Mad About You

by Bond, Stephanie

  Chapter Eight

  KAT AWOKE BEFORE DAWN, still achy and fatigued from the restless night. The shadow of her friend's possible betrayal had weighed heavily on her mind, and James's abrupt departure had only heightened the prickly, coming-out-of-her-skin feeling. She'd lain awake and stared at the digital clock radio, listening to the couple in the next room make wall-thumping, hair-raising love until the wee hours of the morning.

  And now it appeared from the frantic sounds coming from the other side of the wall, they were also early risers—if indeed they had ever closed their eyes.

  She lay still, watching the first fingers of light caress the ceiling, and tried not to think about the flimsy door that stood between James's room and hers.

  Tried not to think about the passions he'd torched in her last night before ruthlessly tearing out of their embrace and leaving her smoldering with a lukewarm goodnight.

  Tried not to think about the fact that she'd slept in the buff, half because she didn't have a gown, half because she had a virginal yearning for him to crash through the connecting door and claim her with as few delays as possible.

  Her logical side told her to be eternally grateful for whatever had prompted his timely exit—she had been disappointed before by the change in a man's demeanor the "morning after." Hindsight had taught her the zenith of a man's affection crested just before the first night of sex, then moved into a gradual but steady state of decline shortly thereafter. Currently, she needed James's friendship and expertise more than she needed his carnal attention.

  The woman's muffled moans of "more, more, more" floated through the wall. Kat clamped the extra pillow on her face and pressed the ends over her ears. Okay, at the moment, she needed his carnal attention more, but the feeling would abate with the harsh reality of daylight...she hoped.

  By the time the couple had spent themselves, the clock read ten minutes before six and Kat felt as if she needed a cigarette. That brought her father's humidor to mind, and she breathed a prayer of thanks as she swung her feet to the floor that James had been able to remove it. She hadn't thought to ask him where he'd stashed it, but she assumed it was in his car or in his hotel room. Kat sighed—all roads led back to his room.

  She pulled herself to her feet and stumbled to the shower, glad for the mind-clearing blast of water. Mixed feelings about the case pressed upon her—relief that she was no longer the only suspect, along with anguish that her best friend had been fingered. Had she simply done it for the money? The idea that Denise would frame her still flabbergasted Kat, but she couldn't deny that the evidence was convincing.

  But then again, the evidence against herself had been convincing, too.

  Her mind strayed as her hands traveled over her lathered shoulders, arms, and breasts. She could see her naked image through the frosty shower door reflected back in the mirror over the vanity. She couldn't resist wondering if James would have been pleased. Her curves were generous, and her waist trim—her body wasn't exactly coin-bouncing firm, but not too shabby, either, she decided as the water beaded on her oiled skin. A warm flush climbed her neck when she thought of James's admiring glances the first night he'd come to her apartment door. So much had changed since then.

  At least in her mind. And heart, she admitted with a resigned sigh.

  So she was hung up on him, so what? He would pass on and so would her feelings and she would live through it, she decided as she turned off the faucet. She wrapped a large towel around her body and a smaller one around her hair, turban-style.

  Well, at least she'd had the good sense not to sleep with him. Kat ignored the voice that questioned how far she would've gone if he hadn't pulled back.

  She switched on the morning news for noise, tensing through the thirty-second update on the break-in at the gallery. "The police have charged Katherine McKray, a longtime employee, with stealing the love letter that King George III wrote to a mistress over two hundred years ago."

  "Allegedly wrote," Kat corrected the announcer. "And I didn't take the letter." She cursed and hoped that news of her innocence would garner the same amount of coverage. At least they hadn't shown her picture.

  With one leg propped on the unmade bed, she massaged the hotel's aloe lotion into her skin and thought of James sleeping in the next room. He seemed so omnipotent, it was hard to imagine his requiring something as pedestrian as sleep. Did he lie naked, sprawled over the entire bed with nonchalance, or fully dressed on the edge with his gun at his waist? Chill bumps zipped over her glowing skin and she frowned at the connecting door. A knock upon it startled her so badly she dropped the small bottle, sending it bouncing across the rug.

  "Kat?" James asked softly, then knocked again. "Are you awake?"

  Re-tucking the corner of her towel under her arm self-consciously, she stepped toward the door. "Yes, James, I'm awake."

  "May I come in?"

  She looked around the room frantically, searching for the shirt she'd worn yesterday. "Um, just a minute, I'm not decent."

  His throaty laughter rumbled through the inch of wood. "I sincerely doubt that, Pussy-Kat."

  Oh, that voice was going to be the end of her. Her pulse kicked up, dewing her hairline as she dropped the towel and pulled her day-old clothes from the back of a chair and onto her body. She winced down at her baggy-kneed leggings. Barefoot and braless, she unlocked the door and swung it open.

  The door pulled with it the scent of his grooming, tickling her nose with strong mannish aromas. James filled the doorway, wearing perfectly creased navy slacks and a crisp taupe-colored long-sleeved shirt. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a slice of a sparkling white T-shirt which she guessed had also been pressed within an inch of its life. "Do you travel with a personal valet?" she asked, peering around him.

  He smiled, a breathtaking gesture. "I'm glad to see your sense of humor has recovered."

  Not a word about what had nearly transpired between them last night, proof positive of its insignificance—to him. "I'm almost a free woman," she said lightly. "I need to call Val and let him know where I am, plus the fact that the police have a new suspect."

  "Will have a new suspect after we talk with Detective Tenner and the district attorney. I left a message for Tenner that we'd see him this morning, and your attorney will need to accompany us." He stopped and angled his head slightly. "Perhaps you can arrange to take the polygraph while we're there."

  Kat's heart tripped and she swallowed. "Do you think that will still be necessary?" As James studied her face, she fought to keep the fear from her eyes by attempting a small shrug.

  *****

  James sensed her trepidation. Was she hiding something or simply nervous at the prospect of taking the test? "That will be up to you and your attorney."

  She brushed aside the topic with a forced smile. "Let me dry my hair, then I'll need to stop by the apartment for clothes and toiletries."

  He nodded, relenting. Perhaps he was mistaking awkwardness over their encounter last night for guilt. And he certainly didn't want to dredge up that unsettling subject. "I'll order breakfast—what would you like?"

  She headed back toward the bathroom and released her hair from the towel with a flick of her wrist. It tumbled around her shoulders in thick, separated locks. "A bagel sounds great," she said, "or maybe some hot cereal. And coffee."

  James stood rooted to the spot as she picked up a pink comb, squinted into the vanity mirror, and leaned forward to part her hair. For a few seconds, the wet, dark carpet of mane concealed her face, then she swept the heavy strands back over her ears carefully with the comb. It struck him as infinitely intimate, watching her fuss with her hair, and quite possibly the most innocently erotic scene he'd ever witnessed.

  From a tiny tube she squeezed a clear substance into her palm, rubbed her hands together, then massaged the shiny stuff from her scalp to the ends. Silhouetted by the glaring overhead light and with her arms lifted high, it was suddenly quite apparent that beneath the rumpled white shirt, s
he wore no bra. The dusky outline of her nipples riveted him. James felt his manhood twitch in warning, then surge.

  In Europe, it was common to see bare-breasted women—on public beaches, in advertisements—so he, like most traveled Englishmen, had seen a fair amount of comely busts in somewhat casual settings. In the past, he'd found the puritan practice of American women binding and covering their God-given gifts to be, in turn, annoying and stimulating. And at the moment, the glimpse of taboo flesh was uncomfortably stimulating.

  Kat's gaze cut to his in the mirror. "The stronger, the better."

  James shook his head slightly in confusion, willing his libido to heel. "Sorry?"

  "The coffee," she said, removing a hair dryer from the vanity. "The stronger, the better."

  "Right," he said, straightening. "Strong coffee coming up."

  She flicked a switch, eliciting the whine of the hair dryer, blowing her lustrous hair back from her face like some exotic model photo shoot. He turned and retreated into his room, chastising himself for allowing her to reduce him to a gawking schoolboy, when a stiff breeze would've had him chafing in his drawers.

  He dialed room service and ordered enough food for both of them. Glancing at the open connecting door, he resisted the urge to watch Kat complete her toilette and instead drew aside the curtains in his room to admire the spectacular twelfth-story view.

  San Francisco was a picturesque city, with hundreds of old Victorian row houses snuggled together in the hills, utilizing every square foot of scarce and expensive land. Their ice-cream colors and dark roofs with identical pitches reminded him of the patchwork quilt that used to cover the foot of his mother's bed. She'd called the pattern "tumbling blocks," although he had no idea how he remembered such an obscure detail.

  Diabetes had snatched her from them when he was not quite a full-grown man, and his father had succumbed less than a year later, of a broken heart, James was convinced. His older sister had been dating the man she'd eventually married, so for the most part, James had been left to his own devices.

  Later, his superiors and co-agents at British Intelligence had become his family, although he acknowledged that, out of necessity, everyone conducted themselves more like distant relatives. In the ensuing years, he'd grown fond of his own company...but suddenly he felt a swell of reverence for that elusive connection to another person, the bond which had crossed ethereal boundaries for his parents.

  Why these bittersweet domestic memories were descending on him now, he couldn't fathom. He peered back over his shoulder and bit the inside of his cheek—maybe his mood had something to do with Katherine McKray and the feelings she had dislodged within him. As if on cue, the muffled sound of her honeyed voice, half humming, half singing, invaded his room above the static noise of the hair dryer. The song was indistinguishable, but her tone sounded sweet and melancholy. And beckoning.

  He abandoned his station at the window and, against his will, took three strides toward her room before a knock on his door pulled him up short.

  "Room service," a voice called through the door.

  Grateful for the distraction, James claimed the food and tipped the man, then set the covered tray on an impractical looking writing desk. He stepped to the doorway to summon Kat, and leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, to watch her. Once again he was struck by her natural beauty as she finished drying her dark hair and sang to herself, apparently oblivious to being heard. She glanced up and stopped, mid-note, then blushed furiously and switched off the dryer.

  "Very nice," he said, grinning.

  "I didn't realize you could hear me."

  "I assure you, I found it delightful. Breakfast has arrived."

  She plucked her glasses from the vanity and slid them on, then preceded him into his room, her gaze pivoting from one side to the other. "Wow, I'll bet it's neater in here now than when you checked in."

  He shrugged, feeling a bit sheepish. "I'm trained not to leave a trail—I guess old habits die hard."

  *****

  A pang of disappointment cut through Kat's chest. "So," she said lightly, lifting the silver lid from the tray, "when you leave, no one will even know you've been here, is that what you're saying?"

  He was quiet for so long, she glanced up to find his head angled toward her. "Are you saying you will miss me, Pussy-Kat?" His voice was husky and colored with surprise.

  She dropped the lid and lifted her chin. "I said no such thing."

  His mouth twisted in an infuriating smile, then he wagged his finger at her and stepped closer. "Thou doth protest too much."

  "You're putting words in my mouth."

  "Then allow me to occupy it elsewhere," he murmured, pulling her into his arms.

  Her heart cartwheeled as he dipped his head with calculating slowness and captured her lips with his. The desire she'd smothered all morning, hoping to extinguish, rose like a phoenix out of the flames. All the reasons to avoid this man who'd become much too important to her, much too quickly, were incinerated as his mouth moved against hers. With his tongue, he coaxed her mouth open, then ravaged the inside ruthlessly, stealing, commanding, demanding.

  Her glasses became too fogged to see clearly—surely that was why everything seemed blurry?—but her other senses roared to life. He moved his warm hands beneath her shirt to span her back and waist, and Kat instantly felt her nipples bead. She moaned into his mouth and he shuddered against her, fueling her passion higher. He massaged her back in small circles, tracing her spine, lazily working his way up and around to caress the sides of her quivering rib cage. When the urgency of his kiss intensified, she rolled her shoulders and inhaled sharply, poised for the feel of his hands on her breasts. But just when his thumbs grazed the underside of her bosom, he lifted his head and slowly straightened, then dropped his hands away from her.

  Confusion washed over Kat. She wet her lips carefully, then asked in a deadly calm voice, "Is this where you mumble good night and make a hasty retreat, Agent Donovan?"

  He stared down at her with a clouded expression. "Kat, you're vulnerable right now. I don't wish to take advantage—"

  "In case you hadn't noticed, James, I'm all grown up." She pressed her lips together hard. "Able to make my own decisions, and live with the consequences."

  He pulled her closer to him, and rested his forehead against hers. "And you want this as much as I do, Pussy-Kat?"

  In answer, she took one step back, looked him directly in the eye, and began to unbutton her shirt.

  As if spellbound, his gaze dropped to her fingers. With outward control that belied her quaking insides, Kat divorced the white buttons from their buttonholes, never taking her eyes off James's face. When she'd reached the bottom, she paused, allowing the shirt to reveal an inch-wide strip of her cleavage and stomach. His lips parted, his undivided attention on her covered breasts.

  Ever so slowly, she peeled the fabric back, feeling her nipples contract as soon as the cool air of the room enveloped them. Passion glazed his eyes, gratifying her. She thrust her breasts forward in a slow-moving shrug out of her shirt. The whoosh of the cotton garment falling to the rug sounded like a lead weight dropping in the silence of the room.

  "Kat," he breathed, standing statue-still. "You are magnificent."

  A thrill raced through her body. "So touch me," she whispered.

  "I thought you'd never ask." He bent and swept her into his arms, then laid her gently on his bed. She removed her glasses and folded them safely on the nightstand. He stood and kicked off his shoes, then shed his shirt and undershirt, tossing them carelessly onto an armchair.

  Heat and moisture pooled between her legs at the sight of his naked torso—broad, muscled shoulders, lightly haired chest, with dark, flat nipples indented in firm flesh. He lowered himself beside her, supported on one elbow while his hungry gaze swept over her bared breasts. Lifting his free hand, his fingers hovered over a budded nipple almost reverently before descending for a soft squeeze that elicited a groan from both of them. Se
xual energy raced through her body, triggering chills in one place, muscle contraction in another. He kneaded her breasts and reclaimed her mouth, his breathing as frantic as hers.

  Kat arched toward him, rolling on her side to face him and press her breasts against his chest, hot skin on hot skin. He interrupted their kiss long enough to whisper, "I have to taste you, Pussy-Kat," then lowered his head to lave her nipple thoroughly. He licked, nipped, and drew as much of her breast into his greedy mouth as possible, devouring her. And when she thought she would go insane from the waves of desire flooding her body, he shifted his attention to her other breast and started over.

  Anxious to touch every inch of his flesh, Kat ran her finger around his waistband, stumbling over various tabs and buttons, at last revealing white boxer shorts and his straining shaft. James paused from his ministrations just long enough to groan with satisfaction when her fingers closed around him.

  Driven by the rhythm of his mouth on her skin, she stroked him, drawing wetness that oozed over her fingers. His hand snaked down to palm her stomach, then pushed the flimsy leggings over her hips and plunged his hand into her drenched nest. Hot splinters of desire bolted through her and she convulsed around his probing fingers, gasping. With feet and legs, they skimmed off each other's remaining clothes, at last lying on their sides fully naked against each other, mouth to mouth, hand to hand, sex to sex.

  Kat wondered if her face held the same expression of desire and blatant need as James's. His black eyes were hooded with passion, his smooth cheeks and forehead covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something.

  "James?" she whispered. "Is something wrong?"

  An unidentifiable emotion flitted across his face, then it was gone just as quickly. His mouth pulled back to reveal both dimples as he rolled her beneath him. "No, Pussy-Kat, everything seems to be in top working order." With his knee, he urged her to open to him, and she obliged almost involuntarily, readying herself for his swift entry. But he took his time, rubbing his hard staff against her slick folds, circling the sensitive nub of her desire with mind-blowing accuracy. A slow hum of pressure began building low inside her, like a swarm of tiny, vibrating bees. Then with a groan of raw passion, he thrust inside her.