John was gone.
Pushing her hair from her face, she rolled onto her back, tucked the covers securely around her, then felt the sheets on the opposite side of the bed. Even under the blankets, they were cold. Other than the crinkled plastic packets on the opposite nightstand—three of them, she thought, her amazement tempered only slightly by shame—there didn’t seem to be any sign that anyone else had ever been there.
She sighed softly. In a way, it had been sweet of him to make his exit while she was asleep. After all, waking up for the first time with someone you knew wasn’t always easy; she imagined it could be pretty darn uncomfortable with a stranger. So he had saved her from the awkwardness of dealing with him in the bright morning light—of dealing with the morning-after regrets. Right now he was probably home, showering, getting dressed for work, likely giving no thought at all to her.
Which was exactly what she should be doing. Simon was expecting her downstairs for breakfast, and she—
Rolling over, she snatched up the clock, then swore aloud. Simon was expecting her at seven o’clock, and she had forgotten to reset the alarm last night. It was already seven-forty-five.
Throwing back the covers, she got quickly to her feet, allowing only a moment to wince at her body’s soreness. She’d been so long without passion in her life that she’d forgotten the residual aches and pains that could accompany it. The discomfort was shameful, because she hadn’t even known the man, and wicked, because she had certainly enjoyed learning the few things she did know about him.
It was also bittersweet, because she would never have such an experience again. Once she returned home to Richmond, she would go back to being the same old Teryl, the one who still, in spite of last night’s pleasure, believed her mother’s teachings about sex, that bad girls did and good girls didn’t. D.J. had been bad since she was fifteen and couldn’t imagine any other way to be, but Teryl had always been good—good enough, D.J. had always gently taunted her, for both of them.
But just this once, she thought with a self-satisfied grin, she had been the bad one.
And it had been very, very good.
She adjusted the thermostat as she passed it, then went into the bathroom. It was empty, confirming her suspicion that John had been long gone. She wondered when he had left, it he had lain with her most of the night or if he had simply waited for her to fall asleep before he made his exit. She would have liked to say good-bye, she thought wistfully. She would have liked one more kiss, one more appreciative look from those hazy blue eyes of his.
She would have liked to thank him.
Quickly she brushed her teeth, then dressed in one of her two remaining outfits, a sundress that was light and cool. It was long enough that she needn’t worry about hose, bright enough that for a quick trip downstairs she didn’t have to bother with makeup to put color in her face. She would find Simon, she planned as she slipped into a pair of sandals, and apologize profusely for missing their breakfast date. She would see him off to the airport, then come back up, shower, and head off to explore the city again.
She intended to play the I-can’t-believe-I’m-actually-here tourist role to the hilt. She was going to ride the St. Charles streetcar, gawk at the beautiful houses in the Garden District, take a buggy ride around the French Quarter, eat beignets at the Café du Monde, and walk until she could walk no more. After sitting by the river to regain her strength, she would venture out again, would eat too much and listen to the musicians in Jackson Square, watch the street performers and shop for souvenirs.
Then tonight, like Cinderella, her magical time would end. At nine o’clock she would board a plane bound for Virginia, and tomorrow morning she would be plain Teryl Weaver again. She would go to work every day, meet friends for lunch, and spend most evenings home alone. She would occasionally wonder why there were no men in her life, and when one did eventually come along, she would wonder why she had wanted him in the first place.
But, she thought with a melodramatic sigh, she would always have New Orleans.
And one wicked night with John.
Sliding her room key into her pocket, she left, taking the elevator to the lobby. It was a cavernous place, the marble floor softened by Oriental rugs, the high ceiling decorated with ornately carved moldings and medallions, and the walls painted with thirty-foot-tall murals depicting scenes from the city’s history. Lush plantings created small islands of privacy for the sofas and chairs scattered about, and the babble of water from a central fountain served to mute the sounds of guests coming and going.
She was passing the massive marble registration desk when she heard her name. Turning, she found the man she was looking for standing beside one of the free-form beds that provided the lobby with its rich, earthy scent. With the fronds of a fern providing the perfect backdrop for his bright-patterned shirt and faded khaki trousers, he looked more at home, she thought, than he had anyplace else since arriving in the city. He looked more at ease. More handsome.
Less threatening.
She approached him, her apology bubbling over before she reached him. “Simon, I’m so sorry about this morning. I forgot to set the alarm last night, so I overslept. I’m really very sorry. You should’ve called and awakened me instead of waiting.”
“It’s all right. We barely missed you.”
His expression, as close as it had come to friendly since they’d met, didn’t waver with his last words, which somehow served to make his barb a little sharper. Holding her head a little higher, she smiled coolly. “I’m glad I didn’t inconvenience you, but I do apologize. So… what did you think of your first foray into the world as Simon Tremont?”
“It’s been an experience.”
“A pleasant one?”
“For the most part, yes.”
“You know, what you talked about in the interview yesterday will come true. People will recognize you wherever you go. Fans will want your autograph. Your life is bound to change significantly. Are you prepared for that?”
His direct blue gaze locked with hers, making her feel once again like an insect under observation. “I’ve been preparing for that for eleven years,” he said with a quiet, and not entirely pleasant, intensity. “I’ve lived and worked in obscurity, Teryl. The time has come to accept the recognition that’s rightfully mine. I’ve earned it.” Before she could think of a response to that, he continued in a more normal tone. “I understand you’re staying over in the city.”
“Only until this evening. I want to see everything I can. I may never get the chance to come back.” Glancing around the lobby, she saw Sheila at the cashier’s end of the registration desk. Any moment now the other woman would finish and would join them, offering her a totally disinterested farewell and hustling Simon outside to the limo that was probably already waiting.
It pained Teryl to admit that she wouldn’t be sorry to see them go.
“You must have spent a lot of time here,” she remarked, watching as Sheila and the clerk apparently debated some charge on the bill.
“Why do you say that?”
Her gaze shifted back to him. Her first thought was that he must be joking, but his expression proved her wrong. He was asking the question in all seriousness, and, for a moment, all she could do in response was shrug awkwardly. “The books. The Thibodeaux books.” The five books that had won him throngs of fans. The five books that, more than anything else, had stirred her interest in New Orleans. The five books that had been the reason for making his public debut here.
He shrugged, too, brushing off the books as inconsequential. “You can learn an awful lot about a place without ever going there, Teryl.”
“But you captured the city so perfectly—the atmosphere, the feel, the flavor.”
“Do you think a writer has to experience something to write knowledgeably about it? That a romance author writes all those love scenes from her own personal experiences? That a mystery author has to commit a murder to be able to describe one? That a science fiction auth
or has to interact with aliens—” He let his question trail off, then shrugged again before continuing in a condescending tone. “It’s imagination, understanding, attention to detail, and a way with words. It’s called talent, Teryl. I travel some, but most of my research is done at home. I watch travelogues and read travel magazines. I get specific information from local tourism offices. Talent takes care of the rest.”
Another disappointment, Teryl thought, even though her expression didn’t reveal it. Each of his books was so intense and so well done that she’d always read them with a mental image of Simon in the places where his stories unfolded. She had just known that he had lived for a time on the same rugged Maine coast where the protagonist of his first book had lived, that he was intimately familiar with the stately old mansion in the Florida Keys that dominated his third book, that he knew every inch of the Georgia swamp covered by the characters in his sixth book.
And she was wrong. As D.J. had predicted, another illusion was lost.
When Teryl had first found out that she was being included in this trip, her friend—ever more sensible, always more cynical—had tried to warn her that she was setting herself up for disappointment in a major way. Simon Tremont was just a man, she had lectured, and New Orleans was just a city. It was unlikely that either one could live up to Teryl’s sky-high expectations. In D.J.’s opinion, she had romanticized the hell out of both of them, had built up their virtues and denied them their flaws, and she was going to find reality one hell of a disappointment.
At the time, Teryl had argued the point. She was realistic. She knew Simon had flaws, and she knew that the grace and elegance, the history and the romance and the exotica, of New Orleans were balanced by the seamier side intrinsic to any big city.
So she’d been half-wrong. She hadn’t been prepared to allow Simon his flaws. She had wanted him to be exactly as she had imagined him for eleven years, and he wasn’t. He wasn’t even close.
But she had also been half-right. The city, at least, was everything she could have asked for and more.
“So, Teryl, you finally made it,” Sheila said in greeting as she and her assistant joined them. “Have a late night?”
“I overslept,” she replied unnecessarily.
“Overindulging can make you do that,” Simon responded, his tone mild, his expression smug. As if he knew—not suspected, but knew—what she had done last night.
For a brief moment Teryl met his gaze. Controlling a shiver of uneasiness, she evenly asked, “What makes you say that?”
“This is N’Awlins, darlin’,” he replied in a creditable imitation of a Cajun accent. “Overindulging is a way of life down here.”
And had he learned that from a book? she wondered cynically.
“We’d better be going.” Sheila gestured toward the entrance, and her assistant left, most likely, Teryl thought, to summon the limo right up to the door. After the woman disappeared, Sheila extended her hand. “At least you weren’t a problem,” she said brusquely, giving Teryl’s hand a quick squeeze.
“From anyone else I would think that was rude,” Teryl said. “Coming from you, I’ll take it as a compliment. Have a good flight. Simon.” She didn’t intend to shake hands with him, but he had other ideas.
Holding her hand firmly between both of his, he offered her a smooth smile. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me. I’m sure I’ll be talking to you sometime.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around. After all, I’m going to be famous.” He gave her a mocking smile, then lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. When he released her a moment later, he walked away without a backward glance.
Teryl remained where she was, watching through the glass doors as the limo glided to a stop and the doorman hurried over to open the rear door. His bearing imperious in spite of that damned silly tropical shirt and the rumpled pants, Simon climbed in as if he were well accustomed to such luxury, then disappeared from sight behind the heavily tinted windows.
“It’s nothing that a bar of soap and some hot water won’t wash away.”
The voice came from behind her and sent a shiver of recognition up her spine before she turned around. Leaning against a pillar there, hands shoved in his pockets and most definitely a sight to behold, was John.
She had a number of expectations regarding last night’s brief encounter: regret, embarrassment, guilt, even—the use of condoms notwithstanding—a little worry about safe sex and pregnancy. But she hadn’t expected, after awaking alone, to see John again.
And she hadn’t expected such pure, simple pleasure at the sight of him.
She moved a few steps toward him before stopping. “What was that about a bar of soap?”
He nodded downward, and she followed his gaze to her hands. The fingers of her left hand were rubbing hard at the back of her right hand, as if she could erase the fact of Simon’s kiss, as if she could wipe away the feel of his touch. Flushing, she pushed her hands into her pockets. “I didn’t think…” That she would ever see him again. Obviously, she’d been wrong, she thought, feeling again an intense rush of pleasure. Here he was, handsome, sexy, and waiting for her.
“So the great Tremont is on his way back to… Where is home these days?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it and smiled wryly. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I figure it never hurts to ask. Sometimes you don’t get an answer, but sometimes…” The look he gave her left no doubt what he was thinking as he softly finished, “Sometimes you get lucky.”
Like last night. She had sure as hell gotten lucky last night. She was flattered that he felt the same way.
Before she could find words to respond, he went on. “What are your plans for the day?”
“Sight-seeing.”
“Anything in particular you want to see?”
She answered with a shrug and a grin. “Everything I can cram into the next twelve hours or so.”
“Want an expert tour guide?”
Just as she’d done yesterday when he’d offered to accompany her to the Quarter, she hesitated, momentarily considering the wisdom of going off with a stranger, and then, just as she’d done yesterday, she dismissed any reason for concern. After all, after last night, he wasn’t exactly a stranger. Not anymore. “I’d like that, if you’re sure you can spare the time.”
“I have all day.” Moving away from the pillar, he came to stand in front of her, very close, and raised one hand to smooth a tucked and pleated strap on her sundress that was already perfectly smooth. She knew the action was deliberate, allowing him to touch her in a manner that was both circumspect and intimate, his intention to remind her of what had passed between them last night. But she carried all the reminders she needed: the memories, the utter satisfaction, and the stiffness of a well-used—and appreciative—body.
Resisting the urge to lay her hand over his, to guide it lower, to do something bold and brash and potentially embarrassing, she cleared her throat and took one step back, placing a little breathing room between them. “I’d like the company,” she murmured. “Just give me time to change, pack, and check out so I won’t have to come back later this morning.”
“Good idea. We’ll leave your bags in my truck; then I can take you straight to the airport when it’s time.”
She nodded her agreement; then, on impulse, she asked, “Do you want to come up to the room?”
For a time, he remained silent, his gaze directed at the murals high above the lobby. Finally, with an awkward glance, he shook his head. “I’ll wait here.”
Nodding again, she gave him a regretful smile, then started toward the elevator. Before she turned away, though, she thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Real? she wondered. Or merely her own disappointment reflected back at her?
John watched until she stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed, blocking her from sight, and then he squeezed his eyes shut and swore silently, vic
iously. Why hadn’t she turned down his offer to spend the day with her? Why was she making this so easy for him? Last night should have taught her a lesson, should have taught her that he wasn’t to be trusted. He had offered to show her the Quarter, but she’d seen little enough of it and all too much of him. If she were a sensible woman, if she would let go for one moment of the image of New Orleans as an exotic, romantic adventure to be experienced to the fullest, she would have told him thanks but no thanks and run the other way. Back home in Richmond, no doubt she was eminently sensible. Here in New Orleans, no doubt she was living for the moment.
Before the morning was over, she was going to regret it.
When she had awakened alone this morning, she had thought she would never see him again. That was what she’d started to say a moment ago: I didn’t think… It had been in her eyes, too expressive by far. She had thought that he’d gotten what he wanted—easy sex—and walked out of her life. It would have been better for her if he had.
He’d left her last night for a number of reasons—so he could move from his hotel into hers, so he could have the peace and privacy necessary to plan his next move, so he wouldn’t be distracted by the sweet temptation of her body, and so he could surprise her this morning. Obviously, he had.
Just as she had surprised him. Do you want to come up to the room? Jesus, yes, he had wanted to go, still wanted to go. He wanted to lock the door behind them and pull back the curtains and watch her undress in the warm morning light. He wanted to lay her down in the sunlight, wanted to bury himself inside her as he had last night, only this time he wanted more than merely to feel. He wanted to see. He wanted to see her eyes widen when he pushed into her, wanted to watch her nipples harden as he stroked them. He wanted to see her muscles quiver when he moved inside her. He wanted to see her body grow tight and hard in that moment before she came, and he wanted to see it soften afterward.
Passion Page 5