by Ruth Wind
Yes, he would admit to lust. And he would use it.
* * *
Chapter 4
«^»
Sarah was acutely uncomfortable joining the party of two at their table, but Joanna had insisted. And to her credit, the beautiful woman with Eli did not seem to mind at all.
Joanna took the chair next to Jennifer, leaving Sarah to perch next to Eli, who only smiled politely as they sat down, and asked Joanna about her husband.
Sarah tried to relax, but her knee bumped his under the table, and she jerked back as if she'd been burned. She folded her hands in front of her and her elbow nudged his. She shifted again, but Eli shifted at the same second, and their thighs brushed for an eternity – skin sliding against gabardine in a slow, sinuous swish before Sarah had the presence of mind to pull hers away. When she looked at him after that, he only gave her a sultry, knowing expression.
He knew. He was paying her back for this morning.
The knowledge burned a little inside her chest before she realized what was happening between them was a full-blown war. With a decisive toss of her head, she met his eyes. If he wanted war, he would have it.
She relaxed a little, and crossed her legs, knowing he would be able to see her thigh, bare and tanned. She felt his gaze flickering over her neck, her arms, her breasts. She focused on the discussion that arose between Jennifer and Joanna, and joined in with the odd comment, but she never forgot she was at war with Eli. She felt his breath when he moved, brushing over her bare arm on the table, and she shifted to accidentally brush her knee against his.
But she knew she had lost when he stood. "Would anyone like to dance?"
Joanna gestured to her baby, sound asleep on her shoulder. "Sorry."
"I'd love to," Jennifer said, "but I have a sprained ankle."
"That leaves you," he said, as if he'd known the others would refuse. "Will you dance, Sarah?"
And heaven help her, she rose, chin lifted high, and met his eye. "Of course."
He held out his hand and led Sarah onto the dance floor, pausing for one moment as they faced each other. "I don't remember ever dancing with you," he said.
"I wasn't allowed to go anyplace there might have been dancing."
"Ah." He stepped closer. "And have you learned since then?"
"I guess you're going to find out."
"I suppose I am." He reached for her and Sarah knew a split second of panicky hesitation as his hand lit upon her waist, and hers fell on his shoulder – this was madness. Pure insanity.
But then he drew her into a loose embrace that didn't seem threatening, and she had to concentrate on following his lead. He danced as elegantly as he moved, with a simple, easy grace. It was impossible to remain aloof, especially with one of his palms burning against her waist and another against her hand. He smelled of cologne and wine.
He did not speak at all, and Sarah could think of nothing to say. It took every scrap of her concentration to hang on to her composure. His body, so lean and graceful, swayed tantalizingly against hers, and she stared at the place where his starched white collar met the vulnerable flesh at his throat, aware of her heart thudding and a slow, heavy pulse beginning to thrum low in her belly.
"You have learned to dance well," he said, and pulled her infinitesmally closer.
Sarah swallowed and could not look at him, suddenly and fiercely aware of his chest brushing her breasts. She kept their bellies apart, afraid to find he was aroused, afraid of what that sensation might do.
As if he noticed, he tugged her firmly against him, and bent to murmur in her ear, "Afraid, Sarah?"
She was thirty years old. She'd danced with gorgeous, compelling men in the most romantic cities in the world. She'd tangoed and waltzed with continental playboys. She was sophisticated and world traveled.
But when she felt Eli's body against the length of her own, thigh-to-thigh, chest-to-chest, a sensation of such desperate, sudden, shocking desire washed through her that she nearly went faint. She grasped his arm, but that only nestled them closer. Still, he did not relent; he danced, and her flesh moved against his, and his against hers, and when she felt the heat of him, all of him, she could not breathe.
"You win," she whispered, and looked up at him, trying to make him stop.
He bent his head, so close his beautiful lips were nearly brushing hers. She saw there was too much heat in his eyes, and his breath was ragged when he spoke. "What do I win, Sarita? A kiss?"
There was mocking cruelty in the words. She saw everything in those fleeting seconds while his lips poised over hers. Saw his rage and his pain and his piercing desire. Without thinking, she touched his face. "Stop, Elias," she whispered. "We'll destroy each other."
He closed his eyes, as if her fingers hurt him. "Your father already destroyed me," he said, so low she could barely hear. "He destroyed us both." His breath brushed her cheek, and when he opened his eyes there was such heat, such hatred, and so much hunger that Sarah could not look away. "We are ghosts, Sarita. Ghosts cannot hurt each other."
He turned a little, and his lower lip brushed hers, sending a wash of need through her—
Suddenly a flashbulb burst nearby. The moment was shattered. Sarah panicked. She pushed against him, frantic, and after a moment of holding her, he let go abruptly. She nearly fell in her haste to get away. She didn't pause to look at him. Breathing unevenly, she walked stiffly back to the table, murmured an apology and fled.
Out in the street, falling in with the flow of tourists, Sarah gasped for breath. She nearly ran for most of a block, drawing curious stares, which she ignored, only stopping when her lungs ached for rest. The night air finally penetrated, cooling the heat in her body and the turmoil in her mind. With a sense of despair, she sank down on a bench.
To the east, the mountains loomed as a dark shadow against a horizon of stars, and Sarah thought as she always did that it looked as if you could step from the top of the mountain into the sky itself, be instantly transported into a strange and wonderful world far, far away. Such a beautiful sky, glittering with a billion stars.
From a motel courtyard up the street she heard the sound of Indian drums, thudding into the air in a familiar and exotic rhythm. She simply sat there listening, her back against a cool wall, refusing to allow any thoughts to come into her mind at all. It was a survival skill she'd learned at eighteen, and she firmly believed it had saved her sanity. She had been utterly powerless to halt the events that had so transformed her life, and, like a willow, she'd learned to bend with the wind. But the only possible way she could do it was by not thinking. Not thinking about her father or Eli or her baby.
She was good at it, this trick of not thinking. Tonight she simply stared up at the blinking stars and forced herself to make patterns of them. Little flashes of memory, loud and in Technicolor, pushed their way past her walls, tiny blips: Eli's hand upon her waist, the baby Jacob's soft weight, a night flashing red. Each time, she clamped down on it, boxed it, shoved it away.
After twenty minutes, the blips stopped. Peace returned. The soft glaze of contentment in the night and the sound of the drums had shoved away her tumultuous reactions, and with a deep breath she stood up, smoothed her skirt and walked home.
He couldn't get to her if she didn't let him. None of them could.
* * *
Somewhere in the middle of the night, Eli bolted awake, sitting up in his bed, a cry on his lips. It took long seconds before he realized where he was or what time it was. When he realized, he fell back on the pillows with a groan and sighed. Outside the window, an owl hooted mournfully.
The dream that had awakened him washed back in, a dream he'd had a hundred times, a thousand, over the years. He was wandering in some strange place, opening doors, stopping people in the street, looking under cars, into closets that magically appeared in front of him. Endlessly searching. Sometimes he was looking for Sarah. Sometimes he sought their child. The dreams went on and on, and in them, Eli searched fruitlessly, endle
ssly.
The dream never lost its power to depress him. No matter how many times it came, no matter how well-armored he thought he was, it left a taste of ashes in his mouth when he awakened.
Now he shifted, looking out to the sky he could see through his window, and memories of Sarah rushed through him. This, too, was predictable. Her startled shout of laughter when something delighted her. The way she lifted her chin when something challenged her. The silkiness of her skin beneath his hands. The way she curled into him after they made love, warm as a cat, pleased and purring.
But now there were new images. The stunning heat of her against him as they danced. The challenge in her gray eyes – no longer the eyes of a child, but those of a woman who knew her power. And the dark baby in her arms, laughing up at her.
He curled into himself, as if protecting something vulnerable inside him. His sister had told him for years that he needed counseling to overcome his rage at the terrible betrayals he had undergone. Eli had scoffed, preferring to take refuge in his plan of revenge.
But in the darkness of the night, with sorrow on his tongue, he could not see how revenge would take these night sweats away. It seemed futile. Everything seemed futile. Dreams of honor or dreams of revenge – it didn't matter. They were all insubstantial, meaningless.
Knowing he would not sleep, that if he stayed in bed he would simply go over the same ground again and again, he got up and went to the kitchen. Taking an old herbal cookbook from his shelf, he flipped through the pages until he found a tea he had not tried to brew, something for which he had the ingredients, and got to work. By the time the sun rose, he felt like himself again, and in addition, he had a great new recipe for a spring tonic that was naturally sweet.
He also had to face the possibility that his actions the night before might lead to Sarah canceling the photo shoot. He waited all morning for the call. He dreaded it, dreaded calling his niece and dashing her excitement, and he felt guilty that his own actions would rob her of a chance she most desperately wanted – and only Eli could provide.
But the call never came. And he worried about that, too. By the time he went to pick up Teresa, his nerves were strung as tight as catgut. His sister Cynthia was waiting for him at the door of her expensive, rambling home. A slim, small woman with a smooth bob that ended at her chin, she was a marriage counselor with a thriving practice. Her husband, a mechanic, never seemed to mind that she made in a month what he brought home in a year. Aside from the troublesome Teresa, their lives were as close to perfect as any Eli could imagine.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Elias," she said, her arms crossed.
"She'll never know until she tries. I think she has a good shot."
"I'm not talking about Teresa. I'd just as soon she put aside her obsession with being a sex object and move on to something that might utilize that brain of hers, but she has to make her own choices." She gestured him into the tiled hall. "I'm talking about you and Sarah Greenwood."
Eli affected a bland expression. "She's a photographer, Cynthia. Teresa wants pictures."
"Whatever. I think you're opening a Pandora's box, and I certainly hope you don't let anyone else in the family know who shot the proofs. I'm not interested in fighting that battle again." She called over her shoulder, "Teresa, Elias is here. Hurry up."
A muffled answer came down the stairs, and Cynthia gave her brother a smile. "She's been up there all morning, trying to decide what to take with her. I loaned her some of my hats."
"This session is just between us," Eli said to reassure her. "I've already heard Mama on this subject when she found out Sarah was back in town." He glanced at his watch. Quarter till two. "Teresa, the bus is leaving in two minutes."
Cynthia put her hand on his arm. "Are you really at peace with all this now? It isn't painful to see her?"
Eli rolled his neck. "I'm okay."
Her eyes narrowed, but Teresa chose that moment to fly down the stairs, her feet barely touching the steps. Her face was scrubbed clean, as instructed, and she wore a simple green floral dress that made her skin glow. "Good choice," Eli said. "That dress looks great on you."
"I have others," she said, lifting a bag with several hangers sticking out of it. In her other hand she carried a straw hat. She bent to kiss her mother. "Wish me luck."
"Good luck, baby."
Teresa beamed at Eli. "Let's go."
"You don't even look nervous," he said on the way out.
"Nervous? Why would I be? One of the most famous fashion photographers in the nation is going to give me a shot at a portfolio! This is a great opportunity."
Eli chuckled. "Good for you, hija."
Traffic was heavy on the main drag, but they parked at two minutes to two, and Eli helped Teresa carry her things down the steep, bricked path to the cottage. The sun beat down upon them with fierce, high-altitude weight, scorching hot, and Eli found himself wishing he'd stopped long enough to change into a cooler shirt. Sweat trickled down his back.
He took a breath as they rounded the last tree before Sarah's cottage, and Eli thought himself well braced for the sight of her. She sat on the porch in the cool shadows, wearing a crisp, cotton shirt, safari shorts and sandals, her hair pulled back into a short, neat braid. She looked like an ad for upscale travel to the islands – cool, wealthy, in control.
As Teresa reached the gate, Sarah stood up and moved smoothly forward. "Hello!" she said warmly. "You must be Teresa." She didn't bother to even glance in Eli's direction. "Come in."
Teresa grinned. "I remember you!" she said with surprise. "You used to give me Tootsie Pops and told me there was a store in Oregon that would give you one free if you found an Indian chief on the wrapper."
Sarah laughed. "That's amazing."
"I've never eaten one since without looking for the Indian."
Eli found himself annoyed at being ignored. "Where shall I hang these?" he asked, lifting the clothes in his hand.
"Hmm." Sarah reached for them. "I'll put them in my room. She can change in there."
Deliberately he held on to them for a moment, hoping to force her to react to him. See him. Instead, those cool gray eyes flickered over him as if they'd never met, much less shared one hell of a hot half hour the night before. It was as if it had never happened. Nice trick, he thought, and let the clothes go.
She put them away and returned with two cameras hanging around her neck, and another in her hand. "Let's go to the studio. I don't have the lights that I would in a professional studio," she explained, "so we're going to use natural light today, just to see how well you come across on film."
"Cool," Teresa said.
Eli trailed behind the women into the long, open room, and waited while Sarah positioned Teresa by the long panels of glass brick that formed the north wall. He wandered to the south end of the room and leaned against the window, watching them. It was impossible to tell how Sarah felt about Teresa's potential. She was matter-of-fact as she lifted the girl's chin, inclining her head. "You have good bone structure," she said. "A great mouth."
Teresa smiled. "And don't forget, I'm tall."
"Yes. That is a plus, but it isn't as important to print work as it is to runway." She stepped back, shot a fast series of shots, lifted her head. "You're very short for a runway model, believe it or not."
Teresa made a surprised face, and Sarah caught that, too. "Good," she said. "We're just going to do some very casual things right now. Soft things, to match that dress. I want to see how you do with the camera itself."
"Okay."
Eli watched from his post on the other side of the room as Sarah talked gently, asking questions about Teresa's life and friends, her ambitions, interspersing it with directions. "Lift your chin … give me a smile … tell me about your boyfriend – oh, yeah, that's good." She shot a lightning-fast series, and grabbed a different camera.
As he watched, Eli imagined her doing this in a crowd of people, with crews for lights and makeup and food, the models ski
nny and young and gorgeous. He liked the air of competent calm she exuded, and liked imagining her giving orders to all those crowds, coaxing the best shots from the models.
But he also remembered the passionate calm she'd brought to her camera work as a young woman, when she would set up a shot and wait for two hours for the light to be exactly right. She used to shoot the same thing – a particular tree, a glass of milk, a rock in a puddle of water – from seventeen different angles. Then she would sit and wait for the light to change, and do another series of shots.
The sun beat down on his neck, and he moved to sit in a sling-back chair tucked into the corner. From here, there was a wide, blue-and-green view of the valley, the colors washed out by the fierce afternoon sunlight.
"That's great, Teresa," Sarah said, rewinding the camera in her hand. "Why don't you go put on something with a harder edge, and come back. I want to try something."
Teresa hesitated, looked at Eli. "Harder edge?"
"More grown up," he said. "Something sexy, maybe."
"Oh!" She looked disappointed. "I don't think I have anything like that."
"I anticipated that. There's a black dress on my bed. It might be a little tight, but it laces. Fix it however you need to." She flipped the top of a film canister open. "On your way back, grab the purple bag off the couch, will you? And don't worry about shoes."
With a happy little giggle, she ran off to do as she was told. At the door she paused. "This is fun!"
Sarah grinned, the most open, honest expression he'd seen on her face since her return. "Sometimes it is."
The girl ran out, and as if she carried all sound waves with her, the room went silent as a vacuum except for the fine motor whir of the cameras rewinding, then being reloaded. She worked automatically, without looking at him.
He ached to ask if she thought Teresa had potential, and to avoid blurting it out, pointed at the southern window. "Great view. I bet it's great in the evening."
"Yes. I've wondered several times who might have built this originally, who painted here."