The Haviland Touch

by Kay Hooper

  She blinked. “Wales? What’s in Wales?”

  “A castle. With a moat and a drawbridge. It kept out invaders a few centuries ago. I think it can keep the world at bay long enough for you and I to have a little unhurried time alone.” He kissed her again, just as briefly as before. “Do me a favor and stay in the suite while I’m gone, all right?”

  “All right,” she agreed, a bit dazed. It wasn’t until she was in the suite a few minutes later that she wondered why he’d asked her to stay put, and by then she was thinking clearly enough to know the answer.

  He had warned her, more than once, that by going after the cross she was entering a dangerous world where the rules were different and the stakes were high enough to spark violence. All afternoon, she realized now, Drew had been unusually alert. That was why she’d sensed a distraction in him—and partly why he’d made certain she never strayed from his side. Despite his almost lazy attitude and the casual questions to his contacts, he had been extremely wary and watchful.

  She didn’t know if he expected trouble or was merely cautious enough to be vigilant, but it was clear that Drew was readying himself for whatever might come.

  Spencer frowned as she pushed herself away from the door she’d been leaning against since coming into the suite and walked slowly into the sitting room, dropping her tote bag absently onto a chair. She wondered about the contacts he was trying to locate now, the ones he’d said wouldn’t talk to him unless he was alone. She doubted that was because they were shy. Maybe her imagination hadn’t been so far off when she’d envisioned furtive meetings in dangerous places.

  “He knows what he’s doing,” she said, startling herself with the sound of her own voice in the silent room. She blinked and looked around, seeing that she’d been right in thinking he would get a one-bedroom suite. The realization distracted her mind from anxious thoughts that, if not entirely leaving her, at least retreated a bit so that they were shadows in the back of her awareness.

  She went into the bedroom, turning on a lamp since it was getting dark outside. The king-size bed had been readied for the night, covers turned back invitingly. It was odd, she thought, the things that got to you: her bags and Drew’s had been brought up by a bellman and were now neatly on luggage racks near the bed. The sight of them made her throat ache for some reason.

  Before she could ponder that, she looked at the phone on the nightstand and noticed that the message light was blinking, and a pang of fear shot through her. Had Tucker called about her father? Had he—

  Then she remembered that she hadn’t known where they’d be staying, so Tucker couldn’t know, either, or at least it wasn’t likely that he could know, and her racing heart slowed. She went over and sat on the bed, then lifted the receiver and called down to the desk. The message turned out to be for Drew, and she wrote it on a notepad she found in the top drawer of the nightstand.

  It was a simple message, though it made little sense to Spencer. Someone named Pendleton had called and said that they were in Madrid if Drew needed them. They? Who were they? Friends, or at least allies, from the sound of it. Were they, she wondered, some of the people Drew had gotten in touch with early this morning in Paris? Or had one of his questions today sent a ripple all the way to Spain? The terse message seemed to presuppose that he’d know where in Madrid he could find them. Spencer had no idea if he would, but made a mental note to ask because she was curious.

  While she was sitting on the edge of the bed, she called home to let Tucker know where she was staying and to check on her father. Unexpressive as always, Tucker told her that her father seemed to be stronger physically, but that he’d been fretting over her.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, he’s been muttering in German, a language I’ve never been comfortable in, but I gather he’s saying something about a journal you haven’t seen.”

  Spencer frowned to herself. “I saw all the journals that related to his notes. Didn’t I?”

  “I thought so.” Tucker paused, then continued slowly. “Just before he had the stroke he received a package from a man who had been doing research for him. It could have held a journal.”

  She knew that her father had hired researchers during the past few years, because his doctors had forbidden him to do any globetrotting, but she wasn’t certain what information they’d been instructed to search for. A journal she hadn’t seen?

  “Tucker . . . without upsetting Dad, try to get him to tell you what he means, all right? If there is a journal, try to find it. I need to at least know who wrote it, especially if Dad thinks it’s important.”

  “He may be rambling, you realize that?”

  “Yes. But try, anyway.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.” Tucker was a storehouse of information, especially when it came to the people with whom Allan Wyatt had associated throughout his life, and Spencer wondered . . . She hesitated, feeling a bit foolish, then said, “Tucker? Does Drew have a castle?”

  There was a moment of silence and then Tucker’s voice carried over the line calmly. “In Wales, I believe.”

  “Oh.” What else was there to say in response to that, she wondered. How would she have reacted at eighteen, discovering that her prince had an honest-to-God castle? For heaven’s sake . . . “I was . . . just wondering. I’ll try to call tomorrow, but we may be up in the mountains most of the day so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.”

  “Take care.”

  Her laugh was a little shaky. “Drew’s doing that. ’Bye, Tucker.”

  After hanging up the phone she went into the sitting room to turn on a couple of lamps and the television set, which she tuned to an international news program in English, more for the sound of voices than because there was anything in particular she wanted to know about. Deciding once again not to unpack except what was necessary, she chose a change of clothing for the following day—anticipating a ride into the mountains—and sleepwear.

  The last gave her something of a problem. She’d packed for practicality and comfort on this trip, and her bedtime choices consisted of a couple of overlarge sleep shirts. They were dandy for sleeping when one slept alone, but hardly what any self-respecting woman would call sexy. Last night a thick hotel robe had hidden the sight of a football-jersey-type shirt from Drew’s gaze.

  What about tonight? Spencer wasn’t a vain woman, but she was certainly feminine enough to want to look her best tonight of all nights. After debating with herself briefly, she left the sleep shirts packed, got her room key and tote bag and left the suite. She’d told Drew she would stay in the suite, but surely going down to that little shop off the lobby wouldn’t hurt.

  Luckily, it didn’t. Spencer was able to get down there and back in fifteen minutes without incident. She didn’t know whether to be amused or distressed by the pride that had sent her in search of a nightgown. Here she was, in Innsbruck, Austria, engaged in a kind of treasure hunt for a centuries-old cross, with possible enemies lurking about, and the goal uppermost in her mind had been to buy a sexy nightgown.

  In the end, she had to laugh at herself, and that wry amusement turned out to be a blessing. Without it she probably would have been forced to cope with ragged nerves much sooner.

  It wasn’t so bad at first. She took a long shower, washed and dried her hair, then put on the shimmering lavender nightgown and negligee. She ordered some fruit juice to be sent up before room service closed down for the night—the inn didn’t keep chain-hotel hours—and sipped a glass of that as she watched the coverage of a competition at the Olympic Ice Stadium on television.

  Sometime around nine she found herself staring at her hands, vaguely bothered. Her nails were still long and perfectly polished. She kept them that way, requiring a conscious effort considering her rough work with horses, because her mother had had beautiful hands. But Drew had said something that first night, she remembered now. Something about hands that had never done any work.

  Frow
ning, she dug out her travel manicure set, stripped off the pale polish and ruthlessly filed her nails down to neat, short ovals. She told herself it was because they’d probably have to do some digging or the like tomorrow and long nails would only get in her way. It wasn’t, of course, because of anything Drew had said.

  As time passed, things began nagging at her. All kinds of things. Where was Drew? Was he all right? That journal . . . A journal her father thought she hadn’t read, and why was it important? She’d run from Drew ten years ago—what made her think she could handle him now? Furtive meetings in dangerous places. She was asking for heartache, just asking for it, and he’d been so angry that first night, a man couldn’t change that much in such a short time. Could he? Was he all right? He was the threat to their competitors for the cross, not her, so he’d be the target if someone wanted to . . . Reece had been the glitter; was Drew the gold? He’d been gone a long time, but surely he knew what he was doing. Surely. Would she please him as a lover? She felt so nervous about that. She lost control when he kissed her, touched her, and maybe . . . The intensity of her response to him was something she’d never felt before, something overwhelming . . . Was that wrong?

  The jumble of questions and thoughts went on and on, becoming more tangled as the minutes ticked past. A small, rational voice in her head told her it was just nerves, that she was worried about Drew, about them and what they might be after tonight, about her father and the cross, but the whisper of reason didn’t help. Uncertainties were chasing her like tiny, snapping demons, and her earlier confidence began to desert her. There was too much she couldn’t control, and she’d fought so hard for at least the illusion of control in the past months.

  An illusion. That’s what it was. Or a delusion. Yes, she was deluding herself. Falling in love with him all over again despite the mess she’d made of things the first time—

  The realization had barely risen in her mind when the sound of a key in the door cut through the silence. She had turned off the television and had been pacing. When she heard the door being unlocked she stopped near the bedroom door and swung around to face the short hallway.

  When Drew stepped inside and closed the door, what he saw made him forget everything except her. She had obviously just turned toward him, the full skirts of her long nightgown and negligee sweeping out around her, and the silky material shimmered with the movement. Her black hair tumbled around her shoulders, and wide gray eyes met his with a disturbed intensity he could feel as well as see.

  He came slowly into the room, shrugging out of his jacket, and dropping it carelessly onto a chair. He stopped a few feet away from her, trying and failing to read the emotions stirring in her eyes. The light was too dim or she was too wary—he didn’t know which. Wary himself, he said, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She took a quick breath, almost as if she’d forgotten to breathe for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was husky. “Did you find out anything?”

  “No, but there’s a good chance we’ll know something by morning.”

  Spencer moved away from the bedroom doorway and away from him, toward a window. “I called home. Tucker says Dad’s fretting. Something about a journal I haven’t seen.” Her voice sounded nervous to her own ears, and she tried to steady it. “I don’t even know if it’s important, but Tucker’s promised to try and get Dad to explain. If he can. Sometimes Dad gets an idea into his head and just won’t let go, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. It may not mean anything—”

  “Spencer.”

  She felt herself tense even more, and a sudden wave of panic swept over her. No, it was a mistake, another mistake. She wasn’t ready for this, she couldn’t handle him, he was too much and she’d be lost in him. She swung around to voice the wild protest, but it tangled in her throat when she found him too close. He’d crossed the space between them in silence, and she couldn’t back away because there was nowhere for her to go.

  Drew didn’t give her a chance to try to move, or to say anything at all. He pulled her stiff body into his arms, bent his head and covered her parted lips with his. He kissed her with a hunger so intense it seared through her like a brand, his mouth hard and greedy, his tongue sliding into her mouth with the certain intimacy of a lover.

  Her rigidity melted away instantly, her body molding itself pliantly to his. She lifted her arms to slide them around his lean waist, holding on to him, her panic replaced by a wave of sharp pleasure and urgent need every bit as uncontrollable. As always, she was his the moment he touched her, doubts and questions scattered to the winds, the familiar desire spreading through her like wildfire.

  She murmured a faint, wordless protest when his mouth left hers, opening her eyes reluctantly. She wondered with only vague interest why she had wanted to protest this. She belonged here, in his arms. She belonged to him.

  “I left you alone too long,” he said thickly, one hand sliding down her back to press her even closer. The blue heat in his eyes intensified when she caught her breath, and a muscle leaped in his taut jaw. “Maybe that was the mistake I made before.”

  “Mistake?” She felt so dazed and feverish that she could hardly think.

  “I should have ignored the rules.” His lips feathered along her jaw, and when her head fell back helplessly he explored the vulnerable flesh of her throat. “I shouldn’t have given you time enough to think.”

  Spencer didn’t want to think now—she only wanted to feel. Her whole body was hot and aching, her heart was racing and she couldn’t seem to breathe. Her body moved against his, instinctively seeking, and the instant response of his hard body sent a shudder of need rippling through her.

  Drew made a low, rough sound and kissed her again, the intensity of his desire already so much greater that it was as if he touched her with a live wire. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers digging into his back, and all the strength drained out of her in a rush.

  Still kissing her urgently, he gently broke the death grip of her arms and swept her up, carrying her into the bedroom. She was dimly aware of the movement, conscious of a feeling of lightness in his arms as if she were floating. Then she was on her feet again, beside the bed and still enveloped in his heat. The negligee was tugged from her shoulders, and her hands blindly pushed his sweater up until he paused long enough to yank it off and throw it aside.

  He hadn’t worn a shirt under the sweater, and when her hands encountered his bare skin she made an unconscious sound of pleasure. The hard muscles of his back rippled under her seeking fingers, his flesh smooth and heated, and she loved the way he felt beneath her touch. And the way his touch felt. She could feel his mouth moving down her throat, feel the hot darts of his tongue touching her skin. His elegant, powerful hands cupped her buttocks, moving sensuously as the silk of her nightgown provided a slippery friction, and he began drawing the long skirt up slowly as his fingers caressed her.

  “You feel so good,” he muttered hoarsely, strong fingers kneading her firm flesh and slowly, very slowly, gathering the material of her skirt into his hands as he pulled it up.

  Spencer got her own hands between them and touched his hard stomach that was ridged with muscle, then moved higher to explore the hair-roughened expanse of his chest. Unlike most blond men, Drew possessed a literal pelt of golden hair covering his chest, so soft and thick to the touch that she wanted to purr at the erotic feel of it. Her breasts seemed to swell, her nipples tighten in anticipation, and she was suddenly wild to press herself against him.

  Then she felt his hands on her bare bottom, the skin of his palms a little rough, and a jolt of pleasure caught at her breath, “Drew,” she whispered, unconsciously pleading, her short nails digging into his chest. She couldn’t bear much more; the intensity of sensation was so sharp it was a bittersweet pain.

  He raised his head and looked down at her, his hands still moving over her silky flesh. He was so hungry for her that the slow caresses were torture, but it was a torture he had to endure. For
ten years she had haunted his dreams, thoughts and memories of her shut up in his subconscious because his waking mind had been too bitter to accept them, and touching her now was as necessary to him as every beat of his heart.

  She was here, in his arms, her smoke-gray eyes dazed and lovely face soft with wanting him, reality instead of a dream, and he wanted to prolong the loving no matter what it cost him. He wanted to explore all the textures of her body, touch and taste and sate himself in her. Even more, he wanted to please her, and needed to forge a bond between them that would leave them connected when morning and all its potential problems intruded.

  “I want you so much,” he said in a thickened, rasping voice, merging all the wants and needs into a single, overwhelmingly simple statement.

  “Yes,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on his face. “Yes, please.”

  He kissed her parted lips again and again, feeling her hands moving restlessly against his chest, and when she kissed him back wildly the threads of his self-control began snapping. What his mind wanted and his body could stand were two different things. Desire spiraled inside him, hot and greedy, and a ragged sound escaped him.

  He pulled the nightgown up and off her, tossing it aside, then lifted her in almost the same motion and bent to lay her on the bed. Reluctant to stop touching her even for a moment, he swiftly discarded the remainder of his clothing, unable to take his eyes off her. She was beautiful, slender and perfectly formed, her breasts surprisingly round and firm, her waist tiny and hips curved gently. He’d always thought her beautiful clothed, but naked she was magnificent. Her black hair spread out on the pillow in a cloud of gleaming darkness around her face, and she was looking at him with gray eyes so bottomless he knew he could lose himself in them.

  Naked, he eased down beside her, moving slowly because he was fighting to control himself. His need for her had grown so intense it edged into savagery, and the delicacy of her slight body was a vivid reminder of how easily he could hurt her. He kissed her deeply, exploring the warm sweetness of her mouth, and her arms lifted around his neck.