In the Light of Day

by Brenda Joyce

"Jesus, it's you," Braxton said in her ear. His hand left her mouth, sliding across her jaw to her neck and shoulder, and he did not release her for another moment.

  And in that endless moment Annabel was overwhelmed by the warmth and strength of him, by his sheer masculinity.

  He dropped his hands from her person.

  Annabel turned. Her back pressed against Mary Anne's door as she faced him, and because he did not move, there was not an inch between their bodies. His thighs pressed hers. His chest flattened hers. She was a tall woman, and her eyes were level with his mouth.

  It was an exceedingly attractive mouth.

  And his teeth flashed white in the darkness. "Might I ask what you were doing?" he asked, but in a whisper.

  "I could ask you the same thing," Annabel said, whispering as well. It was very hard to think—her body was acutely aware of him, and she did not know what to do with her hands, which remained balled up at her sides. "I thought you were the police, or a federal agent," she breathed.

  His gaze appeared silver in the darkness of the night. It searched hers. "I thought the same of you." Suddenly, he stepped away from her, putting a safer distance between them. "Did anyone ever tell you, Miss Boothe, that curiosity killed the cat?"

  She inhaled. She was trembling, her legs were weak. Air now caressed her where his warmth had a scant instant ago. She did not want him to leave and go back downstairs. There was no time to think. "I am not a cat. Curiosity has not killed me yet—I doubt it ever will."

  He laughed softly. "You know," he said, and their gazes locked, "I like you. It is a shame that you are who you are. For you and I could have gotten on quite famously, I do think."

  She stared. His voice had been low and sensual and intimate. "I like you, too, Braxton."

  His smile disappeared.

  Annabel wet her lips, images she knew she should not, must not, entertain dancing in her head. Of him leading her across the hall into her bedroom, of him removing her clothing, his large, capable, elegant hands smoothing over her skin.

  "Go back to bed," he said harshly. "I will see you in the morning."

  "Wait," she whispered, a desperate cry.

  But he had not moved.

  "Wait," she said again, as intensely. But she could not think of a single excuse to detain him, or a single way to seduce him.

  He now wet his lips. "Do not offer," he said with anger, "what will turn out to be a vast mistake. For you certainly, and maybe for us both."

  "I am not like other women," Annabel said hoarsely.

  He stared.

  She clenched her fists. "I don't ever want to marry. I only want to be free." He remained motionless.

  "Free like the wind," she said, tears suddenly coming to her eyes. "Not shackled to an idiot like Harold, not shackled to anyone."

  His jaw flexed. His brilliant eyes never left her face.

  "But you would not understand. Because you are free, you are a man." She was bitter. She felt defeated. He would go. And in the morning, their paths would diverge, never to twine again.

  "I understand," he finally said. "Better than you think."

  Braxton bent and kissed each shoulder where the straps lay, then he slid them over her shoulders and pushed her gown down over her breasts, her hips, her thighs. It pooled in a puddle of cotton at her feet. His gaze was admiring.

  He stroked the pads of two fingers down her neck and chest, over her nipples. Annabel bit back a cry of need and pleasure. He looked into her eyes, his expert hands skimming down her sides and abdomen.

  "You are very, very beautiful, and far too much of a woman for most men."

  She could not speak. He was touching her thighs. "But not... for you?"

  His gaze jerked up to hers. "You are probably too much of a woman for myself as well," he said, as if he had just thought of it and as if he meant it. And then he pulled her close for another devastating, tongue-to-tongue kiss.

  And when, a long time later, their lips parted, she gasped, "This is not fair."

  He was pushing her down on the bed. "Life is not fair."

  She laughed as she found herself on her back, but shakily. "I have no clothes on. You are fully dressed."

  His eyes widened and brightened at the same time. He stood, smiling. "That," he said, "shall be remedied momentarily."

  Annabel sat up to watch him disrobe. He was exactly as she had thought, broad-shouldered, narrow of hip, all rippling sinew and lean muscle. She had never seen a man completely naked before. She stared.

  "You are eating me up with those incredible eyes of yours," he said, not moving.

  She lifted her gaze to his, feeling herself blush. "I have never seen a man before. I mean, not a living, breathing one-—I have never cared to. I have never felt passion before, Braxton."

  She tensed and met his brilliant eyes again. And watched his hands lifting—coming toward her. And in that moment she felt a surge of absolute comprehension—she had known that this would happen from the very first moment she had laid her eyes upon him in her father's library. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her slowly up against him. As his chest once again crushed her breasts, as his palms slid down her back, settling on her hips, she breathed, trembling with anticipation. His mouth cut off the sound.

  Annabel clung to him tightly, stunned by the endless kiss. She had never been kissed this way before, but then, she had never known such a man before, either. She did not want the kiss to end; she could not seem to get enough of the taste of him, the feel of him. But he tore his mouth from hers abruptly, and their gazes locked.

  She was breathing harshly, but so was he.

  "Last chance," he whispered roughly.

  It took Annabel a moment to comprehend him, and then she realized what he meant. "No. My mind has not changed," she said.

  He took her hand and pulled her into her bedroom, releasing her to lock the door behind them. Annabel's heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest. She stood uncertainly beside the narrow bed. He turned. She had left the light on in her room and now she saw his expression—it was fiercely intent.

  "What should I do now?" she whispered, dazed.

  His smile flashed and he walked to her, hooking his thumbs under the plain straps of her simple nightgown. "You do nothing but feel, Annabel. And you leave the rest to me."

  She could not breathe, could not move. The way he spoke, the look in his eyes, the touch of his fingernails on her skin, was bathing her body in flames. And she knew exactly what it was that she wanted—this man, deep within her, in a carnal way.

  "I am glad." He sat down beside her, taking her into his arms. "My name is St. Clare," he said softly.

  Annabel heard, but could not respond, because his mouth was on hers again, and she was on her back, his huge, flagrant manhood pushing up between her thighs against her vulva. His mouth moved down her neck. She heard herself moaning, found herself arching for him, as wide open as she could make herself. Her body wanted him so badly that it hurt and she had never felt so impatient for anything before. He tugged one nipple into his mouth. Annabel caressed him wildly, urgently. "Hurry," she gasped.

  "No," he whispered, nuzzling her other breast. "There are some things we do not rush, my dear, and making love is one of them." He was stroking her inner thighs with his long, lean fingers. Annabel thought she would die if he did not touch her most private parts.

  "Annabel," he whispered, making her closing eyes fly open. "I want to savor you."

  "You have a way with words," she panted. And then he slipped his hand over her, palming her intimately. Annabel cried out.

  "God," he cried, no longer sounding either suave or composed.

  "Please," Annabel wept, raking her nails down his back.

  "Ow." It was a growl. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her hard. There was a brutal demand in his kiss and somehow Annabel understood it—-and him— completely. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, grasping his hips. And then he was pressing into her. . For one instant it
was awkward and he paused, in the next instant he was there, hard and swift and sure, thrusting deeply into her, time and again, making Annabel cry out with desperation and weep with joy.

  And then she knew it was happening. She tensed, clawing his shoulders. "Pierce!"

  His gaze met hers as he came into her again, his face strained with lust. "Now?" he asked, a demand. Annabel's nod was brief, her explosion star-filled.

  Annabel woke up thinking that Braxton remained in her arms, and she felt herself smiling. A bright morning light was pouring through the parted curtains. Its sunny brightness matched the joyous feeling bubbling up inside her. Annabel sighed, recalling his lovemaking, and then she realized that she was hugging a pillow, not Pierce. She sighed again, rolling over onto her back, looking at his side of the narrow bed. It was empty.

  She stretched, smiling again. No wonder men and women chased one another like fools, she mused. Making love was indeed a wonderful experience, especially with a man like Braxton.

  And they had made love. He had been tender, even in the roughest moments, and Annabel hugged herself recalling the way he had looked at her, kissed her, held her afterward. She was, for the very first time in her life, smitten with a man.

  And it was deliriously wonderful. Annabel beamed at the ceiling. Braxton was wonderful, the rogue.

  No, not Braxton, she corrected herself. His real name was St. Clare. Or at least that was what he claimed.

  She sat up, not bothering to hold the covers over her naked breasts. The bed was so small that they had slept in one another's arms last night—when he had not been making love to her, that is. She grinned again, understanding now that particular feline expression cats wore after lapping up a bowlful of fresh cream. Did all men make love like that? He had touched her everywhere, and not just with his hands. Annabel did not think so, and she did not need to be experienced to arrive at such a conclusion. Braxton was a superior lover—just like he was a superior thief.

  She sighed. Then, realizing how moonstruck she was acting, she jumped from the bed. Shamelessly naked, she went to the window and parted the curtains more fully. Her happiness dulled, her smile faded. What time was it? It had to be mid-morning. Annabel grew uneasy. Her bedroom looked out upon the backyard. She stared at the barn. The barn doors were wide open. No one was insight.

  He must be downstairs, getting ready to leave. Why hadn't he woken her up?

  Surely he did not intend to depart without her—not after last night!

  Annabel rushed about the room, pulling on her drawers and chemise, forgoing both her corset and petticoats. As she dressed in one of Mary Anne's dark skirts and white shirtwaists, there was no avoiding her apprehension. She did not know what Braxton planned as far as the future went, but she knew she would go with him. She could not return home now.

  Annabel picked up her shoes and stockings and dashed into the hall.

  The house was silent. As if it were deserted, everyone already gone. That, of course, was impossible. Trying not to worry now, trying not to imagine the worst, Annabel pounded down the stairs and into the kitchen. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the room, and Annabel saw a plate of sugar buns on the table. A few small dishes were stacked up on the counter by the sink. They were dirty. Where was everyone?

  Annabel walked to the back door and peered outside, but she could only see the side of. the barn. Her pulse was pounding now.

  "Hello."

  Annabel started as Mary Anne entered the room, looking very worn and very tired. "Good morning," she said brightly.

  Mary Anne was holding that morning's World in her hand. Looking unhappy, she handed the newspaper to Annabel.

  Annabel saw the headline and gasped, "Boothe heiress abducted—manhunt ensues."

  "Oh, my God," she cried. And then, as she scanned the article, she felt her heart sinking like a stone. "Listen to this," she said, with anger. " 'Annabel Boothe is widely known to be an imprudent and impulsive character, given over to inclinations not suited to a gentlewoman.' And then this writer goes on to list some of my inclinations!"

  "I read the article, my dear," Mary Anne said softly, not moving from the doorway where she stood.

  "Well, at least they got some of it right." Annabel was dismayed. "But I never performed on the stage! Who told them this? Acting has never appealed to me!" Annabel looked at Mary Anne, aware of being exceedingly upset. Yet people had been talking about her for most of her life. Why did this nasty article dismay her so?

  Mary Anne was silent.

  Annabel also fell silent. She looked again at the dirty dishes by the sink, her heart lurching with dread. Then, with shaking hands, she scanned the newspaper column again. She froze. The writer went on to claim that dozens of witnesses had seen her willingly jump into the thief's motorcar. "Well." She forced a smile. "Once again it will be poor Annabel Boothe. Except this time I will not be around to hear the whispers and see the stares." Her gaze met Mary Anne's. "Will I?"

  Mary Anne's gaze was pitying.

  "Why are you looking at me that way? And where is Pierce? I mean Braxton?"

  "St. Clare left."

  Annabel knew she had not heard Mary Anne correctly. "What did you say?"

  "Pierce left. He left at dawn with Louie."

  Annabel stared at Mary Anne. The other woman's image became blurry. There was a roaring in her ears, a tingling in her limbs. The light in the room dimmed, becoming gloomy. "No," Annabel whispered, stricken.

  Pierce could not have left her behind.

  It was an impossibility.

  Mary Anne was lying.

  "My dear!" Mary Anne cried in alarm, rushing forward and gripping her arm. "You are turning a ghastly shade of green! Are you about to be sick?"

  "He did not leave." Annabel looked at the other woman, about to be violently ill. She fought to contain her roiling stomach.

  "I am so sorry. He has become a cad, Annabel, a horrid cad, and I will never forgive him for what he has done to you!" Mary Anne tried to put her arm around her, but Annabel pushed her away, swallowing bile.

  "He made love to me," she said, bewildered. And images of the night before filled her mind.

  "Pm so sorry," Mary Anne whispered, tears forming in her eyes. "Pierce is not this way. I do not understand any of this."

  The memories continued to flood her mind, memories of his touch, his kiss, his smile, the look of love in his eyes. All lies.

  "Oh, God," she cried, and then she was running to the back door, throwing it open, and flinging herself onto her knees on the stoop, where she retched convulsively again and again.

  And when the heaves ended, she found herself gripping the stoop, panting, tears beginning, splinters becoming embedded in her fingers. But that pain was nothing at all compared to the pain of his betrayal.

  He had used her. He had left her. Last night had been nothing but a lie.

  Annabel thought she might die.

  Two years later, Bar Harbor, Maine

  There was a mist in the air, and Annabel was quite certain it would rain.

  She carried her shoes and stockings in her hand as she picked her way across the short stretch of beach which was behind the Acadia, the very fashionable resort where she had just arrived yesterday evening. The small inlet was very popular with the hotel's guests, Annabel had been told, but the rules were very strict. Male bathers were allowed until two in the afternoon, female bathers after that. It was not quite one p.m.

  But there was no one about today because of the weather. Annabel paused at the head of the narrow path that would take her back to the hotel, glancing around and sniffing the fresh, slightly tangy air appreciatively. The small section of beach was a part of one of the island's many inlets, and everywhere Annabel gazed she saw soaring cliffs and pine forests. Not far inland, she could make out one of the island's tallest mountains. A pair of eagles were soaring overhead.

  And for one moment she forgot the past and she smiled, watching the spectacular birds. Then her smile faded and she
started up the sandy path that led to the sweeping lawns behind the hotel, her muslin skirts whipping around her. She was questioning her judgment in accepting Lizzie's invitation to join her sisters and their husbands for the month of August. Supper last night had been a disastrous affair.

  She should have gone to Europe, alone.

  Where no one knew her, by damn.

  A drop of water landed on her forehead, another on her nose. Annabel increased her pace. The large, whitewashed hotel with its long verandah and green shutters was ahead. Annabel saw a few couples leaving the verandah as the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. Then she saw a woman in a bright yellow dress waving madly at her.

  Annabel smiled because she recognized Lizzie, who was as big as a cow. Her second child was due in two more months. "Hi," she said, arriving on the back porch beside her sister.

  "Isn't the beach beautiful?" Lizzie said, but she looked worried, despite her smile.

  "Yes, it is," Annabel said, sitting down on a wicker chair to don her stockings and shoes. She had tar and dirt on her feet.

  "Well, there you are, we are waiting for you," said a disapproving voice behind them.

  Annabel looked up to find Melissa standing in the doorway, her hands on her slim hips. "You didn't have to wait for me," Annabel replied.

  "Annabel, you are not allowed down at the beach until after two o'clock!" '

  Annabel stood up. "For God's sake, Missy, calm yourself. It's about to pour! No one was there."

  "You will never find a husband if you continue to break all of the rules," Melissa retorted. "Sometimes I wonder just what goes on inside your head." ,

  "I don't want a husband," Annabel said as sharply, pushing past her to walk inside. A huge green and gold carpet covered the library floor. The room was empty, for it was dinnertime.

  "Please don't fight," Lizzie cried, following them as they left the library and entered the dining room. "But Annabel, maybe you should obey the hotel's rules. They are very explicit."

  "Everyone thinks you are fast, Annabel," Melissa said.

  Annabel paused and turned sharply, so that she was nose to nose with her lovely sister. She smiled sweetly. "I know. And I don't care. Besides, it's the truth, isn't it?" She stared, knowing she was being belligerent, but unable to stop.