Rising in sudden haste, no longer able to control the terrible urgency to have her, he threw his robe aside, watching her face, dimly aware that she had blanched, and that her eyes were wide, dilated. He eased his length upon her, shuddering with new, torturous delight as naked flesh met naked flesh. Holding her face, he kissed her again, drawing from her lips as a bee seeking nectar. Her arms wound slowly around his neck, and she clung to him, demanding that the torrid kiss be plundered to its depths. His hands left her face; they savored strongly the slender curves of her body to her hips where they clamped firmly. His weight pinioned her, his hips and thighs upon her until his knee opened the final barriers to sweet consumption.
It was as he probed for that access that she was thunderstruck with a horrible moment of lucidity. The truth, the seriousness, of what she was doing came stridently home to her.
“Wait…” she breathed, twisting and writhing in unwitting assistance. “Please! Wait…stop…” she wailed, bringing balled fists against the golden expanse of his chest. The effort was pathetic, as useless as her attempt to grip her fingers into the rock-hard biceps that pinned her to the bed. “Wait!”
He was not a cruel man, nor had he ever been in any way forceful. But his need for her now was as deep and fervent as the despair she had driven from him. She would have been pleased to know that he had never wanted a woman before with such an undeniable urgency. He simply wasn’t in his right mind. He wasn’t even filled with delusion. His mind, in fact, had nothing to do with it at all.
“You little tease!” he uttered harshly, the memory of another betrayal at the hands of a woman erupting inside him. His blue eyes burned with a fire that was deadly heat and frigid ice. “Too late to back out now, lady temptress, way too late.”
And it was. He was young, he was virile; his desire throbbed against her with a tortured fever that commanded all else—seeking, finding, penetrating.
She fought him furiously for brief seconds of wild, shooting pain. Then she lay still, shocked.
He very dimly knew what he had done, but the thought was far from his consciousness. Nothing but culmination and her surrender could quench the delicious hunger of the raging passion she had elicited. Yet as she went pliant, he found a certain control and brought his demands from a hectic to a fluid rhythm, cajoling with each stroke, determined to please as he was pleased. He lulled her with his hands, with soft, soothing whispers. Slowly, slowly, he brought her back to him.
The pain receded; the glowing heat of that wild, craving desire usurping discomfort until it ebbed away entirely. She was swept into his wooing rhythm, gradually becoming as voraciously thirsting as he, demanding in return, greedily arching to claim his every thrust.
Her protests had been so ridiculous. There had never been such wondrous, awe-inspiring, shuddering bliss. She could spend her life in his arms, drowning, dying, loving, giving in this divine ecstasy. And he was hers. Completely. Never could two people come together like this—this closely, this thoroughly—without becoming one, without tenderly giving of their hearts. She had him in the oldest way known to woman. She could never belong to anyone else, never, never, and neither could he.
Thoughts of love stopped. He had brought her so high, so high that she could barely breathe. Every nerve, every movement, every fiber of her being—sight, sound, feeling—all were devoted to the frantic crescendo of the exquisite symphony his masterful rhythm had created. She was crying his name, shuddering convulsively, holding him, needing him, bursting into a brilliant white glory of sensation so beautiful it could never be imagined, only lived. He guided her through that mindless pleasure, groaning himself with the tremendous satiation of the devilishly sweet intensity of their mating.
He smiled at her with a mingling of tenderness and something that might have been surprise. Then, amazingly, he rolled from her, dead weight. She lifted the arm that still cradled her midriff. It fell to his side with a flop. His energy expended, his physical needs gratified to ultimate contentment, he had fallen asleep, simply passed out.
Tears of happiness hovered on her eyes as she watched him with a loving emotion that rose from and filled her breast. Her lips curved into a gentle smile. Even the wine she had consumed could not make her sleep; she was too riddled with wonder and excitement. She lay beside him, oblivious to time, softly stroking the lines of his magnificently sculpted back, positive that heaven itself could offer no greater reward than that of being loved by this man. She was giddy, smug with her love, satisfied, and fulfilled. She had truly become a woman in his arms. He cherished her.
He twisted suddenly in his sleep, reaching for her to nestle comfortably to his form. He mumbled drowsily.
Puzzled, she leaned closer to his lips, rubbing her soft cheek against his shadowed rough one.
“What, my love?” she whispered with all the newfound joy and tenderness of their union. “What?”
“Love you,” he murmured, and she ached with the bliss of his words. But he twisted restlessly and kept speaking as he stroked her with an absent hand. “Love you, Lenore.” His hand stopped, and he flopped back into a sound, stuporous sleep.
Lenore? Lenore? The name blazed across her mind like a skull-splitting blow. She was stunned, too stunned for a moment to assimilate the awful agony. Then it rained down upon her like the icy dagger thrusts of a hailstorm. She was mortified, crushed; she would have happily and simply died. Her naiveté was washed cleanly and completely from her mind. He didn’t really care for her at all; she had deceived herself with a pathetic false confidence and a longing to make real what wasn’t. She should have known. If he was in love with anyone, it was the lost Lenore, no matter what she had done.
But she—blind, innocent idiot that she was—had literally thrown herself at him and gotten exactly what she deserved. God, why was it all so clear with hindsight? How could she have been such a foolish dreamer just a few short hours ago…a few short minutes ago…
With tears streaming down her face she rose and dressed in silence. The truth had been a cold, cruel, vicious slap in the face. She would never be the same. The night had aged her in a way that years never could. Seconds of harsh reality had really made her a woman.
Grabbing her handbag, she tiptoed unnecessarily to the door, but paused with perplexity as she noticed the telltale sheets. She slipped into her heels and began the mental process which would eventually become a shield over her heart. She wiped her stained cheeks and sighed over the loss of innocence and dreams and withdrew to the safety of being frozen and numb. The pain would come to her again—she had yet to know how viciously—but now she had to think. She would have to face him again.
She looked dispassionately at his rugged features, at his golden hair, at his beautiful body. He would remember tonight, but what would he remember? A brief span of physical respite. A night like so many others he had experienced. A night that meant nothing. He would have to think it had meant absolutely nothing to her too. She would never allow him to humiliate her again. All he could offer was kindness and compassion—and maybe a coldblooded bodily desire, none of which she wanted from him.
She’d be damned if she’d have him know he had taken from her the most precious gift a woman could offer. He could wonder, but she would deny for an eternity that he had taken her virginity. He could think he was crazy. That would be preferable.
Grunting as she strained with all her strength to pull his muscle-bound weight about, she managed to strip the bed. He would have a good hangover in the morning and he deserved to wonder what the hell he had done with the sheets!
Nervously she rolled the sheets into a ball, doubting he could possibly awaken, but watching him warily nevertheless. She turned from him, her tears dried. She did not look back, and she did not cry again.
He awoke with the most godawful hangover he had ever had in his life. His head pounded with the ferocity of a thousand steel bands. His tongue felt dry and raspy, as if it had swollen to twice its normal size. Far worse than his physical pain
was the ache and self-chastisement of memory. He reached for her, but she was gone. What had he done? He frowned, wincing as the motion increased the pounding in his head. Damn, it was all so vague. A mixture of beauty, of sweetness, of remorse. She had come to him, yes, but she was young, and he knew better.
No matter how delectable the fruit. No matter how tempting the offer. He knew the girl he had taken, and she had deserved so much more. So much more than a drunken bum wallowing in self-pity. In all of his twenty-nine years, he had never felt a greater sense of shame. He was going to have to find her, to make it up to her.
His frown softened as a smile curved his lips. It wouldn’t be hard. The memory of exquisite beauty and sweet ecstasy lingered along with the shame of his behavior. She wasn’t so terribly young. Many another man would have thought her quite ripe and mature…and now it seemed as if he would be around for a while. Maybe something precious had been right under his nose all along…
He groaned as he shifted on the bed, suddenly realizing that he had slept on a bare mattress. God, what had happened? What had he done? Pain blazoned through him again. He couldn’t remember if she had come to him completely willingly, or if…He couldn’t bear the thought, nor was he really sure. He remembered a piece of a rare heaven, so good, so shatteringly exciting that only a woman of experience should have been able to create it. But he had been so sure of her innocence, of her guileless honesty. Hell, he wasn’t going to solve any riddles today. He would seek her out, but not today. Today he was going to have to learn to live with himself again. He swore to make a thousand tomorrows sweet for her. He closed his eyes with determination, remorse, and a strange wonder. But even closing his eyes hurt.
The phone rang. He almost didn’t answer it. But he did, groggily, and snapped to attention when he heard his agent’s voice. Then his head began to swim with the glittering future he thought he had lost.
In his last days at the theater, she knew that he watched her, she knew that he tried to see her. She avoided him as she would the plague, but did it with a very careful nonchalance. And when he finally caught her on his last day in town, she was as cool as a mountain stream. She pretended to be hiding annoyance when he called her name.
“About the other night—” He began catching her arm.
“What about it?”
The boredom in her drawl set him back.
“I—uh—I wanted to apologize. I wanted to see—” He was going to say “you again,” but her brittle chuckle cut him off.
“Apologize? Whatever for? We’re both adults.” She shrugged with indifference. “It was nothing.”
“Wait a—”
“I’m sorry,” she smiled, pulling her arm away. “I can’t wait. I have a date waiting for me.”
He released her immediately, stunned and perplexed. “Good-bye then.”
“Good-bye,” she turned airily, and clipped her heels briskly across the floor.
But she couldn’t leave it at that. She had to turn around. She would probably never see him again, unless it was on a television screen, or in one of those fan magazines.
“Hey!” she called cheerily. He looked at her with the hard blue stare that was about to become famous.
“Good luck!” she called with a thumbs-up sign. “Break a leg in Hollywood!”
“Thanks.”
He watched her as she walked away, deciding he was no judge of human character. He didn’t mean a damn thing to her! Women were a mystery, he thought with a dry chuckle. But one day…he’d like to see that little raven-haired vixen again. Now he could go on to his new life with a clear conscience.
He whistled happily as he left the theater. All his memories could be good ones.
CHAPTER ONE
“ALL RIGHT, LET’S CALL it quits for today.”
Vickie closed her script and yawned. First readings were seldom very exciting, especially when the play was Shakespeare’s Othello, which she knew like the back of her hand, as she had used it for the basis of her senior thesis back at FSU. Running her expressive gray eyes over the rest of the cast, she decided that no one had been particularly up for any real work today. Her fellow thespians were also yawning, stretching, and fumbling with their gear.
The same voice growled, “Get with it by tonight, guys!”
Vickie gave her director, Monte Clayton, a guilty smile. They were all acting like a group of disgruntled first-year drama students. Monte Clayton’s Dinner Theatre was one of the finest in the eastern United States, possibly even the country. They were not a star-oriented ensemble, but a troop of dedicated, hand-picked actors and actresses who had worked together day and night for years. They constantly strove to bring their best work to a public long attuned to knowing that an evening at Monte’s was well worth the price of the ticket—the food and performances were consistently excellent.
Vickie glanced at her wristwatch, surprised to see that they had broken up early. She was not due to pick Mark up from nursery school for almost two hours. Grinning, she decided to badger Monte for a while to see if he would give in and tell her the name of their mystery guest artist who would be playing Othello to her Desdemona.
Monte often gave in to her. She was only dimly aware that she was his most respected and admired actress, and that that was the reason. Whatever homage was paid her she accepted with a quiet grace that also made her a personal favorite of the other cast members. Despite the fact that she was a private person and seldom aired her own problems, she was the one to whom the others brought their day-to-day troubles.
Amidst friendly calls of “See ya later,” and “Catch ya tonight,” Vickie flung her bag over her shoulder and moved toward the stage, where Monte was scribbling ideas that had come to him during the reading. He looked up with surprise as Vickie approached him, and his eyes narrowed with a wary twinkle. On a cheerfully firm note he remarked, “You can stop right there, Miss Victoria Langley. I see that shade of feminine connivery in in your eyes, and I am not giving you a hint about our guest artist until I make the announcement tonight to the entire cast.”
“Monte!” Vickie declared in a hurt tone. “I’m not here to pry! I have some extra time, and I thought you might buy me a cup of coffee.”
Monte gazed at her sternly for a moment before releasing a resigned sigh. “Sure, love!” he chuckled. “I wish I could believe you were after the pleasure of my company. But that’s okay, I like you trying to cajole me, even if the motives are devious.” Rising with a sprightly jump, he pointed to a front row table. “Have a seat, Vick. I’ll go ‘buy’ the coffee.”
Vickie smiled, headed for the table and tossed her bag on one chair while sliding into the other. She opened her script and glanced idly over it, then tossed it on top of her bag. She would have her lines down pat within the next few days, wanting to have the tediousness of that chore out of the way early so that she could concentrate on the character. At the moment though, she was in no great hurry. Glancing around the room with tender affection, she scanned the hundred silent tables and the darkened stage presently set for the evening’s performance of Godspell. She had been with Monte for two years now—two good years that had given her a pleasant and comfortable livelihood and kept her happy and eternally busy. She had little time for anything but the theater and her toddler son, Mark, and that was the way she wanted it. Her social life extended to her family and friendships with the other troop members, and that was the way she wanted it. She really had no time for men, which was fine with her.
She grinned, thinking of the group’s nickname for her—Ice Maiden. Like many a performer, Vickie was shy offstage, and, admittedly, just not interested in any serious dating. She enjoyed friendly outings with an occasional admirer who pursued her, but having been burned once, she was too wise to get involved with any man. Victoria Langley, illustrious leading lady of the theater, was still basically Vickie Dalton of the small town of Bradenton. She had never grown bitter, but she had developed a frame of hard steel.
Without warning, her gl
ance around the room brought back one unpleasant memory, one so well-buried she was shocked that it had entered her mind. Foolish! she admonished herself, and yet a feeling of uneasiness persisted. Annoyed, she calmly reminded herself that what had been, was done, finished; it had no bearing on the present or future. Life always went on, and for her it went on well.
“Why the sad eyes?” Monte demanded as he returned with two cups of steaming black coffee. Setting them down, he swung a wiry leg over a chair and joined her.
“Sad?” she repeated, focusing luminous gray eyes on him, then switching back to a smile. “I’m not sad at all. I was just thinking about this place and all it has done for me.”
Monte’s thin features broke into a wide grin. “When I look at you now, it is hard to remember that when I first met you, you were nothing but a gangly no-account kid hanging around the stage doors.” His grin slipped a little. Vickie had been one of the numerous college kids who always came his way, willing to do anything to slip a foot into the door of a professional theater.
He hadn’t thought much of her, just another young girl, all saucer eyes and dark black hair, who disappeared at the end of a summer season. Then, a year later, he had discovered her again, playing a tear-jerking and incredible Juliet on a Charleston stage. After the play he found her backstage and immediately offered her a permanent, well-paying job with him, no questions asked.
The skinny kid had matured into a brilliant and hard-working actress, now shapely with a mane of long, gleaming hair. She wasn’t exactly beautiful; her nose was a trifle too tilted, and the gray eyes, with thick inky black lashes, were still too big for her fragile bone structure. But she arrested one’s attention with sheer vivacity. Many a greater beauty could sit in a room, but all eyes would turn to Victoria, and hearts would thud at her soft-spoken, gracious manner. Like my own! Monte thought wistfully. He, the cool director, had fallen head over heels in love with her, only to be crushed when she nicely informed him that if he had anything in mind other than a professional relationship, she would leave.
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