by Julie Kenner
She bit into a sugar-glazed donut, her green eyes sparkling with delight. “Yum. Where have you been all my life?”
“Do you always talk to donuts?”
She licked a stray dab of sugar from her lips. “Who said I was talking to the donut?”
He shook his head at her—but with a chuckle. If he couldn’t touch her, he sure as hell could feast his eyes on flesh that looked better than a scrumptious gourmet meal. “Surely you don’t make those kind of remarks to every patient?”
She locked gazes with him. “Only the ones with silky black hair and smoky eyes. Only the ones my fingers are tingling to touch. Only the ones with bodies hot enough to tempt me.”
“Tempt you to what exactly?”
She considered the donuts as if deciding whether or not to indulge in another. “Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.”
“You haven’t asked any.” He didn’t mind waiting as he feasted on her magnificent curves. But despite his interest, his body didn’t exhibit as much as a flicker of desire. Normally once his brain engaged, his body quickly followed suit.
The other doctors had told him his damaged nerve endings needed time to heal. But he wasn’t so sure. He’d awakened this morning with a perfectly good hard-on and he suspected his problem had nothing to do with his physiology and everything to do with psychology. Perhaps he just needed the right woman to entice him.
Her silky voice held a challenge. “I’m thinking.”
“Looks to me like you’re thinking about eating.”
The creamy filling had oozed onto her finger and she sucked it off unselfconsciously. “I can think and eat at the same time.” She popped the lid of her coffee, poured in cream and sugar, then stirred. Finally she sipped and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. “So what did Kincaid tell you about me?”
“That you were special.” He grinned at her. “Logan Kincaid only hires the best. He’s always been a master of understatement, but this time he outdid himself.”
“Why, thank you.”
She leaned back in her lounge chair, sipped her coffee and crossed her lovely legs at the ankles. “Did Kincaid mention that my methods are unconventional?”
“To meet you is to know that.” He took a cup of coffee for himself and watched her expressive face, admiring the way she always seemed so on top of her game, as if she had no doubt that she could pry the data out of his stubborn head.
She rolled her eyes at the vine-topped gazebo. “You’ve already figured me out in less than a day?”
Unable to resist the enticing scent of those sweet donuts, he picked up one and carefully bit into it, appreciating the sugary confection more than usual, no doubt due to the company. “I had you pegged as a rebel from the moment you told me your career choice.”
“I see. Would you object to me brushing a feather over your arm?” She switched subjects on him faster than a channel surfer with a TV remote.”
He almost choked on the donut. “You’re into feathers?”
She laughed, her amusement genuine. “I’m into all kinds of pleasure. Specifically touch.”
He tensed, his muscles rigid as if expecting an attack. “I don’t like to be touched, doc.”
“Bonnie,” she insisted. “Do you know why?”
“The shrink at the hospital tried to explain it. Although he used too many technical words, the bottom line is that it’s a result of my…captivity.”
She nodded. “That’s too simplistic. What you’ve experienced is complex and gives us quite a challenge. Suppose you loved peach ice cream. You liked the creamy taste in your mouth, the soft texture on your tongue, the cool slickness as you swallow.”
“I’m with you so far.”
She licked the sugar off her fingers, slowly, seductively as if she weren’t lecturing at the same time. “Then someone mixes your favorite peach ice cream with just a dash of peanut butter. Only, you’re allergic to peanut butter. Your throat closes up. You break into a sweat. Your pulse skyrockets and the chest pain makes you wonder if you’re having a heart attack. EMS takes you to the hospital where they pump your stomach.”
“I get the picture.”
“Then your mother comes to visit and brings you peach ice cream—but the idea of eating it makes you nauseous now. Your stomach churns. But it’s not your body reacting to the peach flavor. It’s your mind that is trying to protect you from eating peanut butter. Only the signals are crossed, confused. The stronger the mind, the harder it is to separate the mixed signals.”
Finally an explanation that made sense. He admired her ability to avoid the psychobabble other doctors had spouted. “And that’s why after they hooked me up to a gazillion volts of electricity I no longer want to touch or be touched. My signals are mixed up?”
“Yep. But have no fear.” She held up a white feather. “Doctor Bonnie’s here.”
“With her trusty feather?” Tense muscles eased a little. Not all the way, but enough for him to ignore the tautness which continually reminded him that failure to recall what he’d repressed might mean the death of thousands of innocent Americans.
“I want this feather to skim over some skin. But we won’t touch flesh to flesh.”
His aversion to touching was something he was sure he’d eventually overcome on his own. But he needed to remember now, before innocent people died.
Because Kincaid had briefed her, she knew that after John and his partner had infiltrated a terrorist cell, they’d uncovered a plot to simultaneously detonate fifty bombs in the U.S., one in every state. Their mission had been to acquire the master list of terrorists with the exact location of where the bombs would be set off. If he’d been able to pass on the information, the entire terrorist cell could have been caught before anyone was killed. Only before he could divulge the information, his partner had been exposed and murdered. John had been captured, and the terrorists had been desperate to know how much of their plan had been revealed. John refused to give up that critical information and had suppressed the information during torture. But after his rescue, no matter how hard he’d tried, he couldn’t remember the crucial data. “Look, the goal here is to—”
“You don’t have to understand, John. In fact, it might be better if you didn’t. Try not to think.” She waved the feather. “Just cooperate.”
He didn’t understand what feathers had to do with retrieving his memory, but none of the regular docs’ suggestions had worked, so he’d give the unconventional Dr. Bonnie’s methods a try. Kincaid was brilliant, had terrific taste in women and surrounded himself with experts. “If Kincaid believes you can help me recover the missing data, then I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” He held out his hand.
“Palm up, please.” He steeled himself for the featherlight touch.
But she didn’t use the feather. Instead, she uncrossed her legs, sat up and bent over to peer at his palm, revealing deep cleavage encased in a startling neon-yellow bra that peeked out of her clingy red top. “You have a very long life line.”
“What?” The woman was incorrigible. He was positive she’d bent forward to distract him, using his natural inclinations against him. He scowled at her because her tactic had worked. He couldn’t think too much about feathers with her magnificent breasts right there in his face. “Now you’re a palm reader?”
“One of my many talents.” She grinned, straightening. “However, I’m also a whiz with a feather.”
“And so humble, too.” His voice was light. Although he was by no means relaxed and doubted he would be until he recalled where he’d stashed the missing data, he no longer tensed from neck to toes.
Her flirty attitude kept him off balance, just enough to take the edge off his nerves and the horrible pressure of knowing what was at stake. He didn’t understand why she needed to overcome his aversion to touch to help him reclaim his memories. Yet, all his work and the death of his partner would be for nothing if he didn’t remember.
At the moment, his brain told him
that the feather wouldn’t hurt him, but as she’d pointed out, his signals were confused. He didn’t quite understand how she intended to straighten him out, or how she would help him retrieve his memory and the critical information the Shey Group desperately needed. However, her presence was so delightful, especially compared to the stodgy doctors who’d treated him before, that he’d willingly go along.
“Stop thinking,” she ordered.
“How?” he countered.
She glanced at the sun and back to him. “Have you noticed that it’s going to be another scorcher?”
“This is typical Miami weather in July.”
She placed the feather in his palm. “Hold this a sec.”
And then she pulled off her tank top. His lower jaw dropped, leaving his mouth open as he stared at that neon-yellow bra, which he now saw had tiny holes in the lace. Peekaboo holes that gave him savory glimpses of coral aureoles. How the bra stayed up without straps, he had no idea. He stared at her breasts that were so full they overflowed the lace, blinked and stared some more. He anticipated that she would fall right out, especially when she breathed.
He arched a brow but couldn’t stop grinning. “You are deliberately trying to distract me, aren’t you?”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe I need a little more incentive.”
“You want incentive? I’ll give you incentive.” He held his breath, half expecting her to remove another article of clothing. When she didn’t, he was only slightly disappointed. Especially when she proposed something almost as exciting. “Now take the feather and stroke me.”
“Stroke you?”
“Anywhere you like.”
He thought she’d intended to touch him with the feather, but her words had just made him a happy man. “Come here.”
He spread his thighs, and she pulled her chair closer. Close enough for him to appreciate the scent of her spicy perfume. Close enough to see her pulse flicker at her elegant throat. Close enough for him to hear her ragged intake of breath.
Twirling the feather between his fingers, he drew out the moment. And then ever so lightly he tickled her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her breasts. Her green eyes flamed, but she didn’t move one muscle. When her nipples hardened into buds and one of them actually poked through the lace, his mouth watered and he had the urge to tip his head down and take that sweet bud between his lips.
As if reading his mind, she shook her head, her golden-streaked hair reminding him of a lioness on the prowl. “Don’t touch me. You only get to use the feather.”
“Why?” That coral nipple surrounded by neon-yellow lace tempted him, taunted him. He was sure that tonight, if he slept at all, he would dream of yellow and chestnut tresses streaked with gold, of tasting her flesh and lips. Of making love. Just the sight of that tiny pucker of flesh had sweat beading his forehead. “Why do I only get to use the feather?”
“Because if I can’t touch you, then you can’t touch me.”
“Did I ever tell you how much I dislike logical women?” He twisted the feather around her nipple, taking immense pleasure as the bud swelled. Shifting his attention to her other breast, he tried to tease out her nipple. This side budded, but the lace interfered, driving him to distraction and preventing success.
“Is that why you’ve broken into a sweat?” She picked up a napkin and dabbed at the sweat trickling down his brow.
And he didn’t flinch! Truth be told, he remained so absorbed in coaxing that nipple out between the peepholes of her lacy bra, her napkin dabbing couldn’t bother him. Just a few more strokes of the feather, a few more breaths to shift the lace…and nipple success.
Oh, yeah. She looked absolutely stunning with those two little nubs swelling amid all that yellow. He wished he had a camera, but he took a mental picture he would never forget. He didn’t know how they were going to overcome his problem, but the desire bubbling through his veins convinced him that making love to this woman was as inevitable as his eventually finding a new line of work. He’d given his all to the Shey Group and was ready for a change, ready to spend more time with a woman like Bonnie, instead of holed up in some third-world country being shot at. Happier than he’d been in a long time, he swirled the feather over her belly, but he kept returning to her breasts to ensure that she remained just as he wanted her.
“I can see you are a man who likes to be thorough.” Her voice was amused, low, husky.
“I’m a man who likes what he sees.”
“Would you like to see more?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“How do you feel about getting naked?”
John gave her question more consideration than he would have liked. Before his torture sessions, he’d had no compunction about walking around nude. Or taking off his clothes. But now, although he had no physical scars, he tended to wear boxers since nudity reminded him of vulnerabilities he didn’t want to remember.
And yet, he’d have liked nothing better than for her to remove that yellow bra. For his gaze to have unimpeded access to her magnificent breasts. Just thinking about those coral tips made his mouth go dry and his pulse skip.
“I don’t like the idea of being the only one naked,” John responded, curious to see how she’d react. He’d never expect Bonnie to blush. She didn’t. Nor did her deep green eyes widen. She didn’t fidget, cross or uncross her tanned legs or tap her bare feet. She didn’t as much as tighten her glossy pink lips, either. With the aura of a sophisticated and experienced woman who appreciated her own sensuality, she arched her back and her breasts strained against the fabric.
“So you wouldn’t object to taking off your clothes if I removed mine?”
“Is that an offer?” he countered.
“Maybe.” She held out her hand for the feather. “My turn.”
Reluctantly, he gave it to her, guessing that she now intended to touch him in return. But he wasn’t as tense as he expected. After all, she’d already dabbed him with that napkin and he’d been fine. He hadn’t been mentally jolted straight back to the torture chamber like every other time someone had touched him.
She tapped the feather on his nose, startling him. “You’re thinking again.”
He rubbed his chin. “It’s a habit of mine.”
“Well, if you must think, tell me where the best place is on this estate to make love.” She caressed his cheek.
“That tickles.”
“I know.” She glanced at her breasts. “I’m still aroused.”
Her nipples weren’t quite as erect, until he locked his eyes on them. His attention alone seemed to make her swell again, making him quite proud of his effect on her.
“There’s a hot tub off the balcony of the master suite. That might be a good place to make love.”
“Where else?” She brushed the feather over one shoulder, then the other.
“The walk-in shower?”
The feather brushed his ear. “Do you have a water fetish?”
“I think I’m going to have a shrink fetish.”
She chuckled, her lips forming a secret smile. “You know what I’m wearing under these white shorts?”
“I haven’t a clue.” He swallowed hard as he considered her question. He eyed where her waistband skimmed her flat abdomen and sexy belly button. Unlike the bra that had peeked out onto the satin of her breasts, he didn’t glimpse as much as a scrap of material sticking out of those low-riding white shorts.
Light smoldered in her dark green eyes. “This lingerie is a matching set.”
A matching set? Oh…my…God.
He imagined her in peekaboo panties and his blood began to boil as he envisioned what other delectable part of her he could tease with the feather. And when she traced the feather over his pectoral muscles, he had to remind himself to breathe. Because the tiny wisps shot prickles of desire straight to his core.
Blood surged south and he shifted uncomfortably as the seam of his jeans cut off circulation. With just her words and body, she had him fired
up as if there were some tangible bond between them. Her vitality captivated him, charmed him. Her brazen sensuality had his heartbeat throbbing and his senses off kilter. His admiration for her methods escalated.
The satisfied curve of her lips told him she knew exactly what she was doing. She glanced at the bulge between his legs and her eyes brightened. “I’ll take off my shorts if you remove those jeans.”
After that tempting suggestion, she swirled the feather over his nipples, jerking him to his feet.
“Deal.” He didn’t have to think twice about her suggestion. She had him all geared up. While he hadn’t forgotten the stakes, she’d made his memories take a back seat to the temptations she kept placing in front of him. Mostly he thought about touching her. Kissing her. Making love to her. And he most definitely wanted to see those yellow panties. “But I believe it’s my turn to use the feather.”
CHAPTER THREE
BONNIE WATCHED HIM remove his jeans with no more inhibitions than a stripper. So far, so good. Very good.
Despite the torture he’d suffered, at six foot four inches tall, John Cameron was lean, fit and the picture of good health. With his tapered muscles and long limbs, he could have been America’s poster boy for the Olympic decathlon, until one looked deep into his smoky eyes and saw that he was a man who had been to hell and back.
If she succeeded in helping him remember what he’d lost, not only would she help save thousands of innocent lives, she would alleviate his terrible stress. John was a man of high principles, a man who’d refused to reveal information under extreme duress. For him not to be able to remember vital information that could prevent terrorist attacks had to be its own kind of torture.
John evoked all of Bonnie’s sympathy and stirred her compassion, not to mention her fantasies. After all, she’d gone to medical school to help people. And if the exciting man needing her special touch happened to be gorgeous, sexy and willing, and being with him gave her joy, she certainly planned to make the most of this opportunity.