INTIMATE STRANGER

by Donna Sterling

  "I'll carry the blazer for you." He tugged the jacket away from her and threw it over his arm. "If you get cold while we're inside, I'll help you into it." Without waiting for her reply, he climbed out of the car, locked his door and ambled around to her side.

  Suddenly she understood exactly what he was doing—calling her bluff. It would take a brazen woman indeed to strut into a public place dressed as she was. The blazer had been the perfect answer—instant cover, when and where she needed it. She'd never intended for anyone other than Trev to see her in this transparent dress, which she usually wore with a substantial set of undergarments. She'd been sure that he would insist on her wearing the blazer … or, at the very least, not protesting when she did.

  He opened her door and offered his hand to help her out.

  She sat rigidly in the passenger seat, highly aware of a young couple walking a short distance away in the well-lit parking lot. "Don't be silly, Trev. There's no need for you to carry my jacket."

  "I insist."

  She gazed at him in growing dismay. She had to have it! As he very well knew, damn him. "I need my jacket," she insisted between clenched teeth. "I'm already cold."

  His gaze swept across her breasts, and the hint of a smile curled his mouth. "No, darlin', you're not."

  She crossed her arms over her breasts and scowled at him. Didn't he think he was clever? "If I walk in like this, they'll turn us away. Believe me, it's happened to me before."

  "Then how did you intend to put your 'networking' plan into action?"

  "Discreetly … and only when I'm ready."

  "This should be interesting."

  "You probably won't even be aware that I'm doing it."

  Something serious flashed in his eyes. "Oh, I'll be aware."

  "What are you going to do, watch me every minute?"

  "While you're dressed like that? Probably. How the hell can I help it?"

  She didn't believe he meant it as a compliment. And she didn't believe he meant to give in. Panic sparked within her. She wouldn't, couldn't, enter that theater without her blazer. "Go in without me. Enjoy the play. I'm sure I'll find plenty to keep me occupied out here in the parking lot."

  Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he tossed the blazer to her.

  Relieved to have it, but resentful that he'd shaken her so, she donned the blazer and followed him across the parking lot. He clearly wasn't pleased, striding ahead of her with his mighty shoulders squared and his hands deep in his pockets. But when he reached the theater, he held the door for her, then slid an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. She felt the tension in his iron-strong arm and the warm, hard musculature of his body.

  "Do whatever you want, Jen," he murmured against her hair, as they waited for the hostess's attention. "But if any guy makes a disrespectful move toward the woman I'm with, I'll have to demand an apology—and beat him to a bloody pulp if he doesn't give it."

  The thought alarmed her. What if someone did make a disrespectful move toward her? The blazer covered her sufficiently all the way to mid-thigh, but from there down, her skirt was very sheer. Would some loudmouth jerk make an issue of it, and provoke Trev into a fight? She hadn't seen that side of him before, and didn't want to. Her alarm angered her. "That's another reason you shouldn't be with a prostitute," she furiously whispered to him.

  "That's another reason you shouldn't be a prostitute," he whispered back. "Men tend to lose their heads around loose women. But then, I'm not sure how 'loose' you really are. You talk the talk, but I haven't seen you walk the walk."

  "I slept with you for money, didn't I?"

  "I believe that's all you've done. And I know damn well you'd have rather died than walk into this place without your blazer."

  "I didn't want us to be turned away at the door. And if you're so set on defending my honor against the first guy who looks at me, why did you want me to walk in without my blazer?"

  "I didn't. I just wanted to see if you would."

  "Don't challenge me, Trev. You might not like what I'll do."

  "I'm not challenging you. But if you're going to canvass for new customers, don't do it behind my back."

  "What good would it do to look for new customers, when you're ready to beat 'em to a bloody pulp?"

  "Damn good point."

  Their heated, whispered exchange was interrupted by a cheery greeting from the hostess, an aging flower-child with long frizzy hair, a peace sign embroidered on her faded jeans and Greenpeace buttons on her Grateful Dead T-shirt. They followed her into a fairly crowded dining room arranged around a raised stage. The red velvet curtains hadn't yet opened; the diners busied themselves with their meals and quiet conversation. The hostess led Trev and Jennifer to a table in the back row.

  Trev leaned in close to the hostess and spoke in a pleasant undertone. She glanced at an upper tier of tables, all unoccupied, then shook her head with clear regret. "Sorry, man. I know it's a bummer, but the balcony's closed on weekdays."

  He spoke to her again, his voice low, his tone persuasive. After a moment's hesitation, she cast him a conspiratorial glance and led them up a side stairway to the dimly fit balcony. "How can I risk bad karma by saying no to a honeymooning couple? Especially since you drove all that way to be with us."

  She seated them in the very last booth of the vacant balcony—a relatively private compartment shaped in a U, with high-backed cushioned seats, lush green plants on either side and red-checked linen adorning the table. The table itself was anchored to the solid wooden railing of the balcony, allowing them a bird's-eye view of the dining room and stage.

  Jennifer slid into the horseshoe-shaped seat, scooting to the middle. Trev slid in beside her—much closer than was necessary.

  The hostess smiled and set menus before them. "I'll send a server right up. You'll need to order soon. We like to have everyone served by the time the lights go down, so we don't disrupt the audience during the show. Enjoy!" With one last beaming smile, she hurried back downstairs.

  Jennifer turned to Trev with a raised brow. "Honeymooning couple? You're sure to burn in hell for that one."

  He settled his arm along the curved top of her seat, casually against her shoulders, making her all the more aware of his nearness. And his fresh, masculine soap scent. And the alluring warmth of his muscled thigh against hers.

  "Whatever works," he said. She saw no humor in his stare—only dark, hot determination. "I wanted to be alone with you."

  The gruffness of his voice made her blood rush. Was she imagining the intimacy in his tone, his words? Unsure of how to read him after their angry confrontation—and ready to make peace with him, to enjoy what they could of the evening, since her time with him was so precious—she earnestly assured him, "You don't have to worry about me attracting the wrong kind of attention. I've decided to take the night off and relax."

  "Relax?" He frowned and brushed a stray tendril from her face. The featherlight touch of his fingers against her temple sent warmth tingling down her face, neck and shoulder—all the way to the pit of her stomach. "You, the insatiable sex queen … not on the prowl? And here I thought you craved excitement."

  The faintest, silkiest thread of sarcasm in his voice set her teeth on edge. Why did he persist in his obstinate refusal to believe in her depravity? "I do," she swore. "It makes me feel alive."

  His gaze lingered on her eyes, her hair, her mouth. "Then prove it to me. Make a believer of me, Jen. As soon as the lights go down."

  * * *

  6

  « ^ »

  She didn't immediately reply to his challenge. She turned to the menu as a diversion, and when their jovial, auburn-haired waitress with a rural Georgia twang announced the specials of the evening, Jennifer took her time ordering. She then fell silent, while they waited to be served. Avoiding Trev's gaze by peering down at the bustling dining room, she hoped he would think she was deliberately keeping him in suspense, rather than guess the truth—that she was utterly torn on how to resp
ond.

  What exactly had he meant by his challenge? Should she take him up on it, or think of a reason not to?

  He didn't show any signs of anxiously awaiting her answer. And he didn't seem bothered by her silence. By the time the food arrived, she'd figured out why. He considered her lack of a reply an answer in itself. That answer was clearly the one he'd been expecting.

  He thought he'd called her bluff again.

  What she wouldn't give to shock that knowing look right off his too-handsome face! He was so cocksure that she hadn't done all those lurid things she'd described. It made no difference that he was right. She was a stranger to him, damn it. She'd slept with him for money. He had no grounds whatsoever to think she wasn't wildly promiscuous.

  She speared a forkful of Caesar salad and crunched down on a crouton in annoyance. Irking her, too, was the fact that he seemed willing to engage in illicit sex in a public place, where they could easily be caught. Maybe even arrested.

  What was he thinking? Or … was he that sure she'd turn him down?

  She simmered with resentment. He'd called her bluff one too many times. She couldn't allow him to do it again. What exactly did he have in mind, anyway? Her blood drummed at the possibilities. Wild, wicked possibilities. The erotic stories she'd told had opened a Pandora's box of possibilities. How far would Trev go?

  She could have the answer soon. Very soon.

  When the lights went down.

  Warmth suffused her at that thought, and she took a deep swallow of her chilled peach wine. He had to be bluffing. He wouldn't dare do anything too risky in a public place. He'd always been thrillingly bold in their lovemaking, yes, but in the privacy of their home, or a hotel room or sometimes his car while parked in a secluded place. The Trev she'd known had been staunchly honorable, responsible and well-respected in the community—and a stickler for decent behavior from his brothers and sister under his care. He would do nothing that could ruin their family name.

  Perhaps she should call his bluff.

  Then again, she hadn't expected him to buy sex from a prostitute. Stealing a glance at him while he sliced off a bite of his T-bone steak, she had to admit that he wasn't the same man she'd married. He was somehow harder on the inside. Tougher. More cynical. And she was no longer the woman he loved. They really were, for all intents and purposes, strangers.

  What would he do if she took him up on his challenge?

  She set her fork aside, unable to eat another bite. As if taking his cue from her, he pushed aside the remainder of his steak and lounged back in his seat, nursing a glass of burgundy and watching her. His silent regard and palpable nearness heightened her tension.

  To escape his gaze, she peered down from their booth on the balcony at the crowded dining room below, where servers cleared away dishes from the tables and replenished drinks. The music had grown louder. Spotlights illuminated the red velvet curtains on stage. The lights would soon go down.

  Her pulse drummed in her throat. She had dressed for the role of wanton. She had studied for it, had told outrageous lies to convey the image of hopeless promiscuity.

  Prove it to me, Jen. Make a believer out of me.

  Obstinate man! He really did deserve to be put in his place.

  "Almost show time," he remarked, very near to her ear, a slight but self-satisfied smile in his voice.

  Oh, yes … he was certain that he had her pegged. She simply had to disabuse him of that notion. Keeping her gaze trained on the room below, she tipped her head close to his so he could catch a sultry whisper. "So, what did you have in mind for … Act One?"

  Silence answered her, as if she'd surprised him. But then she felt his touch at her nape—a slow, downward sweep of his fingers, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded husky and languid. "Like I told you before, I'm no playwright. I thought we'd make up the script as we went along." Her neck tingled from his light caress, and her cheek warmed from his breath. "Of course, I'd value any of your expert input."

  Only someone who knew Trev well would discern the wryness in that statement. She knew him well enough. She also knew the exact moves that would drive that wryness from his mind, along with all rational thought. With very little effort, she could light a match to his kindling. Fan his fire. Bring him to his knees.

  Oh, my, Jennifer. What are you thinking? You're letting yourself get carried away. It was true—and the very idea thrilled her. She'd been excruciatingly good for too long. For seven years, she'd lived in a prison of caution and fear, analyzing the wisdom of every move. She longed to break free, just this once, for a brief taste of wildness. With Trev—the only man she'd ever wanted. The only man she'd ever loved.

  "I don't know, Trev." Summoning her most sultry look, she turned a vampish gaze to him. "You're such a clean-cut, upstanding citizen. I wouldn't want to shock you."

  "Shock me?" He let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "Shock me?"

  She tilted her head judiciously and searched his face, as if contemplating the effect she might have on him. She really was beginning to enjoy the game. "You seemed upset by the confidences I shared with you earlier. You refused even to believe them. It's sweet, really. I'd hate to ruin that schoolboy innocence of yours."

  He stared at her in clear surprise.

  She mentally marked a point in her favor.

  But then he threw back his head and laughed. Not just a short, dry bark, or even a casual chuckle, but a deep, hardy laugh of genuine amusement. The sound of it embraced her like a heartfelt hug. It had been so long since she'd heard that particular laugh. And even though a sense of loss touched her, gladness buoyed her far above it—the pure, simple gladness of having elicited that laugh from him.

  And when his laughter wound down, he wrapped his arm around her and tugged her closer, his smile warm, his gaze playing appreciatively over her face. "Don't let my innocence stop you, Jen. Please. Go ahead and, uh, shock me."

  His gaze left no doubt that he was enjoying her. That he'd rather be with her than anyone else. That he saw into her very soul and found only delight. Ridiculous, of course, that she should read so much into a simple gaze. Ridiculous, how that gaze could make her fall in love all over again.

  Wanting to prolong the moment, to savor it and tuck it away in her heart, she ran her fingertip across his smiling lips. "But how can I be sure that when I overwhelm you with my wickedness, you won't moan too loud and get us caught?"

  Amusement still glinted in his gaze, but with the sweep of her finger across his mouth, sensuality also swirled into those amber eyes. "It's a definite risk. But then, isn't risk part of the excitement that makes you 'feel alive'?"

  He'd always been good at turning her own words against her. And she'd always rallied to the challenge. "Without a doubt." Luxuriating in the freedom to touch him, tease him, she ran her hand through his thick, maple-brown hair, her fingertips lightly skimming his scalp, exactly the way he most enjoyed. "There's just something about living on the edge that turns me on."

  Even while she talked nonsense, though, she couldn't help wondering what the most wanton woman could possibly do in a restaurant booth, where a waitress could stroll by at any minute.

  Before any solid ideas presented themselves, the lights began to slowly dim. She'd expected as much, of course. Knew that darkness would claim the entire massive room. The onset of it jolted her, anyway. Darkness had a way of wrapping a hand around her vital organs and squeezing.

  Blackness soon blocked her view of the dining room below, leaving a frightening black hole between her and the spotlights blazing across the red stage curtains. Pressing close to Trev, she sought his warmth and solid presence. Without hesitation, he drew her into his arms. Gradually her eyes adjusted, helped by the faint, hazy glow of tiny floor lights that bordered the staircase and the walkway behind them. It was enough to calm her.

  Wondering what he'd thought of her sudden move into his arms, she lifted her head from his chest and peered up at him. He stared back at her with potent heat, and need, and
clear, strong reluctance to let her go. His gaze alone stirred embers in her blood, drugged her with sensuality, pushed her ever closer to recklessness.

  She barely noticed that in the room below, the stage curtains had swept open, or that the audience responded with applause. She wanted to feel his hands on her. Wanted to taste his kiss.

  As if reading her mind, he swept his hand up and down her back, beneath her blazer, where his heat radiated through the sheer fabric of her dress. His stirring caress pressed her body harder against his, and after a long, hot-eyed stare, he slanted his mouth over hers and led her into a deep, rousing kiss.

  But the kiss was too moving, inciting too great a need within her. Too great a vulnerability. When he kissed her like this, she was his. Entirely his. He filled up her soul completely. As much as she wanted such oneness with him, her survival instinct wouldn't allow it, and she pulled away in alarm.

  With long, hard breaths and converging brows, he searched her face for an explanation.

  She knew she had to collect her wits and keep in mind the game they were playing. What self-respecting wanton would shy away from a mere kiss? Forcing a smile, she tapped a finger against his chest and strove for lightness. "I'm writing the script here, not you."

  He frowned as if he'd forgotten the nonsense they'd been talking and needed a moment to make sense of her retort. In the room below them, actors' voices rang out from a homey living room on stage, and a chuckle rose from the audience. Neither Trev nor Jennifer paid the tableau on stage more than a passing glance.

  "Pardon me for ad-libbing," Trev finally replied. "Open the curtains whenever you're ready, Jen. I'm dying to see the performance."

  Though spoken in a voice hoarse with desire, the words were clearly a taunt. She was glad. She could handle a taunt much easier than she could hold herself aloof when he kissed her. She decided then and there to make quick work of this challenge, to consider it a job that needed to be done. Or, at best, recreational sex. Not intimacy. Not an expression of what she felt for him. She would, in fact, become the shallow-hearted wanton she pretended to be.