Kimberly was too determined to succeed not to keep reminding him, too. Quinn realized he was surrounded by bossy women. Maggie and Kimberly, and now Laine.

  Quinn shook his head, and Maggie pointed her pen to the stack of messages. “You should answer those.”

  “Okay.”

  “Any message from Laine?” he asked.

  “Should there be?” Maggie, a bit flustered, glanced at her computer screen to check the log. “No. Nothing. Her agent called yesterday. Th
at message is in your hand.”

  Quinn nodded and sauntered into his office. He shut the door, then thumbed through the yellow slips. There. Maggie’s neat handwriting. He read aloud. “Laine’s plane delayed in Paris.”

  His stomach tightened. But Laine must have taken a commercial flight. Quinn sat in his chair behind his desk and pressed the intercom that connected to Maggie. “Get me Laine’s agent on the line.”

  A few minutes later, Maggie buzzed Quinn back. “Tyrol’s holding for you. Line three.”

  “Thanks, Maggie.” Quinn pressed the button. “Tyrol. Sorry I didn’t get back with you yesterday.”

  “No problem. Laine’s mechanical problems are fixed, and she told me last night that she should arrive in New York today. She wants to do some shopping and then head out to the coast early next week. We can do lunch.”

  Next week? Lunch?

  Quinn almost dropped the phone. His thoughts raced. If Laine had spent last night in Paris, then she couldn’t have been with him.

  He hadn’t made love to Laine Lamonde last night.

  Rarely surprised, never mind stunned, Quinn functioned on automatic pilot, but sweat broke out on his scalp and the fine hairs on his neck stood on end. “Fine. I’ll have Maggie set us up for lunch.”

  Meanwhile, his thoughts repeated, helplessly confused. The woman he’d made love to last night hadn’t been Laine Lamonde. That’s why the woman had refused to take off the mask. He’d thought she just wanted the mask to heighten their sexual encounter. No wonder she hadn’t spoken about the business. That’s why she hadn’t asked him for anything.

  Damn. He’d been played for a fool. But why? Had his mystery woman been an actress trying to go after Laine’s part? Did she think that by seducing Quinn he’d cast her as the lead in his next picture?

  Damn it to hell. Quinn didn’t use a casting couch. He chose the best actress for the part. And he tried like hell to keep his business life separate from his private life. However, with a face as well-known as his, people recognized him. Used him for their own designs.

  He’d been in the business way too long to consider the possibility that some woman had just wanted him for himself. After watching his parents, he doubted he’d ever been that naive.