by Ann Cristy
"I'm sorry, little one, I thought you'd changed. I'll be on deck—"
"Don't go, Damon." Zen whirled around to face him, and his eyes riveted at once on her breasts. Instead of hiding herself, she took a deep breath and pushed her shoulders back, wanting him to keep looking at her. She had been repelled by the thought of other men touching her...but she ached for Damon's caress.
"Zen..." Damon cleared his throat, his voice taut with tension.
"I want you, Damon. Is that so very bad?" she had said in a low voice.
"No, my angel. But you're so young. We'll wait a couple of years."
"Years?" Zen had wailed, catapulting herself across the cabin and against his bare chest. "I don't want to wait. You'll grow tired of me and want someone else."
"Not a chance," Damon had whispered, his body curving protectively over hers, his hands coming up to clutch her bare waist.
His mouth brushed her hair, and she lifted her face for his kiss.
Instead, he had lifted her off the floor and said against her mouth, "Love, are you sure? I can't.. .I won't—"
"I want you to love me, Damon."
"Dear God, you're a child... but I must have you," he murmured, his hands pressing her lips tightly against him, still holding her high off the floor.
"I love being so tall." Zen giggled, biting his chin, licking his cheek.
"Do you, darling?" Damon's voice was rough. "And I love it when you taste me."
"Oh, Damon, I want to keep you," she had whispered, moving restlessly in his arms.
"Yes, my little one..." He stripped the bikini bottom from her and carried her to the larger forward cabin, where he placed her on the king-sized bed. He stood back, and his eyes roved hotly over her naked body. "Your skin...and hair...your lovely breasts. I'll be gentle, my little one."
And he had been, loving her with his mouth and hands until she was on fire for him. She hardly felt the moment of discomfort when he penetrated her fully.
"Damon!" she had called out to him, her back arching as wave upon wave of love filled her and overflowed.
"Yes, my little one, I'm here." He had chuckled as he held her close. "My little voluptuary, I'm here with you."
She stayed with him through the night. It had frightened yet exalted her to know that Damon couldn't seem to get enough of her.
That summer they were together every minute...
Zen shook herself from her reverie, blinking at the Manhattan traffic.
"Even at twenty-five you were tricky. When I thought you were mine, you left me. Turn here and go up Park," Damon instructed.
"Me? Tricky? As I recall, you intimated that I would be the only woman in your life. Well, what do you call Cherry Crawford... not to mention other women associated with you in the tabloids?"
"You walked out on me, Xenobia Driscoll Aristides. You'll never do that again."
Zen's temper flared. "Are you threatening me?"
"If that's what it takes to keep you by my side, yes, I'm threatening you."
"You damn well can't threaten me," Zen said, fuming. She turned into the underground garage, anger making her just careless enough to come a hair too close to a cement column and scraping the side of the Ferrari.
"Xenobia..." Damon straightened in his seat and turned to glare at her. "What the hell are you doing to my car?"
"You are a most nerve-wracking man. I was doing fine until you began needling me." Zen bit her lip in remorse as she parked the car.
Damon flung open his door and stood there staring at the scratch. "Do you have any idea what it will cost to repair this?"
"Damon, I'm sorry. I'll pay for it." Zen struggled to unfasten her seat belt and climbed out of the car. "It was an accident."
"It's always an accident with you. I suppose I should be glad that you didn't ram us into a truck." Damon reeled ever so slightly as he reached for her.
Caught between laughter and chagrin, Zen pushed him away and whirled toward the elevator. The doors opened, she stepped in, and the doors closed before Damon reached her.
"Hey, wait—"
Damon's words were cut off as she was whisked upward at heart-stopping speed.
The elevator opened on a small foyer with two doors. One of the doors opened and a man with a mustache glanced out. She went to the other door and pushed her key into the lock. It wouldn't turn. The man stared at her.
"Are you a friend of the Winthrops?" he asked coldly. "Who?"
"The Winthrops live in that apartment. Who are you?" "Well, then is that—"
Before Zen could say any more, the elevator doors opened and a grim-faced Damon stepped out.
"There you are," he said, then turned to the man in the doorway. "Hello, Aubrey. She made a mistake and got on the wrong elevator."
"It's okay. As usual, Aristides, your taste in women is quite good." The man shut his door.
Zen glared after him. "Twit," she called. "I'm not one of his live-ins. I'm his wife."
"Will you keep your voice down and get in this elevator before Aubrey reports us both for breaking and entering," Damon said.
"Let him try!" Zen lifted her chin and raised her fist to knock on Aubrey's door, but Damon reached out and pulled her into the elevator.
Not releasing her, he punched the button for the garage. "Don't you ever listen? I called out that it was the wrong one."
"You sound more sober now," Zen commented, then frowned. "How the blazes was I to know that each tenant has his own elevator? That's disgusting."
"It's a good safety feature. When you didn't put your key into the elevator and didn't press the red light, as an invited guest would have done, Aubrey knew you were unauthorized. That's why he met you at the door. He has an alarm button that he could have pressed instead of opening the door. But he has a predilection for beautiful women."
"Do you think so?"
Damon's brow furrowed. "Do I think what?" "Do you think I'm beautiful?"
"Yes." He led her out of the elevator and across the garage to another one. Inside, he punched the console. "That's been my problem for years. I think you're too damn beautiful."
Chapter 9
Zen stared at him as they stepped into a foyer that led directly into his apartment. Surprised at this, she forgot what she had been about to ask him. She walked farther into the circular foyer, admiring the royal blue Chinese carpet with a sundial pattern in soft beige. The sunburst at the center was located directly under a crystal chandelier. "This is a bit opulent, isn't it?" she asked.
Damon strode past her down two steps to an oblong room, the floor of which was also scattered with Chinese carpets, these in mandarin red with geometric details in jade green. Damon poured himself half a glass of whisky. "Don't tell me. You want me to sell the carpets and give the money to indigent actors from the Abbey Players."
"There are no indigent actors at the Abbey Players," Zen retorted. "They're so good they always have work."
"Bull. There are always out-of-work actors and writers." Damon took a long swallow.
"I don't think that will do your headache any good."
He glared at her. "I don't have a headache."
"Early hangover?" she quizzed, earning another glower.
"I'm going to take a shower." He strode across the room, then stopped. "You may use the shower in the master suite. I'll use the other one."
"I never imagined eating my wedding supper with a tipsy bridegroom," Zen called out. His back stiffened but he didn't pause. Zen went into the master suite.
"Why did I provoke him?" she asked herself as she took off her clothes and stepped into the shower stall. "I was baiting him."
She soaped her body then took the time to brush her hair so that it rippled past her shoulders in red-gold curls.
She removed the silk kaftan that had been purchased from Charine and shook it out of the tissue paper.
From the box of jewelry that had been Eleni's and their mother's and that Damon had insisted was now hers, she selected antique earring
s of topaz that swung like golden prisms against her cheeks. She stared at herself in the mirror. "Lord, you look as if you belong in a harem." From her dresser she took the vial of French perfume that Thag had ordered made especially for her. It was called Xenobia. She dabbed some on her neck and her wrists, ankles, and behind her knees.
Prepared for seduction, she crossed the short hall that led to the landing over the foyer and descended the curving stairs. Her Turkish slippers made only a whisper of sound as she entered the living room.
Damon was standing in front of the fireplace, a steaming mug in one hand, the other resting on the mantel. A burgundy silk robe was tied around his waist.
With great deliberation Zen stepped sideways until the light of a side lamp outlined her in the dimly lit room. Damon's shape was clearly etched by the flames in the fireplace, which cast odd shadows on his face, making him look like a demon from another world.
As Zen stepped forward, the swish of her kaftan brought his head up. In slow motion he turned, straightened, and looked her over from head to toe. "That's a very sexy outfit," he said at last, tipping the rest of whatever was in the mug down his throat.
"Charine suggested it." Zen coughed to clear her throat of its hoarseness.
"Did she? I must thank her." He moved a fraction of an inch closer. "You have such a tiny body, but so strong, so well made."
Zen's face warmed with embarrassment. "Damon, stop it. I feel as though your eyes might set my kaftan on fire." Her Turkish slippers seemed to be nailed to the floor.
Damon's laugh was harsh as he approached her, like a hunter who had trapped his quarry. "You're mine."
"And by the same token, you're mine," Zen replied boldly.
"Of course." They were face to face. Damon stood looking down at her without touching -her. He bent to kiss her, his lips moving over her mouth with gentle insistence. "I have a surprise for you," he murmured.
"Another one? You've been surprising me all day." Zen smiled, then caught her breath as a deep flush darkened his face. "I didn't mean your drinking," she tried to explain.
Damon waved his hand to silence her, then took her hand and pulled her toward the table. "Maria sent us some wedding cake. She will freeze the top layer for our first anniversary, but she arranged to have the second tier brought to us. This is Greek honey cake." Damon opened a bottle of champagne and poured Zen a glass, then poured coffee into his mug.
"I like coffee," Zen said lamely.
"Not Turkish coffee you don't." Damon gave a hard laugh at her grimace. "And I've had more than enough alcohol."
"Damon, I didn't mean what I said—" "What you said was the truth... and no woman deserves a drunk husband on her wedding night."
Zen accepted the piece of cake he cut for her and lifted it to his mouth. Damon backed warily away. Zen laughed and shook her head. "I'll be very careful," she promised.
"Just put down the knife before you feed me." Damon grabbed both her wrists to steady her, then opened his mouth and took the piece she offered. "Ummm, good." He swallowed, and his tongue came out to catch a crumb at the corner of his mouth.
Watching him, Zen felt as if her heart had fallen a hundred feet and bounced up again. She couldn't imagine any other man in the world having such beautiful lips, such a lovely nose, such mesmerizing eyes. She loved his chin, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Had anyone else ever had such cheekbones? Without thinking, she raised her hand to trace his face.
"That gown should be registered with the police as a dangerous weapon," Damon muttered, letting his fingers rest on the light-as-air fabric. "You haven't changed at all since you were twenty."
"Yes, I have." Zen's breath came rapidly, as if she'd just run up a mountain.
"Oh, no, you haven't. I remember. Will you be afraid to spoil it by having children?" Damon bent over her and batted the dangling topaz earrings with his nose.
"I don't consider the changes in a woman's body that are brought about by childbearing to be bad." Zen's eyes fluttered shut as his mouth traveled to her neck.
"Do I take it then that we will have lots of children?"
"But you haven't said that you want them—I mean more of them."
"Having my own child grow in you, Xenobia? Oh, yes, I want that. But only if you're able to give birth safely. That you must discuss with your doctor."
"You want me to ask my doctor if I'm healthy enough to have children?" Zen gave a breathless laugh. "That's silly." ■
"I'm serious, Zen. We won't start a family unless I know that you're capable of carrying one without possibly harming yourself." Damon's expression was utterly serious. "We already have two boys. If we can't have others, then they will be enough."
"Damon, I..." Zen looked up at him, confused by the strained look on his face.
All at once he crushed her to him. "I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight."
He led her to the large U-shaped couch and sat down with her. "Watch." He pressed buttons on a console and a king-sized bed unfolded from the middle section.
Zen raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I've heard of passion pits. I suppose—"
"You suppose nothing. I had this installed after we announced our engagement. Listen." He pressed another button and music filled the room. "There's also a hidden television, a small bar—"
"All designed for seduction," Zen breathed. She laughed as his face turned dark crimson. "Damon, I don't believe it. There you go getting embarrassed again. You've been doing that all day, as though you were nervous." She stared up at him in sudden understanding. "I don't remember you ever being the least bit off balance about anything, but since the wedding..."
"My life has changed. I'm a husband and a father." He grinned down at her. "And remember, I have to be on my toes every minute. My bride is trying to do me in." He laughed when she poked him in the arm. "Of course, she calls her attempts to murder me accidents."
"They are accidents!'' she exclaimed, feeling absurdly happy to be laughing with him, held close to his heart. "How do we get onto this humungous bed?"
"Easy." Damon swung her up into his arms, stepped down one step, and walked onto the bed. He sat down in the center, still holding Zen in his arms. "See?" His grin faded as he stared down at her. "You don't have anything on under that, do you, love?"
She shook her head.
"How farsighted of you." Damon relaxed his hold on her so that, although she remained in the V formed by his legs, he could now gaze at her reclining body.
"I don't like to walk on this lovely thing with my shoes on," Zen said softly, held spellbound by his onyx eyes.
"Don't worry." Damon reached down and removed a slipper. Then he lifted her foot and nibbled on her toes.
"You have a foot fetish," Zen accused him.
"A fetish for your foot, yes." Damon sucked gently on her anklebone. "You have the trimmest body... Tastes good, too."
"Are you crazy?" Zen failed at repartee, her thoughts focused on the delicious sensations he was producing.
"Are you planning an accident that will cause brain damage and make me crazy?" Damon asked casually, removing the other slipper and kissing her little toe.
"That's very unkind." Zen clung to his shoulders as he pushed the kaftan up past her waist to her arms. She let go briefly as he lifted the garment over her head.
"Will you be warm enough, Zen?" Damon lowered her to the bedspread and leaned over her as he took off his robe.
"Warm." She nodded, looking up at him, loving the play of firelight on his face.
"I'll be your blanket," Damon growled into her neck.
"How kind of you." Zen felt as though she'd been disembodied and was floating around the room. She didn't seem to be connected to her body, though each separate part was clamoring for Damon's special attention. "Making love is so nice," she said, sighing.
"Nice? God, wife, you do have a talent for understatement."
"Thank you." Zen let her fingers furrow through his hair, loving the crisp feel of it.
"Damon, will we leave it as a couch when the boys are with us?"
"What? What boys?" Damon seemed to have trouble focusing. "Xenobia, we're making love. We'll talk about the boys later."
"Lovely." Zen pulled the curling hairs on his chest. "I thought men couldn't make love when they had too much to drink." She nibbled on his chin.
"What?" Damon's hair stood on end where she had mussed it.
She couldn't suppress a giggle. Damon stared at her as if she had just popped in from Mars. "Don't you feel like making love?" he demanded sternly.
"Yes, I do." But she burst out laughing. He looked so silly glowering so darkly with his hair sticking up. Suddenly all her happiness bubbled up from inside her and broke forth in peals of laughter.
She sensed his angry withdrawal. "Don't go," she pleaded. "I really do want to make love." She shrugged one bare shoulder. "It's just that we've never been married before. I don't know why, but it's different now." A dark gleam flickered deep in his eyes. "I can't explain it, Damon. Don't be angry."
He pushed her down and leaned over her, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Why should I be angry about making love to Chuckles the Clown?" His body pressed against hers, his flesh touching her everywhere. "It's a new experience for me, too. I can't remember ever making love to a woman when she was laughing. No, don't talk. I don't want to hear any more."
She fell obediently silent as his hands and mouth explored her intimately, from her chin to her toes.
Their lovemaking was as forceful as always, but Zen sensed a restraint in Damon. When she began to speak, he would shush her, and soon the volcano that was between them erupted and spilled them out of themselves into a new dimension.
She fell asleep. When she woke sometime later, he was gone. She sat up in bed and punched the pillow. She wanted to get up and see if he was still in the apartment, but she was too tired. She fell into a restless sleep.
She woke again with a jerk, sitting bolt upright in bed, the sheet wrapped around her body like a shroud. She was still alone in the bed.
She rose with a sigh and went to the bathroom, where she ran the water until it was ice cold. She drank several glasses.