by JoAnn Ross
"I know they're not above putting people's heads on other people's bodies," she said. "But how—"
"I hired a bloke from one of those talent agencies specializing in celebrity look-alikes," Reggie informed her. "The guy's bloody amazing. He's almost a dead ringer. 'Cept I'm better-looking, of course."
"Your father's modesty was one of the reasons I fell in love with him," Audrey murmured with an indulgent smile.
"Hey, it was a right brilliant idea," Reggie said smugly. "As we speak, the entire bleedin' pack of Fleet Street cannibals have followed my double to Gstaad, where, with any luck, they are freezin' their arses blue following the pair of lovers around in the snow all day."
Audrey patted his cheek. "It truly was a most brilliant plan, darling."
"Absolutely," the other three members of the wedding party agreed in unison.
Once a region of worthless sand dunes, Golden Gate Park's rolling hills had been transformed into over one thousand acres of gardens, lawns and forests. Audrey and Reggie had chosen the Japanese Tea Garden for their wedding, and there, amid the carp-filled ponds, arched footbridges, blooming cherry trees and bonsai gardens, Savannah held hands with Blake and watched her father and his new bride exchange vows.
Audrey was, as all brides should be, lovely in a tea-length dress of rose silk. Reggie, clad in a dark blue suit—another one, Savannah realized with amazement—was his usual cocky self, although Savannah thought that he looked a trifle pale beneath his Mediterranean tan. And his voice, when he promised to love and honor Audrey, lacked its usual strong timbre.
Following the brief ceremony, they celebrated with a wedding supper in a private dining room at the hotel. Later that evening, Justin returned to Los Angeles and Reggie and Audrey took off in the private jet for a honeymoon on a remote island near Tahiti. After seeing them off in a shower of rice, Savannah and Blake went back upstairs to their room.
"You look a little tired," Blake observed, watching Savannah wander around the hotel room, absently picking up items and putting them down again.
She picked up the crystal paperweight from the desk and held it up to the light, tracing its facets with her fingertip. "It's been a whirlwind two days."
"You can say that again." She was tense. Too tense. Blake felt like he was walking on eggshells. "Does it bother you? Your father getting married again?"
"I'm used to it," she answered automatically. Then, irritated with herself, Savannah shook her head. "No. This time it's different. This time I think it just might last. Even if they haven't known each other very long."
"I didn't realize that there was a timetable for falling in love."
Why did she feel so let down? Her father was off on his honeymoon with a wonderful woman, she was alone in a hotel room in one of the most romantic cities in the world with a man who could make her knees weak just by looking at her, and here she was, feeling sorry for herself.
Because she wanted more, Savannah realized. She wanted to share more with Blake than just their work, or sex—as wonderful as that was. She'd shared her body with him. Now she wanted to share her heart.
The problem was, Savannah mused, she didn't think he would accept it.
"Of course, there isn't," she said. She nervously ran her palms down the front of her silk dress. "Don't pay any attention to me, Blake. I guess I'm just in a crazy mood." She tried a smile, which failed. "Probably PMS." She didn't tell him that although she hated to admit it, she'd just realized that deep down inside, she was a hopeless romantic. Just like her father.
Blake thought it was a great deal more than that, but decided not to argue. When would she trust him enough to stop these constant evasions?
"Did I tell you that you look beautiful?"
This time her smile was more genuine. "Yes. But I certainly wouldn't mind you saying it again."
"You're beautiful." He crossed the room to stand in front of her. "You'll always be beautiful to me."
There was something in his tone. Something new. Something serious. Something she didn't dare let herself think about.
"It's the dress," she managed through lips that had suddenly gone too dry for comfort. "You're so used to seeing me in jeans, you didn't realize how good I clean up." When she twirled like a young girl showing off a party dress, the handkerchief-hemmed skirt flared, displaying long, firm thighs.
"It's a lovely dress."
Actually, it was more than lovely. It reminded him of a spring garden. Created from some soft, floaty type of silk, the top of the dress hugged her curves like a lover's caress, the rounded neckline allowing a discreet but enticing glimpse of the tops of her breasts. The soft, watercolor-flowered print was reminiscent of the Monet Pamela's decorator had bought for the bedroom of their Bel Air mansion. He wondered if Savannah had been thinking of him when she'd bought the dress earlier that afternoon during her shopping trip with Audrey.
"But I don't think that's it."
"You don't?"
"No. But I suppose we should test this phenomenon further. Just to make sure I'm right. Why don't you take it off?"
Savannah smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." When she turned to go into the adjoining bathroom, Blake caught her wrist. "Here."
"All right. If that's what you want." When she would have turned off the light, he stopped her again.
"Leave it on. I want to look at you."
"But, Blake—"
"Leave it on." The request was softly couched, but it was a definite order, just the same. Savannah stared at him for a long time, wondering how she could have forgotten what a dangerous man he could be.
"I can't."
"Yes. You can. You have to, Savannah. If not for us, for yourself."
He made it sound so easy. Savannah was irritated by his smooth, self-assured tone. "You sound just like Justin," she ground out. "And the doctors. And Reggie."
"I'm waiting." He all but growled it.
"Please," she said, holding out her hand toward him. "We've been getting along so well. Don't do this, Blake. Don't ruin everything."
"I don't want to ruin anything, Savannah. But I'm sick and tired of supporting your warped image of yourself." His tone was dipped and hard, lacking in the warmth she'd come to expect.
"Now, are you going to take that dress off, or shall I take it off for you? Although, I have to warn you," he said, ignoring her startled, disbelieving gasp, "if you leave it up to me, sweetheart, you probably won't be able to wear it again."
Savannah looked up into his hard, implacable eyes and felt herself freezing inside. How could she have been so wrong about Blake? How could she not have seen that in his own way, he was even more ruthless than Jerry? And that she was just as helpless as she'd been eighteen months ago.
With fingers that had turned to ice, she began to lower the zipper, making a sound that was unnaturally loud in the hushed silence of the room. The silk caught in the zipper's metal teeth; Savannah yanked viciously at the material, causing it to rip.
"Blake…" She tried one more time.
Although it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, Blake held his ground. "I'm waiting."
"Damn you!" she whispered. She shrugged the dress off her shoulders, allowing it to slip to the floor in a puddle of floral silk.
She stood in front of him, trembling despite the warmth of the room, clad only in a satin lace-trimmed teddy, thigh-high ivory stockings and high heels. At the very time when any woman would want to appear her most attractive, Savannah was desperately aware of the ugly red scars marking her arms, her legs, her breast. She felt unbearably flawed; she felt miserably ugly.
His unwavering gaze shamed her straight through to her soul. Shame was a living, breathing thing twisting inside Savannah until she thought she'd suffocate from it. Tears streamed down her face.
"There." A rosy flush spread like a fever over the peaks of her breasts, up her throat, across her cheekbones. "Is that better?"
"It's a start."
Her flooding tears made his heart clench ev
en as her bravado pulled at some hidden chord deep inside Blake—a warm, tender chord that was at direct odds with the cold fury aroused by the sight of her injuries.
The long jagged line on the inside of her arm was an even darker, cruder red than he'd imagined. As were the two scars twining around her thighs. The slash across her breast was a vicious purple. A sickening image of Savannah hurled through that window, shattering the glass into hundreds of razor-sharp pieces, pulsed through his head.
Blake's hand curled unconsciously into a fist. Although he'd never met Jerry Larsen, Blake knew he would receive enormous pleasure from killing the bastard for the torture he'd inflicted on Savannah.
The way he was looking at her had Savannah wishing for one of San Francisco's infamous earthquakes. If only the floor would open up and swallow her. Why wouldn't he say something?
Finally he did. "It's still a bit dark in here, don't you think?"
Just when she thought she was going to die of humiliation, her temper suddenly flared, numbing her conscious mind, blocking off the pain.
Her fury swept her around the room, and she turned on every lamp she could find until the room blazed with light. Finally Savannah stopped in front of him, her chin tilted, her eyes flashing, daring him to make the next move. Immersed in her exacerbation, she failed to notice that Blake's eyes had darkened.
"There. I took off the damn dress. All the lights are on. Dammit, are you happy now?"
He loved her like this. Almost naked, her eyes alive with passion, daring him. A jolt of desire stabbed through him; he went rigid with the effort to control it. The blazing fury in her gaze might have cooled the desire of most men, but Blake welcomed it. An angry woman was not an indifferent one.
"I think," he said slowly, "that any man would be happy if a gorgeous, sexy woman was standing in front of him wearing such a minuscule scrap of lace."
His calm statement threw her off. She'd bought the teddy on a whim while shopping with Audrey at Victoria's Secret. Although it had been ridiculously expensive, considering the scant amount of material involved in its creation, the gushing saleswoman had assured her that it would bring a man to his knees. Looking at Blake's expression, Savannah decided that she'd definitely gotten her money's worth.
"I want to hate you," she said, unable to forgive him so easily.
"I know."
"You hurt me."
"Don't you think I hurt myself, forcing you to do something so obviously painful?"
"Then, why…?"
"Because I wanted you to finally understand that I will always want you. Just the way you are." His fingers toyed with the strap of the teddy, pushing it off first one shoulder, then the other. "Especially the way you are right now. This is one incredibly sexy outfit."
Her self-consciousness, her embarrassment concerning her flawed body gradually faded. Her anger dissolved, and was replaced by a slow, soothing warmth.
"I bought it for you," she admitted in a whisper.
"Remind me to thank you," he said gruffly. "Later."
"Later," she agreed, her eyes held captive by his. She was still standing stiffly in front of him, but her skin, anticipating his wicked touch, had begun to tingle.
Blake surprised her. His hands went instead to her hair, where his clever fingers easily dispensed with the pins that had been holding it in an intricate figure eight at the nape of her neck. When the last of the pins joined the others on the plush carpet, her hair tumbled free.
"Much better," he murmured, appearing absorbed in its texture, the way the glowing lamplight brought out the deep blue tones in its jet color. He lifted one gleaming strand from her shoulders, wrapped it around his hand and buried his nose in it.
His lips pressed against her hair before moving to her temple, her earlobe, her neck. "You remind me of a Gypsy." His heated gaze settled on her face. "With your hair all wild black tangles around your face and your eyes as dark as midnight. You've no idea how many times I've dreamed of you looking this way. Looking at me this way."
His touch was achingly tender. Savannah basked in it. Bending his head, he kissed her bare shoulder. At the whisper-soft touch of his lips, Savannah swayed.
"I've dreamed of you, too," she admitted breathlessly, twining her fingers in his dark hair as she pressed her body more closely to his. "Wild, wicked, wonderful dreams,"
It was all he'd been waiting to hear. With a muffled groan, he lowered his lips to her throat. Her scent was as potent as his passion, her taste was as warm as his blood. Picking her up in his arms, he carried her the few short steps to the bed.
Savannah clung to him. Her head was spinning with that familiar hunger that only he could create; her body was melting in his arms like molten gold. Breathless, wanting, needing, she murmured a small, inarticulate protest when he left her alone on the mattress long enough to take off his own clothes. And then he was back.
The peach satin smelted of her. Blake could have drowned in its heady scent. But since the temptation of her silky skin was even more irresistible, he dispensed with the material barrier.
She looked so fragile. And so beautiful. "I told you that first time—I don't care about any damn scars," he insisted in a husky voice that was not as steady as he would have liked. "They're nothing." He trailed his lips up her arm before moving to caress her breast. "Merely points of interest on a fascinating tour."
His teeth closed around the rosy tip of her breast, creating a flash of heat that spiraled to her very core. But even as Savannah gasped, he'd moved on, scattering kisses over her stomach, the inside of her thigh, the back of her knee. Her stomach, the inside of her other thigh, the back of her knee. His mouth was every-where—tasting, tempting, racing on a crazed journey from her lips to her toes. And everywhere his lips touched, they left tormenting trails of ice and heat.
Savannah had thought she'd known what loving was. But even those other thrilling times with Blake had not prepared her for this. His mouth savaged her neck; his hands slid unerringly down her body, discovering secret, hidden flashpoints of pleasure. His intimate touch had her mind spinning, its heat had her skin drenched.
With a sense of greedy wonder, she responded, running her hands over Blake's body, delighting in the way his muscles rippled and clenched beneath her palms. She skimmed her lips over his flat stomach and felt him shudder. She flicked her tongue over his pebbly dark nipples and heard him groan.
Through her dazed senses, she realized that his impenetrable self-control was hanging by a razor's edge. The idea that she could cause such a primitive response made her giddy. The thought that she could make him weak and vulnerable—with a mere touch, or a kiss—filled her with a feminine thrill the likes of which she'd never known.
Wild, wanton, wicked cravings coursed through her. In a moment of abandon, she rose to her knees and ran her hands down his legs, her fingers exploring the corded muscles. Testing, she caressed with her lips the flesh her hands had warmed. And then with her teeth. Moaning her name between short, ragged breaths, Blake reached for her, but his touch was vague, almost dreamlike.
Blake Winters was the strongest, most powerful man she'd ever met. But somehow, he'd surrendered that power to her, and Savannah was delirious with the wonder of it.
The heat was like nothing he'd ever known. Her touch was like flame—his flesh burned with it. Her scent surrounded him in a sultry, hypnotic cloud. His body throbbed, his blood was swimming with a red-hot passion, frustration warred with pleasure, he wanted her to stop. He wanted her never to stop.
He was desperate to take her—now, before she succeeded in driving him insane—but his power was gone. It had flowed from him into her and for the first time in his life, Blake experienced true helplessness.
He was hers. Body. Mind. Soul. All hers. She felt it. She watched the need building in his eyes; she saw a primitive male passion burning there—a passion that was dangerously compelling. Unable to resist, she drove him closer to the precipice.
When she lay her heated body full
length over his, Blake knew what true madness was. Sanity snapped. Everything savage—all the hazardous emotions civilization had taught him to keep locked away inside-burst free as if from an erupting volcano.
He'd never felt the need to possess a woman before, but now he found himself wanting all of Savannah Starr—not only her body, but her mind, her heart, her soul. All of her. As his entire world narrowed down to center on the feel of her moist, satiny flesh against his, Blake seized her shoulders and rolled her onto her back.
Their eyes locked. A promise, mutually felt, sizzled between them. In a moment of panic, Savannah tried to back away. But it was too late.
He plunged into her with a sudden, wild fury that surprised them both. Savannah's body arched, taut with the first uncontrollable climax. As she dung to him, frantic and strong, Blake was shaken by an unbidden, fierce desire for absolute possession. He dug his long fingers into her hips to keep her moving with him.
And then the power took them both.
"I told you," Blake said, much, much later, "they don't matter."
They'd been lying together, arms and legs intertwined, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Savannah's mind had been floating idly on gilt-edged clouds of ecstasy and she was in no hurry to come crashing back to reality.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Tough." He took her chin in his and forced her rebellious gaze to his. "What do I have to do to convince you that your scars are hardly noticeable? Which is a moot point, because I'd still want you if you looked like the bride of Frankenstein."
"Thanks a heap," Savannah muttered. "I suppose I should be flattered by that charming comparison."
"Not necessarily. But don't you think it's time you grew up and started thinking for yourself?"
Angry color rose in her cheeks. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that your mother—a stunningly beautiful but seriously disturbed woman— couldn't resist inflicting her daughter with her own poisonous fears."
His words hit too close to home for comfort. "You and Pop have been talking about me."