Tyler gently kneaded the curve of thigh and the soft swell of her belly through the soft cotton. He nuzzled her neck, kissing, nibbling, tasting her skin, his fingers caressing, his hands growing more possessive.
A flood of sensual heat suffused her. Carrie was a little worried by the unexpected intensity of the pleasure rippling through her. But she liked what he was doing so much that she wanted it to go on and on. Her eyelids drifted shut as she tilted her head back to give him greater access to the slender curve of her throat. She was achingly aware of his big hand inching up toward her breast.
Tyler's mouth closed over hers, hot and hard and hungry, and Carrie shivered as an electrifying jolt of desire flashed through her. Her lips parted on a soft moan and she arched against him, her fingers threading in the dark thickness of his hair. His tongue plunged deeply into her mouth, filling her with one hot thrust, then probed and claimed the soft moist warmth within.
Carrie's heart slammed against her ribcage in double time and she whimpered against his boldly ardent mouth. Her thoughts were splintering. She knew they shouldn't be doing this, but she couldn't bear to end it.
"You're holding back," Tyler said raspily. "Kiss me the way you did before." The memory of those soul-shattering kisses added fuel to the hot flames burning inside him. like an addict, he craved more. "Put your tongue in my mouth," he demanded. Having experienced the full range of her passionate response, he couldn't settle for anything less.
His explicit sensual directions excited her. She felt a wholly feminine, voluptuous need to give to him—and an equally strong desire to take the passion that he offered.
She leaned into him, and when his mouth closed protectively over hers again, Carrie gave in to his sensuous command. She claimed his mouth with her lips and her tongue, kissing him hotly, deeply, as she clung to him. Desire sliced through her, sharp and swift and shockingly pleasurable.
His hand cupped the soft fullness of her breast through the turquoise cotton, caressing the lush roundness, then gliding his thumb over the taut peak of her nipple. It strained against the material, visibly outlined through the cloth. Carrie's reaction was electrical. She jerked spasmodically, and a gasp escaped from her throat.
"You're very sensitive." Tyler's voice was a low, sexy growl that incited her further. "I knew you would be. Anyone as passionate and responsive as you would have to be...
And the way you kiss... damn, you can kiss " His voice
trailed off. He was barely capable of uttering the free associations drifting through his passion-dazed mind.
His thumb carefully circled her nipple, making it throb with an ache she felt deep, deep inside her. His mouth played softly with hers, their breath mingling.
Carrie felt control slipping away, but she couldn't seem to summon the will to regain it. She didn't want to. Her hands slid over his shoulders, savoring the strong muscular feel of him. She wriggled sensuously on his lap and thrilled to the unbridled strength of his male arousal.
Tyler was staggered by the intensity of his feelings, by the force of his own need. He knew he could satisfy a woman
and take his own pleasure—there were all those testimonials to his technique—but never had his blood drummed with this primitive urgency.
Breathing heavily, he bunched the material of her dress in his hand and shoved it up, sliding his fingers under it, along the silky soft skin of her thigh. His hand moved higher to the enticing curve of her buttocks, then lightly skimmed over her belly to the crevice between her legs. He felt the hot, damp silk, indisputable evidence that she wanted him, and caressed her through it. Her breath caught in a moan and she parted her legs, giving him freer access in an unspoken but unmistakable invitation.
Another wild surge of desire exploded through him. But he was allowed to linger in those thrilling heights for only a few moments.
"Tyler, no." Carrie pushed his hand away. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers, as if they'd been scorched on her skin. Between her thighs she was achy and swollen and acutely sensitive. But she forced herself to stand. "We have to stop this," she said breathlessly, quickly crossing the room.
"We don't have to stop," Tyler argued. Blood was roaring in his ears, and his body throbbed with raw need. "You don't want to stop and neither do I, Carrie. We're both—"
"You must think I—that I'm something of a slut," Carrie lamented, pacing back and forth in front of the fan. She needed to cool off, in more ways than one. Her body felt wired with a tense nervous energy, geared for a sexual release that would not be forthcoming. "I mean, how could you not? Considering my behavior, even / think I'm a slut."
Tyler sighed heavily. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. His body ached from a churning sexual frustration. He flexed his fingers, remembering her softness, wanting to feel it again. He nearly groaned aloud at the potent, tactile memory. But first things first. "You're not a slut, Carrie."
His words gave her no solace. "You would say that, of course. What else could you say?" The speed of her pacing picked up. "You're too smooth and sophisticated—too subtle—to tell the truth."
Tyler closed his eyes. "Obviously, I'm not as smooth or sophisticated or subtle as I thought or my own words wouldn't be coming back to haunt me."
"To have this happen, after all the things we said yesterday—" Carrie broke off, distraught. Her own body had turned traitor, overriding all her fine sentiments and noble aspirations to pursue a purely physical agenda, featuring sex as the headliner.
Tyler tried to remember what they'd said yesterday. His mind was clouded with unsatisfied passion, his powers of recollection severely limited. "Will you please sit down," he said, groaning. "You're moving in warp speed and it's giving me a headache."
"I betrayed Ian." Carrie paused only for a moment before resuming her pacing at double warp speed. Tonight's little episode on the couch had not been fueled by curiosity or compassion; she couldn't pretend otherwise. She'd wanted Tyler badly.
Worse, when she tried to recall if she'd ever felt such an overpowering, aching desire for Ian, she couldn't. More and more, Ian had become an ethereal image in her mind, saintlike and pure, far removed from anything as earthy and real as sexual thoughts and needs. Shame washed over her. "I betrayed Ian and I used you to do it. I'm sorry, Tyler. It was terrible of me."
Tyler stared at her. This was a first. "You're apologizing for using me?" he repeated carefully.
Carrie nodded, clearly distressed. She'd told him that she had neither the time nor interest nor energy to become sexually involved with anyone and she had believed it when she'd said it. But her own actions belied her words. She was
certainly acting as if she was ready, willing and able to become involved with him!
Never had her mind and her body been so far apart, her values and her needs clashing in a no-win struggle. "I love Ian, yet I—"
"Carrie, a few kisses and some very light petting does not, in my mind, constitute betrayal."
Her cheeks flamed. He had already categorized and dismissed as trivial the explosive passion that had rocked her quiet little world. She felt embarrassed, hurt and resentful, and searched her mind for just the right words to make him feel the same.
Tyler mistook her silence for doubt. "Carrie, Ian is dead!" He tried to mask the exasperation and frustration coursing through him, but wasn't sure how well he succeeded. "You loved the man but he's not around anymore for you to betray. The marriage vows say 'till death do you part,' right? Well, death parted you. Your vow is now null and void."
Carrie seemed to freeze in place. Tyler watched the color drain from her face, saw her blue eyes fill with tears. He scowled darkly. Now he'd done it! He felt like a heartless bully, much the same way he'd felt when he had snatched the toy duck from Dylan and Franklin and watched their small faces crumple into tears.
But what he'd said was true, Tyler assured himself, and Carrie needed to hear it. However painful, she had to face the fact that her needs and feelings had not died wi
th her husband. He rose to his feet and came to stand beside her. A gust of wind from the fan blew in his face.
"Carrie, don't cry." It was a plea and an order combined.
"I'm not going to." Carrie blinked her tears back, determined that they wouldn't fall. "I hate crying," she said fiercely. "I take pride in the fact that I haven't cried since the
triplets were bom. Oh, my eyes may fill up, I might feel like crying, but I force myself not to."
Her firm little declaration affected Tyler more than if she'd burst into tears. "Maybe it would be easier on you if you let yourself cry once in awhile," he said quietly, astonished by what he was advocating. Women's tears made him uncomfortable; at the first sign of a sob or a sniffle, he fled the scene.
Carrie shook his head. "No, crying doesn't solve anything." She smiled a little, more confident and in control once again. "Your eyes get red and puffy, your nose runs, and you look ugly. No, thanks, I'll pass on crying."
Tyler studied her averted profile—the sweep of her long dark lashes, her soft lips and firm little chin—and a peculiar feeling, one that he was quite unfamiliar with, swept through him. "Carrie, you couldn't look ugly if you tried," he said huskily.
Impulsively, compulsively, he reached out to cup her cheek with his hand.
"Thanks, but I know otherwise." Carrie quickly stepped away, out of touching distance. She felt awkward and exhausted, out of her depth. She wanted him to go. "It's getting late," she said, glancing pointedly at her wristwatch.
"Yeah, real late. Nine o'clock," Tyler reported sardonically. "It always seems to come down to this, doesn't it? You kicking me out."
"There's no reason for you to stay."
Her rejection stung, far more than it should have. "You're right. There is absolutely no reason for me to hang around here." He headed to the front door, Carrie a few feet behind him, presumably to make sure that he left.
The door opened as he stepped into the small, dark vestibule. Tyler found himself face-to-face with Ben Shaw, who looked astonished to see him there.
"What's wrong?" Ben demanded, looking from Tyler to Carrie. "Are the kids okay? Are you okay, Carrie?"
"Everything's fine, Ben," Carrie assured him. "Tyler dropped by with some things from the drugstore. He was just leaving," she added in a not-so-subtle hint for him to do just that.
"Hey, no need to rush off!" Ben exclaimed. "Carrie, why don't you get us something cold to drink and we'll all—"
"I already gave him a glass of iced tea," Carrie said flatly. "He drank it and now he wants to go. It's too hot for him here. He's used to air-conditioning and he breaks out in a heat rash without it."
"Heat rash?" Tyler echoed indignantly. She'd made him sound like some kind of wimp!
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, man," consoled Ben. "Could happen to anybody."
"Well, it's never happened to me!" Tyler started toward the door. But he paused on the threshold, turning to Ben. "I understand you spent the rest of the weekend with Rhan-dee. How'ditgo?"
He watched Carrie's face flush with anger, saw the blue fire in her eyes and smiled in satisfaction. He had known she wouldn't like his interest in Rhandee's adventure with Ben, and though he was committed to leaving as quickly as possible, he hadn't been able to pass up that one sure shot at needling her.
"Rhandee." Ben fairly sighed the name. "Oh, God, it was great. She was great." Then his blissful smile turned into a scowl and he looked purposefully at Carrie. "Which brings me to the reason why I'm here, Carrie. Will you please tell your sister that I'm old enough to run my own life and that I don't appreciate her interference or her lectures? Tell her to give me a break and keep her nose out of my business!"
"My sister?" Carrie couldn't suppress a smile. "It's that bad, huh?"
"It's worse." Ben groaned. "Alexa went ballistic when she found out I went to bed with Rhandee the same night I met her. She—"
"Just for the record, how many hours did you two know each other before you hit the sack?" Tyler asked.
Carrie shot him a dark look. Ben sighed deeply. "I know you're only kidding, Tyler, but Alexa asked me the same question, and she wasn't! Since then she's been lecturing me about the hazards of sex and accusing me of acting like a no-class womanizing user like Ryan Cassidy— Ryan Cos-sidy!— when she knows how much I hate the guy and—"
"You're not like Ryan Cassidy, Ben," Carrie said soothingly.
"Do you mean Ryan Cassidy, the cartoonist?" Tyler asked at the same time.
Carrie and Ben exchanged glances, and Tyler was startled by the blatant hostility in both pairs of blue eyes.
"Cartoonist, ha!" Ben sneered. "His stories are witless. Why, he can't even draw! Some cartoonist!"
"His comic strip is very popular," Tyler pointed out. "He's been extremely successful with it. The annual collections of his daily strips are Tremaine Books' top sellers year after year."
"We don't buy them," Carrie said succinctly.
"I know his comic strips are controversial, but it sounds more like you two have a personal grudge against Cassidy," Tyler said, his curiosity roused.
"There's bad blood between us," Ben admitted. "Not to mention a whole lot of sugar, huh, Carrie?" He winked at Carrie. She gave her head a warning shake.
Ben obviously thought he was being cunningly oblique, but Tyler's eyes widened in instant comprehension. "Someone poured a pound of sugar into the gas tank of Cassidy's red 1964 Ford Thunderbird convertible a couple years ago. I'd been trying to talk him into selling me that
beauty for ages, but he never would. The sugar totally destroyed the engine, the car was devalued and—"
"It wasn't devalued, it was ruined," Ben corrected.
"And you did it, didn't you?" Tyler stared at him, shocked. "You were responsible for deliberately ruining that beautiful, classic car! But why?"
"Ben, don't say anything more," Carrie warned.
Ben ignored her. "Cassidy is a cold-blooded creep who deliberately broke Alexa's heart," he blurted out. "It's only fair that he should suffer the same kind of pain he caused her, but since he has no heart, we had to settle for—"
"Destroying his car," Tyler concluded. He looked hard at Carrie. "Were you in on it, too?"
Ben shook his head, answering for her. "Carrie and Alexa didn't know anything until afterwards, when I told them. I acted on my own," he added rather proudly.
Carrie read the disapproval and disgust in Tyler's eyes as he stared at Ben. The full force of her sisterly loyalty rose to the fore. How dare Tyler Tremaine judge Ben when he didn't know how much Ben cared nor how terribly Alexa had suffered!
"Ryan Cassidy is a cold, arrogant weasel who deserved much worse for the way he treated Alexa," she said, coming to Ben's defense.
"Ah, but why stop at wrecking the guy's prize car?" Tyler countered sarcastically. He'd been irate when he had heard of the car's destruction; he felt the same way now. A masterpiece had been destroyed! "Why didn't you chop off his hands? A definite setback for a cartoonist but a fitting revenge for the unspeakable crime of dumping your sister."
"We don't expect you to understand," Carrie murmured tightly.
"I understand that if sugar ever turns up in the gas tanks of any of my cars, I'll know who to file charges against," Tyler called over his shoulder as he strode swiftly from the
house. He couldn't get away fast enough! He promised himself that he would not be back.
"Now he thinks we're demented," Ben said plaintively.
Carrie refused to acknowledge the niggling pain inside her. "It doesn't matter what he thinks, Ben."
"It does matter, Carrie. He's a Tremaine! Think of the advantages if he were to take a liking to us, if he respected us! I have this terrific idea for a whole new ad campaign for Tremaine Drugs, including a can't-miss TV commercial. I started working on it the day I met Tyler, right here in your house. If I can sell it to Tremaine Incorporated, it's my ticket out of that dead-end broom closet I'm stuck in, Carrie."
"I don't think T
yler's going to be too eager to listen, Ben," Carrie warned. "Particularly not now."
"I guess it was a mistake to confess to sugaring Ryan Cassidy's red T-bird convertible to a classic-car nut," Ben concluded regretfully. "Good thing he doesn't know about the rest of the revenge. Carrie, will you do me a favor? If for any reason, Tremaine happens to drop by again, will you try to-"
"Use my considerable influence with him to get you an appointment to present your advertising ideas?" Carrie grimaced sardonically. "Ben, you'd have better luck trying to get to him through your mutual friend Rhandee."
"He did seem interested in her, didn't he?" Ben said thoughtfully. "I think he really wanted to talk about her. Damn, it's too bad we got off on that Ryan Cassidy tangent. Hey, where are you going, Carrie?"
"Upstairs to take a shower," she replied. Where she could avoid discussing Tyler Tremaine's interest in the legendary Rhandee. "You're welcome to stick around and watch TV, Ben."
"Okay. I think I'll make a phone call first, though."
"To Alexa?" Carrie suggested.
"Heck, no!" Ben grinned. "To Rhandee."
For the next three days, whenever he had a spare moment, Tyler reminded himself of the fate which awaited the defenseless cars of those who happened to rile one of the vengeful Shaw triplets. He pictured himself turning the ignition key in one of the classic cars in his prized collection and sending a fatal spurt of sugar into the engine. It was a dreadful specter. He congratulated himself on escaping the triplets' acquaintanceship with his property, person and possessions intact.
His hours at the office were, as always, an endless continuum of meetings, phone calls, paperwork. He might be a Tremaine heir, but he was also the aspiring president of the company, dedicated to the progress and profit of Tremaine Incorporated. According to the unspoken yet consensual family plan, when their father retired, Cole would take over as chairman and Tyler would advance to the presidency. He intended his eventual promotion to be earned and inevitable, through his hard work, not his bloodlines.
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