by JoAnn Ross
"You seem cross."
"I was just worrying about making it through the next few days without any additional surprises," he said, not quite truthfully. "If I was short with you, I apologize. It doesn't have anything to do with us." His abrupt tone signaled that he considered the matter closed.
Well, at least he was admitting that there was an us, Chantal mused on the way back to yet another hotel. Although she'd been booked into the largest suites in the finest hotels in each city, they'd begun to blur together in her mind. Only those hours she spent making love with Caine in the king-size beds stood out in riveting detail.
She'd given the matter a great deal of thought, trying to discern why it was that her days, no matter how long or wearying, were brighter with Caine in them, why her heart sang at the mere sight of him and her bones melted at his touch. Why was it that the sound of his laughter, which came more easily with each passing day, possessed the power to thrill her all the way to her toes? And how was it possible to feel more intimacy sharing a box of over-salted popcorn with Caine at a baseball game than she'd ever felt sharing a bed with Greg?
The answer, when it had finally come, in a plane thirty thousand feet over Manhattan, Kansas, had been as simple as it had been frightening. She was in love with him. And although she'd vowed after her marriage that she would never again risk her heart, she knew that there was no point in fighting it. She loved Caine. And she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.
"I'm becoming quite spoiled," she murmured once they were alone in her room. She was no longer inhibited by the fact that Drew occupied the room next to hers, while in the room across the hall two FBI men kept a watchful vigil.
"Oh?" He didn't resist as she pulled his tie from around his neck and tossed it onto a nearby chair. "In what way?"
Chantal pushed his jacket off his shoulders. "I'm discovering that I can't imagine a life without my own private bodyguard." She was gradually learning not to be disturbed by the shoulder holster and gun he wore constantly outside of the hotel rooms.
Caine shrugged out of the leather holster. He wanted to warn her that she'd better start facing reality, that their time together was rapidly coming to a close. But when she gently nudged him onto the turned down bed and began divesting him of shoes and socks, he decided that once in a while it didn't hurt to simply relax and go with the flow.
"And here we were all sure that you'd balk at the idea of a bodyguard."
For a woman who'd worried about not knowing how to please a man, Chantal had all the instincts of a first-class courtesan, Caine mused. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had massaged his feet. In fact, now that he thought of it, no one ever had.
"You should have given me more credit." Tugging his shirt free of his slacks, she proceeded to undress him with tantalizing slowness. "I know a good thing when I see it." Between each freed button, she pressed her lips against his newly bared skin. "Or taste it."
His shoulders were wide, strong, able to carry heavy burdens. His arms were subtly muscled, offering comfort and protection, as well as passion. His hands were broad, his fingers long and lean and capable of discovering flash points on her body she'd never known existed.
Once she'd freed him of his shirt, her clever fingers moved to the waistband of his navy slacks.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Her smile as she slid the slacks down his legs was positively beguiling. "Why, I'm seducing you, Caine," she murmured, tossing the slacks carelessly onto the chair. They slid to the floor; neither Chantal nor Caine noticed. She ran a ruby-tinted fingernail up the inside of his thigh. "Is it working?"
"You tell me." His arousal, straining against his white cotton briefs, was impossible to ignore. Chantal brushed tantalizing fingers over him, pleased by his resultant tremor.
Stepping away from the bed, she pulled her dress over her head, letting it fall into an emerald silk puddle at her feet. Her lacy ivory bra was next, followed in turn by a pair of lace-banded, thigh-high silk stockings and her shoes. She hitched her thumbs into the top of her outrageously skimpy underpants and slid them slowly down over her hips, never taking her seductive gaze from Caine's face.
The rising passion in her eyes tore at his self-control; needs pounded inside him. "You realize that in the old days you could have been burned at the stake for being a witch," he said, his voice unnaturally husky.
"Don't be silly." Her smile was lascivious as she knelt beside him on the mattress and brushed her lips against his. "They never burned witches in Denver."
Her hands as they traced the contours of his body caused his blood to swim. When she pulled away the briefs in order to lightly brush that part of him aching for her touch, Caine had to grit his teeth. "Sure of that, are you?"
"My tour book mentioned nothing of such practices."
Bending over him, she rained a trail of wet kisses down his chest to his taut, hard stomach, and when her lips grazed his hipbone, Chantal heard Caine's desperate voice call out to her. But she was too fascinated with her quest, too intent on exploring this heady sense of feminine power she'd discovered, to reply.
Her hands fluttered over him like delicate birds, never still as they explored, relishing the hard, lean lines that were so different from her own soft, swelling curves. Her lips pressed lingeringly, warming his flesh, heating his blood, even as she caused her own fires to burn higher.
"Lord, Chantal," Caine muttered as her tongue stroked the straining sinews of his thighs. He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp.
"Too soon," she said as her avid mouth tasted his warm, moist flesh.
Passion flowed over them as she continued to torment and tease. It was an exercise in both devastating pain and dazzling pleasure. Caine wanted Chantal to keep touching him forever; he never wanted her lips to stop skimming over his aching, throbbing body. He wanted to take her now, quickly, before he completely lost his mind. The heat was unbearable; it was exhilarating. Every ragged breath he took was an agony of effort.
Seizing her shoulders, Caine pressed her back against the mattress and surged into her with an intense blaze of passion. Chantal shuddered when he first filled her, then, wrapping her legs around him, she lifted her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust.
Reality dimmed, sanity shattered. When she cried out his name, Caine's body shuddered with release, and he knew that he would remember this moment always.
13
Seattle, Washington's Emerald City, gleamed like a jewel beside the quiet waters of Puget Sound. In the distance, the glacier-covered Mount Rainier rose through the morning fog, looking for all the world like a giant upside-down ice-cream cone.
"It's all the water that gives the city its mysterious blue glow," Chantal said, leafing through her guide book in the hotel suite. From the luxurious corner room in the high-rise tower, she possessed a dazzling view of the waterfront.
"Fascinating."
"The city is cradled by two mountain ranges—the Olympic to the west, the Cascade to the east."
"I'll try to keep that in mind," he said absently.
Caine was not in the most gregarious of moods. Not only had thoughts of Chantal kept him from sleeping, but when he had finally drifted off early this morning, he'd had a strange, surrealistic dream about the two of them starring in a colorized remake of that swashbuckling classic, Captain Blood.
And if that wasn't enough, Noel had called again, warning him not to let her sister go near the beach. Ever since their arrival in Seattle yesterday morning, he had worried that Puget Sound might contain the beach in question. Unfortunately, Noel's image had been frustratingly unspecific.
"The San Juan Archipelago consists of more than 170 islands scattered across Puget Sound, offering sailing, kayaking, fishing, beachcombing and bicycle riding. That last would be fun, don't you think? It's too bad we aren't going to be staying in the city longer."
"Yeah, too bad."
"But perhaps we could go to dinner on the pier after tonight's mayoral
reception. Unless you'd rather hire a boat and go out into the sound and attempt to catch the killer shark that has been terrorizing the city."
"Whatever you want." It took a moment for Chantal's words to sink in.. " 'Killer shark'? What are you talking about?"
Crossing the room, she sat down on his lap. "You haven't been listening to a word I've said."
"Of course I have."
Chantal had a choice. She could challenge that outrageous statement or accept his word at face value, even knowing that he was not being entirely truthful. They'd been getting along so well lately, she decided against entering into an argument.
"It is a lovely city," she murmured. Turning her gaze away from his carefully guarded face, she looked out the window. The sound was filled with white sails fluttering in the wind. How she'd love to be down there with them— with Caine—sharing a chilled bottle of champagne, the sunlit afternoon and the fresh sea breeze.
"Agreed." He brushed his fingertips down the front of her crimson blouse. The silk was soft, but Caine knew her skin was softer. "I'm sorry if I wasn't paying strict attention."
Chantal had already discovered that Caine was not a man to apologize easily. Or often. "You have a lot on your mind."
Wasn't that the truth? In the beginning, the three weeks had seemed an eternity Caine was forced to endure. Now, as their time together came to a close, the days seemed to have sprouted wings. If only they had more time—
For what? he asked himself. What difference would a few days make? Would she suddenly stop being a princess? Would he win the lottery? Inherit a million dollars from some reclusive, eccentric relative he'd never known he had? Besides, although he didn't want to admit it, the chasm between him and Chantal had little to do with money. Although it would take some getting used to, he could probably live with a rich wife, even if she was a princess. What he couldn't—wouldn't—do, even for her, was change who he was. What he was.
"You're worried," she said quietly.
"What, me worry?"
He was smiling, but Chantal could see the seeds of concern in his eyes. "It's going to be all right. I'm going to be all right," she said. He'd retreated behind those emotional barricades she'd reluctantly come to accept even as she felt her own need to breach them. "After all," she added, allowing her hand to brush through his hair, "I have a hero watching out for me."
"Drew never should have told you about that," Caine muttered grumpily.
"You wouldn't tell me how you'd injured your shoulder," Chantal reminded him. She had wondered about the angry red scar from the beginning, but when she'd asked him about it, she'd received such an abrupt dismissal that she hadn't dared bring it up again. "He's your friend. I think he wanted me to know how dedicated you are to your job. So I could understand that it's only your rigid professionalism that sometimes has you acting like Captain Bligh."
He lifted a dark brow. " 'Captain Bligh'?"
She pressed her hand against his cheek. "You have been known to be a bit bossy."
"'Bossy'? Me?"
"Well, you can't deny that you're always issuing orders."
"Orders you always refuse to obey," he reminded her.
"Not always. Actually, I was thinking just this morning how good we were getting at compromising."
"'Compromising'." That was not Caine's favorite word. To him it meant giving in, something he'd been doing with increasing frequency lately. He'd tried to tell himself that he had no choice, that if he laid down the law too hard, Chantal would just go off in another more dangerous direction. But to be perfectly honest, Caine had to admit that he was simply finding it more and more difficult to deny this woman anything.
"You remember how to compromise, don't you, Caine? I give a little." She leaned forward and kissed him. "You give a little." Her lips plucked enticingly at his grimly set ones. "And after a while we're both compromised."
Her low gurgle of sensual laughter caused desire to ripple beneath his skin. "You're incorrigible."
"And you love it," she countered, linking her fingers behind his neck. Their lips met and clung. "Caine?"
"Mmm?"
"You were a sailor, weren't you? Before you joined Presidential Security."
"I was in the navy. But I wasn't the kind of sailor you see in those old World War II movies."
"Oh." She seemed momentarily disappointed. "But do you like to sail?"
"Sure. Why?"
"Although Montacroix is a landlocked country, we do have a lovely lake—Lake Losange, or Diamond Lake," she translated for him. "When I was just a little girl. Burke taught me to sail on it. Perhaps, when all this is over, you can visit Montacroix and go sailing with me."
Caine struggled not to give in to the pull of Chantal's velvet eyes. "I don't know if that would be such a good idea."
He'd withdrawn again. Although she lacked her sister's psychic gifts, Chantal was intuitive enough to realize that the stone wall Caine kept erecting between them had been a lifetime in the making. She was foolish to believe she could have permanently breached those parapets in three short weeks. But tenacity, and her newly found love, made her want to keep trying.
"When the tour ends in Los Angeles two days from now, your assignment will be successfully completed."
"Let's hope 'successful' is the operative word."
"You would not permit it to be anything less," she said, striving to keep a light tone. "Then, when it is over, you will return to Washington and I will go home to Montacroix."
"That's the plan."
Chantal took a deep breath, garnering courage to ask the next question. "We won't ever see each other again, will we, Caine?"
Caine knew he'd had no business getting mixed up with Chantal. Despite what she'd said about only wanting a short-term affair, he'd come to know her well enough to realize that despite her flamboyant public image, she was a warm, loving, happily-ever-after kind of woman. And as sophisticated as she appeared decked out in gleaming satins and sparkling diamonds, he could also envision her in>-a pair of brief white shorts and a cotton shirt, her dark hair blowing in the breeze, laughing with easy delight as she taught her children how to sail before the wind on Lake Losange. She deserved a man who could give her a stable, loving home, a family. Unfortunately, he was not that man.
"I don't see how it could be any other way, Chantal," he said at length, not wanting to give her any false hope.
"I see." It took a concerted effort to keep the tremors from her voice.
"We both knew this was a transitory affair," Caine pointed out.
As she read the finality in his eyes, Chantal slid off his lap with a sigh. "Of course, you're right," she said, staring unseeingly out the window at the scene that only moments before had provided such pleasure. "I hadn't realized that inviting you to Montacroix for a platonic visit would breach our agreement."
"There wouldn't be anything platonic about it," Caine argued. "We both know what would happen… what always happens."
"Would that be so bad?"
Caine gripped the arms of the chair to keep himself from going to her. "It would only complicate things even more."
"And you're a man who doesn't like complications," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Is that all I've been to you, Caine?" she asked, turning around to face him. "A complication? A screwdriver thrown into the perfectly tuned machinery of your life?"
"Monkey wrench," he muttered.
"What?"
"It's a monkey wrench, not a screwdriver, and surely you realize that you mean a helluva lot more to me than that."
She'd known from the beginning that Caine was a man capable of restraining his emotions, of holding them back from himself and others. He was a difficult man to know, and an even more difficult man to love, but she'd fallen in love with him anyway. And heaven help her, she couldn't stop just because he was breaking her heart.
"Obviously not enough."
Unable to resist the silent appeal in her eyes, Caine pushed himself out of the chair and wen
t over to her. "Look, Chantal, you're a terrific woman. The way you make me feel is probably illegal in at least a dozen states, and I'd love nothing more than to spend the rest of my life making mad, passionate love to you."
The idea sounded wonderful to Chantal. "But… ?"
"But the truth of the matter is that I'm enough of a realist to know that such a fantasy would never work. We're two different people, Chantal."
"Actually, I think we have a great deal in common," she felt obliged to point out. "We're both single-minded, cautious in our relationships with other people, extremely loyal to our friends and family…"
"That's not what I'm talking about."
She arched a sable brow. "Oh?"
"Our life-styles are too different."
"If you mean because I live in a palace and you live in an apartment, that could be altered."
He narrowed his eyes. "I couldn't move to Montacroix. I have my own life here in the States, my work. I would never live off a woman."
"I don't believe I asked you to," she snapped. Taking a deep breath that was meant to calm but didn't, she added, "I was suggesting the other alternative."
Caine realized she was striking back because she was hurting, and he didn't blame her. Still, he couldn't even begin to take her suggestion seriously.
"That you move into my apartment? With me?"
His look was frankly incredulous and, Chantal was forced to admit, none too inviting.
"Forget I mentioned it," she said, turning away from his piercing gray eyes. "It was a foolishly romantic suggestion, obviously brought on by jet lag, too much stress and not enough sleep." Marching into the adjoining bedroom, she slammed the door behind her with enough force to cause the Matisse print on the wall to tilt.
Dragging his hands through his hair, Caine told himself it was going to be a very long two days.
The man was drinking champagne out of a crystal flute as he stood at the window and stared out over the sparkling, sun-gilded water. At first he'd been furious when his carefully conceived plan had failed in Philadelphia. Now, however, he realized that he'd been wrong to assign Karl to the job.