Sara’s eyes widened. “No way could I do a big assignment like this one. Besides, I’m really happiest behind the camera.” She ran her hand over the gown, caressing the beaded work, then carefully hung it up.
Liana pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top and breathed a sigh of relief at the cool comfort of the outfit. “Clay has done layouts with you before, hasn't he?”
“Only small stuff. Nothing on this scale. Are you going back to the hotel now?”
She should get off her knee for a while, Liana thought, but the prospect of an empty room was unappealing, and the beauty of the grounds was pulling at her. “I think IH take a short walk. I’m a little stiff, and the exercise will feel good.”
Sara laughed quietly. “Exercise never feels good. A hot bath is more my speed and that's just where I'm heading. Maybe IH even be able to catch a nap before dinner. Have you heard? We have to dress for dinner.”
Liana smiled. “Yes, I did hear that.”
“But do you know why?” Sara asked as they left the tent.
“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. Why?”
“This is SwanSea.”
“What?”
“I asked one of the very dignified employees why we had to dress for dinner, and I was told with extreme politeness that this is SwanSea.” She grinned, then shrugged. “See you later.”
Liana ended up at the gazebo that stood on the windswept point overlooking the sea. The gazebo was made of iron bent in fluid arabesques. A fresh coat of white paint and new green and blue cotton ducking covers for the bench cushions made it a lovely retreat, but Liana thought she sensed an air of sadness and loneliness about the gazebo.
She rested a knee on the cushion and leaned against the railing, reflecting that she didn’t mind the strange atmosphere. Sadness and loneliness were emotions with which she was all too familiar. She was used to being by herself; she had long ago made the conscious decision not to get too close to anyone. And it had been years since she’d thought of the irony that one of the most visible women of the decade was also one of the most isolated.
The money she earned modeling gave her security. The sense that she earned her money through hard work gave her satisfaction. But she accepted only the assignments she wanted, and arranged her schedule to suit herself. And when she reached the point where the feel of people’s hands on her was just beginning to penetrate through her mind block, she’d retreat to the countryside of France where she had a cottage and no one but Jean-Paul Savion had the address.
Her success had ensured her freedom from people and their demands; it was the main reason why her career was so important to her.
“You know what I remember most about your legs?”
She spun at the sound of Richard’s voice, her heart beating wildly. He wore an icy blue shirt paired with taupe-colored slacks, and she’d never seen him look more virile and attractive. Or more dangerous.
He raked his gaze up the long length of her bare legs. “I remember how they seemed to go on forever,” he continued, “and how tightly they gripped my waist when we made love. And when you climaxed—”
“Shut up, Richard.’’
His smile seemed almost genuine, she thought with a distant part of her mind, but she knew better. A smile was an indication of friendliness or affection. He felt neither of those things for her.
“You always did look nice in shorts,” he said. “But then you’ve got the kind of body that shows off clothes to their best advantage. Still, I always liked you better without—”
“Shut up, Richard.”
He bounded up the steps into the gazebo. Before she had time to prepare herself, he was beside her. Suddenly she felt trapped, as if there were no place for her to run. In fact, all she had to do was step around him and leave. She started to, but the sudden softness of his voice stopped her.
“Relax, Liana. Words can’t hurt, you know. Not unless the person at whom they’re directed cares, and you certainly don’t.” He waited a heartbeat, then asked in an even softer voice, “Do you?”
“No, of course not. ”
“No, I didn’t think so. ” His gaze dropped to the bandage wrapped around her knee. “How is it?” “Fine.”
“Have you applied more antibiotic cream and changed the bandage as the doctor told you to?” “Not yet.”
“But you will, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
He threw a quick glance around the gazebo. “What are you doing here?”
She had been on the verge of leaving again, but this time it was the puzzlement in his voice that stopped her. “You mean at SwanSea?”
“No. What are you doing here in the gazebo? You’re all alone. The sun is about to set; it will be dark soon, not to mention cooler.” He waved his hand toward her. “And all you’re wearing is that skimpy outfit.”
There were reasons for everything he mentioned, but she chose to tell him only one. “I love the sea. I have ever since the first time I saw it.”
He drew closer. “When was that?”
She took a step away. “I guess the first time was when my father took my mother and me on a vacation to California.” As always when she thought of her father, conflicting emotions besieged her. Unconsciously she stiffened her spine. “At any rate, I don’t suppose it’s so unusual for a girl who grew up in Des Moines, Iowa, to love the sea.” “No, I don’t suppose it’s so unusual.”
His stare was analytical, his voice low-key, yet the friction in the air was palpable. She had the feeling that if she threw a match into the air between them, it would burst into flame spontaneously.
“It was always hard for me to picture you being from Des Moines,” he said after a moment. “You’re much too exotic.”
“Des Moines was a wonderful place to grow up,” she said, automatically defensive, though not directly answering him.
“But you left.”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t have gotten as far as I have in modeling if I’d stayed there. Pictures and spreads from my local modeling went to New York. Then my portfolio appealed to several designers in Paris. As luck would have it, one of the designers chose me for a runway show before any New York clients could line me up. The job in Paris was a gold-plated opportunity, and I took it. ” She’d had to. She’d been desperate for the money.
“I guess that pretty much must be the story of your life, right? Taking opportunities—no matter who gets hurt.” He paused. “Or was I the only one you stepped on as you climbed your way to the top?”
“I have to go.”
His hand encircled her arm as she moved past him. It was the contact of his hand on her skin more them his grip that halted her in her tracks. She gasped at the heat, at the hurt.
He released her immediately. “I didn’t grab you that hard.”
Silently, with an instinctive need to soothe, she rubbed her arm where he had touched.
Frowning, he moved a few steps away. After another puzzled glance at her, he fixed his gaze on the horizon. “So what’s it like to have the world’s greatest designers create one-of-a-kind gowns for you?"
“The gowns weren’t designed for me,” she said, happier about speaking of something that didn’t affect her emotionally. “They were designed for SwanSea. Each designer was inspired by an aspect of SwanSea, whether it was a color, a texture, a pattern, or, with some, even just a feeling. Then they created a gown that would complement that aspect or conjure up the feeling that had inspired them.”
“Maybe. At least that’s what the press release said. But when they designed the gowns, they knew you were the model who would be wearing them. I’m willing to bet that a large portion of their inspiration came from you.”
“The gowns aren’t for me,” she repeated firmly. “Any model could wear them. And they’re to be auctioned off at the end of this two-week opening celebration. The proceeds will go to charity.”
“Still, the ones I’ve seen you in so far look as if they’d been made solely for you
. Especially the teal gown you were wearing last evening.”
“You've seen me in other gowns? You saw me modeling today?” How could she have been unaware of him watching her? she wondered, disturbed at the thought.
“I caught an occasional glimpse of you here and there. It was hard not to. You seemed to be everywhere. ”
“I only remember three locations.”
“Whatever,” he said in a tone that expressed boredom with the subject, then took her by surprise by abruptly turning toward her. “Has it been worth it, Liana? Doing everything you’ve had to do to achieve your success?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, understanding that they were talking about two different things, but also understanding that it would make no difference if he knew. She’d left a deep scar in him. She was well acquainted with scars. She had her own to deal with.
Suddenly the imaginary match lit.
He reached out and grasped her face between the long fingers of his hand. “This face,” he muttered. “This damnably beautiful face.”
Her fragile shield of composure disintegrated with his touch, and in its place, a treacherous need sprang up, softening the urge to recoil and run. “It’s ugly,” she whispered.
“Yeah.” He burst out with a hard laugh. “So ugly its image is permanently burned on the inside of the brain of every man who’s ever seen it.” He stepped closer, his body brushing against hers, and her nerves reacted, coming alive, crackling with pleasure and pain. “You're exaggerating. There’s nothing remotely attractive about me. My hair is board straight.”
“It’s thick, and silky, and just the right length to wind around a man’s body.”
Something molten and debilitating coiled through her. “My lips are too big—”
“They’re full and sensuous and make a man fantasize about what it would be like to have his lips sealed to them for about a month.”
“You’re wrong.” She stopped, cleared an obstruction from her dry throat, and tried again. “My eyebrows feather instead of going in a straight line.”
“They make a man wonder if there’s something not quite tame beneath that perfect control you project.”
Somehow she managed to continue to draw air into her lungs, but the air seared her insides like a desert wind, leaving her struggling for breath. Frantically she searched for something else to say. “My eyes are an odd color and too far apart.” “They’re arresting and impossible to look away from.”
“My jaw is too strong.”
“Yeah, but look how well it fits into my hand.”
“My skin—”
“Catches all available light. I’m sure Savion has told you it’s what makes you a dream to photograph. I’m sure he’s also told you that your skin is so soft, stroking it makes a fire start in his belly. And, honey, I bet he strokes you a lot. He’d have to be crazy not to.”
His thumb and finger had begun to rub her jaw, and as he spoke, they worked up to her cheeks, pressing harder and harder until it seemed as if he were trying to scrub something off her skin. She wasn’t sure he was aware of the pressure he was exerting, but she was very aware she would be in serious trouble if she couldn’t regain command of her emotions.
She tried to imagine that the two of them were doing a layout for sportswear or perfume, that he was a model with whom she was merely posing. It didn’t work. Not at all.
“Your face,” he whispered fiercely. “Your mouth, your eyes, your skin. Your damned sexy body.”
“Richard ...” The ruthlessness of his expression frightened her, excited her.
“It’s all right,” he muttered. “I’m immune.”
And then he brought his mouth down hard on hers, and it was just as she had known all along. She couldn’t block him out.
Kissing him again after all this time was like drowning. She felt as if a force were pulling her down, down, to somewhere deep and dark, where there was no escape. The force was Richard. She wasn’t sure of the place. She wasn’t sure if she cared.
She should fight, she thought hazily. There were reasons why she shouldn’t be melting against him like she was. There were reasons why she should push against him and break away. He hated her. He wanted to hurt, then destroy her.
But what he didn’t know was that she couldn’t be hurt any more. She was all filled up with pain. And she’d destroyed herself eleven years ago when she’d walked out on him. Her career might be a success, but she was a complete and total failure. As a person. As a woman.
Nevertheless, she should fight.
His lips found the indentation behind her earlobe, and he brushed his tongue down the groove that ran behind her ear and partway down the side of her throat. A moan escaped her; a thrill shivered through her. Oh, Lord, he had remembered. She was very sure he’d had many women since their weeks together in Paris, yet he had remembered that one secret, special spot. He wasn’t playing fair.
She should definitely fight.
But being in his arms after all these years overrode everything. The pleasure was simply too intense. All of her protective layers were peeling away one by one.
He made little sucking motions up her neck, tasting her, deliberately arousing her, and he had the satisfaction of feeling her go limp in his arms. At least in this one thing she hadn’t changed. And neither had he, he thought angrily, as he felt himself grow hard with desire.
He slipped his hand beneath the tank top, and closed his hand around her breast. A shudder ripped through him. The Jeel of her hadn’t changed either. As was true so long ago, her breast more than filled his hand. He’d always found something terribly erotic in the fact that she was so soft, yet so firm. And the way her nipples grew tight and stiff made him bum with an overpowering hunger.
In the past eleven years, he’d found no woman as intriguing, no woman nearly as satisfying. Liana was unique. And he wanted to break her neck because of it.
He caressed her roughly, but she was like a person deprived for too long of the essential elements of life. Nothing was too much. She wanted more and then more still. And so when he lowered her to her back on the softly cushioned bench she made no protest. And when he bent to pull her nipple into his mouth, she could only throw her head back at the ecstasy of the sensations that coursed through her.
“Richard, oh, Richard ...”
“Yes,” he said raggedly, his mouth wet on her breast. “Call my name. Make me think you want me.”
“I do,” she cried. “Oh, Lord, I do.”
Ravenously he tugged at her nipple. The fact that he used neither gentleness nor care only heightened the intensity of the act and drew both of them toward the point where everything but the ecstasy would disappear. He switched his attention to the other breast. Half over her, he felt her hips lift. She’d probably done this sort of thing so often, it was second nature to her, he reflected, bitterness welling up in him. He wedged his knee between her legs and pushed upward. The sound that was ripped from her triggered a response in his mind, his heart, his gut.
His body blazed with passion, but his mind dispassionately sought caution.
He was a man torn, a man possessed. A man driven to have this one woman.
A man with a solitary unanswered question.
“You still respond like a woman who’s giving herself totally to a man,” he said roughly. "Are you, Liana? Are you willing to give yourself totally to me?”
His voice sounded as if he were far away from her, she thought, but that couldn’t be. His weight was pressing her into the cushions, his body heat was burning through her clothes to her skin. “Yes.”
He laved his tongue around a nipple. “You’re lying.”
She felt feverish, achy, and wasn’t sure she had understood him correctly. “What?”
He nipped at her and heard her tiny cry. The roar of the ocean mixed with his heartbeat and thundered in his ears. She was like a siren, trying to lure him to his destruction with a bewitching sweetness and an insidious seductiveness.
&
nbsp; The thing was, he’d been to hell and back and lived to tell about it. There was absolutely nothing she could do to him.
He told himself this, and he believed it.
He shoved his hand beneath the hem of her shorts and the elastic edge of her panties until he found the moist warmth he was seeking. He almost lost control then, and for a moment, he forgot what he had been about to say. He plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, and lower, his fingers imitated the motion of his tongue.
The memory of what it was like to be inside her came rushing back, and he was gripped by a heat and need so intense, it seemed his life would be threatened, making him the liar.
“I want you,” she whispered against his ear, forgetting time, place, and reason. “I want you so badly.”
He drew a deep painful breath and tried to clear his head. Passion had never been their problem. Apparently it still wasn’t. She could turn him on like no one else. But . . .
He jerked his hand from her shorts. Their faces were so close, their ragged breaths intermingled, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy looking at the desire in her eyes.
“I could take you, couldn’t I? Couldn’t I, Liana?” he said louder. “Right here. Right now."
“Yes,” she said on a sob and turned her head away.
Her answer fanned the flames inside him until he wasn’t sure he could control them. But he had to reject her. It was the smart thing to do. “I was twenty-nine when we met. I’d had my share of women, but you were the hottest I’d ever had. I thought you were the most incredible thing that had ever happened to me. When I wasn’t making love to you, I was thinking how lucky I was.”
As he watched, her passion slowly faded to be replaced by bewilderment. And with the cooling of her passion, he felt stronger. Still, he couldn’t quite make himself move away from her. “You were so sweet,” he said, the memory thickening his voice in spite of his intentions. “I couldn’t get enough of you. If there’d been some way to take you intravenously, I would have done it. What a high—a constant stream of you, pumping through my veins. If we’d stayed together long enough, I might have found a way.” Abruptly he pushed away from her and sat up. “I guess I should really thank you. You saved me from becoming addicted to you.”
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