by Diana Palmer
She moved a little closer so that she could see his lean, dark face in the light from the ballroom. “Hunter, what’s wrong?” she asked softly.
He hated the tenderness in her voice. It tempted him and made him angry. “Nothing.”
She wanted to pursue the subject, but his expression was daunting. She smoothed down the soft material of the dress. With its sleeveless bodice that dipped almost to her waist, and the clingy chiffon outlining her narrow waist and full hips, she was a vision. She knew she looked pretty, but it would have made her evening to hear Hunter say so. Not that he would. She glanced back toward the dancers inside. “I guess this is familiar territory to you,” she murmured absently. “High society, I mean.”
He frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you do a lot of work for Eugene, and this is his milieu,” she explained, glancing up at him. “And I know you’ve had to look after politicians for him, so I suppose it entails a certain amount of socializing.”
“Not that much.” He folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t care for this kind of civilized warfare. Too many people. Too much noise.”
“I know how you feel.” She sighed, staring toward the ballroom. “I’d much rather be outdoors, away from crowds.”
He studied her with renewed interest. She wasn’t lying. He remembered her delight in the desert those days they’d spent together, her laughter at the antics of the birds, her quiet contemplation of dusk and dawn. That pleasure hadn’t been faked. But with her beauty and education, surely this was her scene.
“You look at home here, nevertheless,” he said. He lit another cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. She was making him more nervous by the minute. Her dress was pure witchcraft.
“That’s funny,” she murmured, and smiled. “The closest to this kind of thing I ever got in my youth was the high school prom—or it would have been, if I’d been asked. I spent that night at home, baby-sitting the neighbor’s little boy.”
The cigarette froze en route to his mouth. “You weren’t asked?”
“You sound surprised.” She turned to look up at him. “All the boys assumed that I already had a date, because I was pretty. There was one special boy I liked, but he was just ordinary and not handsome at all. He didn’t think he had a chance with me, so he never asked me out. I didn’t find out until I was grown and he was married that he’d had a crush on me.” She laughed, but it had a hollow sound. “Women hate me because they think I’m a threat to them. Men don’t take me seriously at work if they don’t know me because pretty blondes aren’t supposed to be intelligent. And if I’m asked out on a date, it’s automatically expected that I’ll be dynamite in bed. You mentioned once that I don’t date anybody. Now you know why.”
“Are you?” he asked.
Her eyebrows lifted. “Am I what?”
“Dynamite in bed.”
She glared up at him. There was something like amusement in his tone. “Don’t you start, Hunter.”
He tossed the cigarette down and ground it out under the heel of his dress shoe, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. “Why not?” he asked, moving closer with a slow sensual step that made her heart beat faster. “I’m human.”
“Are you, really?” she asked, remembering that night on the desert when he’d seen her bathing. She almost groaned. His restraint had overwhelmed her, then and since.
He caught her hands and slid them up around his neck. “Stop dithering and dance with me,” he said quietly.
His voice was an octave lower. Deep, slow, sensuous, like the hands that, instead of holding her correctly, slid around her, against her bare back where the low cut of the dress left it vulnerable.
She gasped. “You said…you didn’t dance,” she whispered.
“You can teach me,” he whispered back.
But it didn’t feel as if he needed any instruction. He moved gracefully to the music, drawing her along with him. The feel of him this close, the brush of his warm, rough hands against her silky skin, made her tremble. When he felt the trembling, he drew her even closer. She shivered helplessly, feeling his hands slowly caressing her, his lips in her hair, against her forehead, as he made a lazy effort to move her to the rhythm of the slow bluesy tune the orchestra was playing. But it wasn’t as much dancing as it was making love to music. She felt his chest dragging against her breasts with every step, his long, powerful legs brushing against hers at the thigh. She remembered his eyes on her bare breasts, his arms around her, the feel of his hard mouth. And she ached for him.
She tried to move back, before she gave herself away, but his hands were firm.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked at her forehead.
“You,” she moaned. “What you make me feel.” Her hands grasped the lapels of his jacket. Twenty-seven years of denial, of longing, of loneliness. Years of loving this man alone, of being deprived of even the most innocent physical contact. And now she was in his arms, he was holding her, touching her, and she couldn’t hide her pleasure or her need.
“Jenny.” He bent closer, his mouth tempting hers into lifting, his eyes dark and quiet and intent in the stillness. He stopped dancing, but his hands smoothed lazily up and down her back, and he watched the rapt, anguished need color her face, part her lips. She looked as if she’d die to have him make love to her. It was the same look he remembered from the night he’d seen her bathing, and it had the same overwhelming effect on him.
“Please,” she whispered, and her voice broke. She was beyond hiding it, beyond pretence, totally vulnerable. “Would it kill you to kiss me again, just once? Oh, Hunter, please…!”
He lifted his head with a rough sigh, looking around them. He eased her into a small alcove, hidden to the rest of the balcony, and slowly moved her until she was against the wall. His hands rested on either side of her head against it, his body shielding hers, and then covering hers, trapping her between it and the wall in a slow, sensual movement.
“Lift your mouth to mine,” he whispered.
She did, without a single protest, and had it taken in a succession of slow, brief, tormenting bites. She whimpered helplessly, shaking all over with the need to be close to him. He tasted of cigarette smoke and expensive brandy, and the kiss was almost like a narcotic, drugging her with slow, aching pleasure. She clung to him with something akin to desperation, so out of control that she couldn’t begin to hide what she was feeling. Her body throbbed with it, trembled with it. Twenty-seven years of denial were going up in flames, in his arms.
“My God, you’re starving for me,” he said huskily, his voice rough with surprise as he looked down at her. “It’s all right, little one,” he breathed as his dark head bent again. “It’s all right. I’ll feed you…”
His mouth covered hers then, slowly building the pressure into something wild and deep and overwhelming. As if he understood her need for passion, he pushed down against her and his mouth became demanding, its very roughness filling the emptiness in her.
She slid her arms around his lean waist and pressed even closer, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks as she fed on his mouth, accepting the hard thrust of his tongue with awe, loving the feel of his aroused body bearing hers heavily against the wall. She wept against his hard lips and he lifted his head.
“Oh, don’t…stop,” she whispered brokenly. “Please, please…don’t stop yet!”
He was losing it. His mouth ground into hers again, tasting the softness of her parted lips, inhaling the exquisite fragrance of her body into his nostrils. His body was rigid with desire, his hips already thrusting helplessly against hers with an involuntary rhythm. His mouth crushed hers roughly, his teeth nipping her full lower lip in a pagan surge of fierce need.
“I want you,” she whispered into his mouth. All her control was gone, all her pride. She was beyond rational thought. “I want you. I want you so much!”
He dragged his head up. His hands gripped her upper arms hard while he fought for control. She’d already lost hers. Her e
yes were dilated, wild with need, her body shaking helplessly with it. She was his. Here, now, standing up, she would have welcomed him and he knew it. It was all he could do to back away. But he had to remember who they were, and where they were.
“Jennifer,” he said quietly. His voice sounded strained. He fought to steady it. “Jennifer!” He shook her. “Stop it!”
She felt the rough shake as if it was happening to somebody else. She stared up at him through a sensual veil, still shivering, her body throbbing with its urgent need of his. He shook her again, fiercely, and she caught her breath. The world spun around her and she suddenly realized where they were.
She swallowed hard with returning sanity. Her face went scarlet when she remembered begging him…
His hands tightened and released her arms. “Come on, now,” he said, his voice gentle where it had been violent. “Come on, Jenny. Take a deep breath.”
He knew she was vulnerable. He knew it all now. Tears ran down her cheeks, hot and salty, into the corners of her swollen mouth.
He drew her head to his jacket, his hands soothing at her nape. “It’s all right, little one,” he said quietly, his teeth clenched as he fought his own physical demons. He was hurting. “It’s all right. Nothing happened.”
“I want to die,” she whispered brokenly. “I’m so…ashamed!”
“Of what?” he asked, frowning. He framed her face in his lean, warm hands and lifted it to his eyes. “Jenny, there’s no shame in being a woman.”
She could hardly see him through her tears. “Let me go…please,” she pleaded, pushing at his chest.
He didn’t like the way she looked. Desperate. Horrified. As if she’d committed some deadly sin. He couldn’t let her leave in this condition.
“Calm down,” he said firmly, taking her by the shoulders to shake her again. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’re rational.”
She bit down on her swollen lower lip, hard, tasting him there. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to see his face.
“What in God’s name is wrong with you?” he asked, leaning closer. “You wanted me, that’s all. I’ve felt that kind of desire before, I know how helpless it can make you.”
Yes, he’d felt it, but not with her. That was what hurt so much, that she felt it and he didn’t. He’d kissed her because she’d begged him to, but she was sure there hadn’t been anything else. Just pity and compassion. If only she knew more about men…
She lifted her cold hands and wiped at her tears. “I need to wash my face,” she whispered. “I can’t go back in there…like this.”
He bent and brushed his lips tenderly against hers, but she jerked away from him, her blue eyes wide and terrified.
His head lifted and he studied her, realization kindling belatedly in his mind. So that was it. The hidden fear. She’d lost control. He’d made her helpless and she was going to fight tooth and nail to keep it from happening again. Was that why she didn’t date anyone? Had she lost control before and was afraid of giving rein to her passionate nature? Or was it just years of denial catching up with her? Her violent desire for him had weakened his resolve painfully.
“Do you want me to do something about this?” he asked, his voice deep and quiet, posing a question he’d never meant to ask.
“What?” she asked numbly.
“A need that violent should be satisifed,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know you want me. I’ve known that for a long time. But now I understand how desperate the need is.”
She couldn’t believe he was saying this. Her face was scarlet, she knew, but she stared up at him helplessly while he offered her the fulfillment of every dream she’d ever dreamed.
“Do you want me to take you back to the hotel and satisfy you, Jenny?” he asked quietly, his expression giving away nothing, although his body was still keeping him on the rack. He wanted her obsessively. He could taste her in his mouth. He wanted to taste all of her the way he’d savored her soft lips. He wanted to strip her and kiss every pink inch of her, from head to toe.
“I…might get pregnant,” she whispered, too shaken to be rational, too hungry to refuse. “You said…”
He didn’t like remembering what he’d said. “I’ll take care of you,” he said firmly. “In every way. There won’t be consequences of any kind. Least of all the risk of a child torn between your culture and mine,” he added bitterly.
She was twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight. She’d never known intimacy with anyone, but she wanted, so much, to know it with this man. She’d loved him forever, it sometimes seemed. He was offering her untold delights. She knew without asking that he was expert. The way he’d kissed her had told her that. He wouldn’t hurt her. With luck, he’d never know that she was a virgin.
“I…want you,” she whispered helplessly.
His chest expanded jerkily while he searched her eyes, curious about the faint fear and melancholy there. But one didn’t question a gift like this. He caught her soft hand in his and led her back into the ballroom.
She remembered very little about the minutes that followed. They left. She said something polite to their host and hostess and to Eugene and Cynthia. There was a cab ride back to the hotel, she was at the door of his room. He put her inside without bothering to turn on the light.
Then she was in his arms. It was heaven. Pure, sweet heaven. He took her hair down and buried his face in it before his mouth slowly, inevitably, found her lips. She clung to him, tasting him, while he kissed her and kissed her until she couldn’t stand. She felt his mouth and his hands on her bare skin as he removed her dress, her underthings, her hose. Then he lifted her and carried her to the bed.
“I want to look at you,” he said huskily.
“Yes.” She didn’t flinch as the bedside light came on, although her cheeks reddened, even though he’d seen part of her like this before. He looked and she shivered at the bold hunger in his dark eyes as they went over her slowly, with fierce possessiveness.
“Pink satin,” he whispered, his voice deep and slow in the stillness of the room. “I wanted to look at you like this that night you were bathing, at all of you. I wanted to touch you, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t have stopped.” He reached down and spread her hair on his pillow, his eyes darkening. “Exquisite,” he whispered, his eyes sliding down her.
She shivered. She hadn’t expected him to say things like that.
He sat down beside her, still fully clothed, not touching her. His eyes searched hers. “This is the first time,” he said.
Her heart jumped. He knew!
“The first time,” he continued, “that I’ve been with a white woman in years. This is something I never meant to happen.”
She couldn’t help the relief she felt that he hadn’t guessed about her innocence. But what he was saying finally got through to her and she realized what it meant.
“You don’t have to,” she said uncertainly, because now that it was about to happen, she was nervous.
He reached out and traced one soft, firm breast, watching her body react helplessly and instantly to his touch. “I’m Apache,” he said, studying her face. “There are places inside me that you can’t see, can’t touch. Different beliefs, different customs, different lifestyles. I live in your world, but I prefer the stark simplicity of mine.” He traced around one dusky erect nipple, hearing her soft gasp. “I’ve spent years trying not to see you, Jennifer,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Years of dreams that kept my body in anguish…” He bent to her breasts, his mouth slow and ardent.
She couldn’t believe he’d said that. She shivered and arched toward his lips, holding his face to her. “You mean…you want me, too?” she asked, fascinated.
He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes. “Yes,” he said simply. “But only this once,” he added, his voice stern. “Only tonight. Never again.”
She swallowed. She wanted so much more than that, but it would have to do. She could live on this for the rest of
her life. “All right,” she whispered.
He stood with a long sigh and began to remove his own clothes. He did it with lazy grace, with a complete lack of inhibition that told her too well how familiar this was to him. She hated the other women in his life because they’d given him that expertise.
His keen eyes caught her expression and he lifted an eyebrow as he bent to remove the final barrier. “What was that hard look about?” he asked.
He turned back to her and the hard look was utterly forgotten as she stared blatantly at his nudity. He was all bronzed muscle and powerful etched lines and curves, so beautiful that she sat up and caught her breath at the perfection of his body.
“What is it?” he asked, frowning curiously.
“There was a statue in the Louvre,” she stammered. “I saw photographs of it…Greek, I think. I remember being awed by the power and beauty of it and thinking that, well, that no mortal man could come close to that kind of perfection.” She averted her eyes to the bed. “I didn’t mean to stare. I guess you’ve been told ad nauseum how…beautifully masculine you are.”
He felt the impact of that breathless adoration in her voice. He’d never heard himself described that way by anyone. His conquests had been sporadic, and even then more animal than sensual. He’d given in to his needs only when he couldn’t bear them any longer, and in his later years, it hadn’t been that often. With Jennifer, it was different. He was touched by her headlong, helpless need of him. He’d thought that it was purely physical, but her eyes were telling him otherwise. A woman didn’t look at a man like this when her only concern was fulfillment, and her shy blushing face made him uneasy.
He slid onto the bed beside her, turning her so that she was lying against him. He felt her flinch at the first touch of his aroused body, and he tilted her face so that he could see it.
“It’s frightening for a woman with every new man, isn’t it?” he asked absently. “Not knowing if he’ll be gentle or cruel, demanding or brutal?”