Lovechild

by Metsy Hingle

  Desire, hot and swift, shot through him. Jacques tightened his fingers around the stem of the wineglass, feeling the all-too-familiar ache in his groin. It had always been like this with Liza. From the first moment he had seen her three years before, he had been like a raw schoolboy who had just discovered the mystery of sex and the beauty of a woman’s body. Their affair, her desertion and even the years without her had done nothing to diminish his response to her.

  When she reached the table, Jacques stood and prayed no one noticed his obvious condition.

  “Thank you,” Liza told the hostess.

  Nodding, the hostess said, “Mr. Newberry will be with you in a moment, Ms. O’Malley. Can I offer you something to drink while you wait?”

  “I can recommend the Bordeaux,” Jacques offered. “It is almost as good as the wine from my family’s vineyard.”

  “Iced tea will be fine,” Liza said, giving the other woman a smile.

  “You Americans, you have no appreciation for the art of fine dining.” Jacques pulled out her chair. “Hello, ma chérie,” he said, noting the way her eyes narrowed at the endearment. Leaning over, he brushed his mouth against her cheek before he resumed his seat.

  “I’m not here for a dining experience, Jacques. I’m here for a food tasting so that a decision can be made on the menu for next month’s gala. It really wasn’t necessary for you to be here for this.”

  “Ah, but it was,” he told her. He took a sip of his wine and allowed himself the pleasure of simply looking at her. She looked so damn cool and neat, he had an urge to grab her and kiss her just to muss up that perfection. “Since you have refused my invitations, I am forced to use whatever opportunities are available so that the two of us can be together.”

  “There’s no reason for us to be together.” She reached for her napkin and smoothed it across her lap as the waitress served her iced tea.

  “Of course, there is,” he insisted. When she refused his offer of bread, he broke off a piece and began to butter it. “Otherwise, how will I be able to change your mind?”

  “And exactly what is it you’re trying to change my mind about?”

  “Why, about resuming our affair, of course.”

  Liza dropped the spoon she’d picked up to stir her iced tea. She leaned forward, her gem-colored eyes stormy. “I promise you, Jacques, you and I are not going to resume our affair.”

  “As I said, I intend to change your mind.”

  “You’re wasting your time. I am not going to change my mind. I’m not interested.”

  “That is what you said three years ago, too,” he reminded her, looking up from the piece of buttered bread. “But this time you do not have to worry about being the one to seduce me.”

  Tracks of color climbed her cheeks and Jacques smiled, sure she remembered as he did that first time when she had asked him to make love to her.

  “I assure you, I have no intention of worrying about something that isn’t going to happen.”

  “Ah, but it will, my sweet Liza. Because I have every intention of seducing you.”

  Fire flickered in her eyes, but before she could respond, the catering manager arrived with a waiter in tow carrying a tray with salads.

  Thirty minutes later as they made their way through the main course, Jacques listened to the catering director extoll the virtues of presentation and preparation of each dish, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the past. Back to a sultry, wet October night in New Orleans, racing through the dark French Quarter streets with Liza beside him....

  “Come, ma chérie,” he had said, pulling Liza out of the rain and into the stairwell of the old building that had led to their apartments. “You need to get out of those wet things before you catch a cold.”

  Her laughter teased and tempted him as they hurried up the stairs to her apartment. What a fool you are, Gaston, he thought, realizing how just the simple sound of her laughter could make him break out in a sweat of need and want. For a man who liked women and had enjoyed more than a casual friendship with many, never had he found himself so completely captivated by any one woman.

  Until Liza.

  With Liza everything was new, different. She made him feel alive, made him forget about the darkness.

  She unlocked the door, then turned to face him. The smile that curved her mouth and had tempted him all through dinner faded. So did the laughter in her eyes.

  “What is it, chérie?”

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered.

  His gut tightened at the unmistakable invitation in her voice, the sound having the same effect as a woman’s nails gently scoring his naked flesh. Fighting the urge to act on her invitation, Jacques eyed her curiously and wondered not for the first time what had gotten into Liza tonight. Despite the chemistry between them, she had turned him down repeatedly. Then tonight, after months of verbal sparring and dismissing his advances, she had agreed to have dinner with him. And now, judging from the look in her eyes, she was offering him even more.

  “You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?” she asked, cutting into his thoughts.

  “About what?”

  “About wanting me.”

  She started to turn away, but he caught her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “You are wrong, Liza. I want you.” Unable to resist, he traced his fingers along one incredibly soft cheek. The artist in him couldn’t help but note the play of light and shadow that made her wet skin look translucent, her green eyes shine like emeralds. But the man in him saw the too-pale tone of her fair skin, the doubts and vulnerability in her eyes. “Wanting you is like breathing for me. It is something I do without thought or reason.”

  “Then come inside. Stay with me. Make me feel like a woman tonight.”

  The blood rushed to his head and then to his loins, but still he hesitated. Despite the number of women who had passed through his life and his bed, none of them had been casual. Each had been special to him, but none had asked for more than he could give. Friendship and good sex had been enough for both parties. Something inside told him that with Liza it would not be so simple for either of them.

  She moved a step closer, bringing her body next to his. She touched him. He could feel the warmth of her fingers through his damp shirt as they inched their way up his chest, over his shoulders, to slip around his neck. “Please, Jacques,” she murmured before pressing her mouth to his.

  Jacques groaned. Wrapping his arms around her, he gave in to the sweet temptation of Liza’s kiss. He had envisioned this moment for months, lusted for it, dreamed of it.

  Reality was a thousand times better than the dream.

  She moved her hips against him, cradling the ache in his lower body with her womanly softness. For a moment Jacques thought he would go mad. He wanted to strip her bare and bury himself in her sweet warmth. When she repeated the motion, Jacques pulled his mouth free. “Sacre bleu!” Curling his fists in her hair, he squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to breathe.

  “Come inside,” she whispered.

  He didn’t resist. He couldn’t resist even if he had wanted to. He didn’t want to.

  The moment the door closed she was back in his arms. She pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, sending him into another tailspin of want and need. When she reached for his belt, he battled with the desire clawing at him and captured her hand. “Liza, do you know what you are doing?” he managed, his voice gruff, shaky even to his own ears.

  “Yes.”

  Jacques looked into her passion-filled eyes, and his body trembled with a new wave of desire. Struggling to hold on to his last ounce of control, he asked, “You are sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she told him. “I know all about your rules, Jacques. No promises, no commitments. Passion and friendship only.”

  The words had been a creed he’d felt he had to live by. They’d been his only weapon to protect himself and others from the darkness inside him. But hearing those words come from Liza’s lips, he suddenly bec
ame aware of the coldness of them...and even more he became aware of his own emptiness. “Yes, but—”

  She placed a finger over his lips, silencing him. “I’m not asking for anything more, Jacques. I just want you to make love to me.”

  She released the button on his slacks and eased down the zipper. Her fingers brushed his hardened length and for a moment Jacques feared he would lose control.

  She lifted her gaze to his once more. “Make me believe I’m a real woman tonight.”

  There was passion in her eyes. And doubt. For a fraction of a second he wondered why. Then her fingertips were touching him again, stroking him, driving all thoughts but making love to her from his mind. “Take my word for it, chérie. You are a real woman. And never in my life have I ever wanted any woman more than I want you right now.”

  “Then, show me.”

  The heat in her eyes, the plea in her voice, nearly pushed him over the edge. He tangled both fists in her hair and backed her against the door. He took possession of her mouth, covering her soft lips with his own. He wanted to savage her mouth, plunder it and claim her as his. Instead, he kissed her slowly, gliding his tongue along the edges of her mouth as he sought entry. When she opened to him, his tongue invaded, tangled with hers. He kissed her over and over, concentrating solely on her mouth and reveling in her sounds of pleasure. When she nipped his bottom lip, then pulled his mouth back to hers, Jacques crushed her body to him and deepened the kiss.

  Moments later Liza jerked her mouth free to look into his eyes. “Show me, Jacques. Please.”

  Jacques shuddered at the husky note desire had given her voice. Slipping his arm beneath her knees, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. A small lamp at the bedside table bathed the room in a soft glow, illuminating the raindrops sliding silently down the windowpanes. A thick rose-and-green comforter stretched across the bed. Gardenia blossoms floated in a crystal dish scenting the air with its sweet fragrance. His artist’s eye took in the details and dismissed them all, his every thought, his every breath filled with only Liza.

  He stopped at the edge of the bed and tortured himself by releasing her and having her body slide slowly down the length of his as her feet touched the floor. Leaning her against the bed, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. He opened the first button on the excuse for a dress she’d been wearing and kissed the base of her throat. With a patience he hadn’t known he possessed, Jacques forced himself to move slowly. Opening the buttons one by one, he took his time, kissing the skin he had bared. When the last button was free, he eased the dress from her shoulders. It fell in a puddle of shimmering green silk to the floor.

  His blood pulsed with desire as he took in the sight of her womanly curves covered only by scraps of black lace. “God, but you are beautiful,” he whispered and proceeded to worship her with his mouth and hands. He unhooked her bra and feasted on the fullness of her breasts—first with his eyes, then with his fingers as he cupped and shaped her. He caught one dark rosy nipple between his thumb and forefinger, while he lowered his head to her other breast.

  Liza moaned. She clutched at his shoulders when his mouth closed over the other crest, tugging at the tip with his teeth, then laving it with his tongue.

  “Jacques!” Her fingernails bit into his skin as he moved his mouth to pay homage to her other breast, her whimpers of pleasure fueling his own desire.

  He lifted her, placed her on the bed and then joined her. He slipped his hand beneath the black lace to thread his fingers through the pale triangle of curls between her legs. Easing first one finger inside her tight channel and then another, he gently stroked her.

  Liza gasped. Her body shuddered and she lifted herself against his hand as he increased the rhythm and pressure.

  “That is it, chérie,” he encouraged, his own voice ragged with need as he felt the first spasms hit her, sending her honeyed warmth to flow onto his fingers. When her body went limp, he began the slow stroking again.

  “Jacques, no. I can’t ... I ... not without you.”

  “For me, Liza. Let go for me.” Ignoring her cries,he brought her to the peak, again and again, extending his own pleasure and pain as he watched her come apart for him. When he could wait no longer, he stripped off his clothes and moved between her thighs.

  The rain beat fiercely against the window, matching the frantic pace of his pulse. He ripped open the foil packet with his teeth.

  “You don’t need that,” Liza told him. She took the packet from his fingers and tossed it to the floor.

  “What about protection?” he managed to say, as she closed her fist around him.

  “I can’t...” Her voice broke and her eyes shimmered a moment, before she continued. “It’s a safe time for me. I can’t... I won’t get pregnant.”

  He started to argue. To tell her he didn’t want to take any chances. But then she was opening herself, guiding him into her heat.

  “Just to be safe—”

  But then she was drawing him deeper inside her, arching her body, lifting her hips. And he forgot about arguing. He forgot about thinking. All he could do was feel.

  He drove himself into her, unable to wait any longer.

  “Jacques.”

  He slid his tongue into her mouth, mimicking the movements of their bodies with the length and speed of each stroke. Then she was tearing her mouth free, wrapping her legs around him. Lightning flashed outside the window, thunder exploded in the distance, rocking the building.

  Jacques watched in wonder as the first storm of pleasure hit Liza. Then she was crying out, convulsing around him and he was racing to join her in the storm—

  “What about the chocolate mousse?” Liza was saying. “Do you think it’s a safe choice or should we stick with the fruit compote?”

  Jacques jerked his attention back to the present. He gave himself a mental shake to clear his head of the seductive memory, realizing he didn’t have a clue as to what they were discussing.

  “If neither of those appeal to you, the chef also does a wonderful strawberry cheesecake,” Mr. Newberry offered.

  Jacques looked down at the chocolate mousse and fruit compote before him. Dessert. They had been talking about dessert, Jacques concluded. “Both of these look excellent, but why don’t we try a slice of that cheesecake before we decide,” he said in an effort to buy time.

  “Really, Jacques. Do you think that’s necessary?” Liza asked, anxious to end the meal and this meeting with Jacques. She offered the catering manager a smile. “Either one of these would make a wonderful choice. Besides, I don’t think I can eat another bite.”

  “Then just make it one slice, Mr. Newberry. Ms. O’Malley and I can share.”

  “Of course,” the catering manager replied, and was off to do Jacques’s bidding before Liza could object further.

  Liza wasn’t sure which disturbed her more—the intimacy implied by Jacques’s insistence that they share the same dessert or by his unusually quiet mood throughout the meal. After his earlier declaration to seduce her, she had felt like a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce. While she had been glad that he hadn’t pursued the subject, for some reason his reflective silence made her even more edgy.

  Irritated with herself for her reaction to him, Liza focused on her purpose for being with Jacques in the first place—the gala dinner. “For starters, I think the Caesar salad would be the best choice. Don’t you?”

  “Yes. The Caesar salad,” Jacques said without any enthusiasm whatsoever.

  Liza hesitated a moment and then continued. “And for the entrée, I thought we could offer a choice of fish or the filet mignon. That way anyone who didn’t want meat would have an alternative. What do you think?”

  “It sounds fine to me,” Jacques said, his attention still focused on his half-filled wineglass.

  Liza frowned, not sure what to make of his distracted manner. Jacques had always been a connoisseur of life in general, enjoying everything he ate, drank or did with a lust that she h
ad envied. How many times had she marveled at his ability to turn the simplest of meals into a sensuous feast? Suddenly she wondered if his lack of interest meant he disagreed with her choices and simply hadn’t bothered to tell her so. “If you think I’m making a mistake, Jacques, now’s the time to tell me,” she said with more heat in her voice than she had intended. “I’d rather know now while I can still fix it than make a mess of things next month.”

  Jacques shifted his gaze to her, his expression puzzled. “There is nothing wrong with your choices, Liza. You have always had impeccable taste. Why would you think otherwise?”

  “Maybe because the Jacques Gaston I used to know had a very healthy appetite. Yet you barely touched your meal and you never even tasted the desserts.”

  He paused for long moments, only adding to Liza’s sense of uneasiness. “Perhaps, I am not the same Jacques Gaston you once knew,” he said, his voice taking on a deeper, more intimate tone that raced along her nerve endings like a caress. “Or perhaps it is not food that I hunger for.”

  Liza’s pulse stuttered, then began to race at a frenzied pace at the sensual hunger in his eyes. She curled her fingers into the napkin on her lap, feeling the traitorous heat pool between her thighs as she responded to him. She took a sip of water to clear her too-dry throat. “Food is the only thing on the menu,” she quipped, feigning a calm she was far from feeling. “As soon as we make a decision on the dessert and wines, we can leave.”

  The waiter placed the slice of strawberry-glazed cheesecake between them and positioned forks on either side. “That is another of the foibles of you Americans. You are always in such a hurry. Never taking the time to enjoy life and its pleasures. For instance, there is no reason for us to hurry through our meal. When I spoke with Aimee and Peter, they said—”