Double Entendre

by Heather Graham

  “You’ve had it!” he growled very low, for her ears alone. But there was no loss of malice in those words because of their quietness. He tightened his arms around hers. Her knees were forced almost to her nose, and suddenly his fingers were streaking far less than gently into her hair and her head was being arched back, her eyes forced to his. And then he was lowering his lips to hers, hovering just above them to whisper, “You are an honest-to-God idiot, Colleen. Haven’t you understood anything? Your life could be in danger!”

  “Yours is going to be in danger if you don’t let me down!” Colleen whispered furiously in return. She didn’t dare shout; his grip on her hair was too painful. Tears were already burning in her eyes, and she’d be damned to a thousand hells before she ever cried in front of him.

  “Always full of threats!” he responded. And then his lips crushed down on hers. They tasted like Miller Lite and like him. Even as she pressed furiously against his chest and tried to twist from the calculated assault, she felt an inward melting. Warmth and persuasion and whirlwind command were blended uniquely in his touch; he was angry, and she knew it by the force of his lips. But it was as if he had found something unexpected and shattering—just as she had when his mouth descended to hers. The movement of his lips, the provocative velvet thrust of his tongue, tantalized her flesh, along her teeth, finding warm interior crevices that sent erotic sensations all through her body. Maybe it was just memory, memory of all that had once been, and maybe her traitorous flesh recalled all too easily that he was a man as unique as his kiss.

  For a moment she went slack in his arms, savoring his taste and scent, the hard, breathtaking pressure of his lips. And then something inside her seemed to erupt with both pleasure and pain. She loved him, God, how she had loved him. She had felt completely destroyed when he had left her. And now…to appear the concerned and outraged husband before a neighbor… He was using her again! While she went hot and pliant with love and desire, he was merely honing his seductive skills!

  She started to growl deep in her throat, fighting him again. The pity of it was that it made little difference. He moved his hand against her hair, as if to caress her.

  He pressed her face back to his chest as he broke the kiss. “By George, Mr. Pierson, I think I’ve got it!” he called out cheerfully. “Good night!”

  Colleen knew he couldn’t make out her words as she cursed him furiously. The sandy hairs on his chest were tickling her nose; she felt the ripple of his muscles as he hurried back down the street with her in his arms like a wayward colt.

  At last she managed to twist her head and lambaste him in a fashion that allowed him to clearly comprehend her every word. But it was too late by then; they were reentering the house through the front door. Her epithets were failing to disturb him. Colleen thought angrily and a little desperately, “You are incredible. Your ego, your manners. You haven’t got a shred of common decency in your body. You’d sell your mother for a story—”

  She broke off because she was suddenly falling through the air and landing hard and breathlessly on the sofa where he had so recently been sipping his beer. She drew a deep breath, ready to attack again, but he was suddenly leaning over her, not touching her, but locking her between the parallel bars of his arms and staring at her with features drawn taut and grim. “Colleen, shut up.”

  She swallowed, trying to find the courage to hold fast to her righteous rebellion.

  “And if I don’t, McAllistair?”

  “I think you will,” he said quietly, and although there was no threat at all in his words, there was in his voice. And she had run out of things to call him anyway, although a few might well bear repeating, she thought.

  He waited. She chose not to say any more, but stared at him with fires sizzling in the gold centers of her eyes.

  He sighed and moved. Wasn’t that movement worth a moment’s silence? she asked herself. She couldn’t bear for him to be so close. She didn’t dare take a chance of forgetting what he had done to her because, no matter how she might ridicule herself for it, the attraction was still there, made more powerful by absence and longing. She had learned when he left that no other man was like him, that all men would fall short in comparison.

  She hadn’t known that just seeing him could fill her with such painful longing. Dear God, she was a bright and intelligent woman. She knew that only fools clung to a relationship that could give nothing in return!

  For a long while his eyes held hers; then he sighed, rubbed the back of his neck and wandered toward the patio. “Colleen, you really don’t understand the importance of what has happened or the danger.”

  Was he talking about the story or himself?

  “And you don’t understand that you’ve been out of my life for a long time! I didn’t even know that you were back in the country, much less the state or city! And even if you legally own half of this house, you had no right to break into it or into my life!” she stormed in reply, jumping off the couch to follow him halfway across the room. “That was assault out there on the sidewalk! I should call the police! Maybe Mr. Pierson doesn’t know that our divorce is pending, but Marge certainly does, and—and you can’t just run around doing things like this, Bret!”

  He turned to face her, mockingly arching a tawny, well-defined brow to hide the bitterness in his heart. He’d been back for a month. He’d tried to keep his distance until he’d been called about Rutger and heard that Colleen was involved. Then he’d known he had to see her because, no matter what her feelings were, he couldn’t bear the thought of her in danger.

  “You ran out on me,” he said pointedly.

  “I ran out on you!”

  “You were supposed to come to the living room.”

  “Oh…Lord!” Colleen threw up her hands in exasperation. “I didn’t make any deals with you, Bret McAllistair. You broke into the house, you invaded—”

  “Why did you change the locks?”

  “Because I didn’t want you back in here!”

  “It is half my house.”

  “Oh, God, this is getting us nowhere!”

  “How true,” he replied dryly. “Sit, Colleen, and start talking.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  He laughed with no amusement. “Now that, my dear Mrs. McAllistair, I don’t believe. You’ve always had plenty to say, whether I wanted to hear it or not.”

  “You’re mistaken. You’re the one who always had things to say.”

  Bret opened his mouth as if to argue with her, then shut it with what seemed to be an audible snap of the jaw. He walked across the room and took her by the shoulders with such conviction that she didn’t think to shake his hands away.

  “Colleen, this thing is serious. Can’t you ever trust me? I’m not here to take anything away from you.”

  She moved back, hands on her hips, her head cocked slightly as she looked at him. “Then just what are you doing, Bret? And for God’s sake, why on earth should I trust you?”

  He gave her an exasperated and disgusted sigh. He wandered back to the sofa and sank down to the cushions, then picked up his can of beer. A moment later he let out something like a snort and snapped the can of beer down on the coffee table. “Damned thing’s warm!” he muttered, and even that seemed to be Colleen’s fault.

  “Want another?” she drawled sweetly and kept smiling as he twisted around on the sofa to stare back at her.

  “You’re being rather courteous. Funny thing, I never quite trust you when you are.”

  “I’m always polite to my guests.”

  “I’m not exactly a guest, am I?”

  “Then get your own beer.”

  “I knew not to trust you,” he said dryly and rose. But he paused before walking past her. “I’m glad that we’ve both established the fact that I’m not a guest in my own house.”

  He started whistling. Colleen froze for a moment with a frown furrowing her brow; then she raced after him, stopping to clutch the wall at the entryway to the kitchen.
“Bret!”

  He was digging behind the yogurt cartons on the bottom shelf to get to the beer. He cast her a quick, irritated glance. “What?”

  “You’re not thinking about staying here, are you?”

  He stood, closed the refrigerator door and leisurely pulled the tab on the beer can, watching her all the while. “Colleen, it is my house. I’ve given you peaceful residence in it for almost a year.”

  “Only eight months, Bret, and—”

  “As a matter of fact, Colleen, yes. I’ll be staying here for a few days.”

  “You will not!”

  “Colleen, be reasonable. I never caused you a bit of trouble. I stayed away all that time. I built the damned place! It was my property, my design.”

  “Yours, yes! It never was ours, was it, Bret?”

  “Colleen, get off it! Obviously I considered it yours, too. I’m the one who’s been without a home, right?”

  She raised a brow. “You left, remember?”

  “Correction. I went on assignment.”

  “My assignment!”

  He emitted an impatient sound and stalked past her on his way out of the kitchen. Frustrated, Colleen stared after him. If only she could grow to colossal size for just five minutes! Long enough to pick him up and toss him out on the sidewalk!

  She was definitely still too shaky from the physical encounters she had already endured to even think about trying to throw him out. And if she called the police, well, it was his house, and she hadn’t thought to have any legal provisions made. They’d be legally divorced in less than a month, and the lawyers would settle all that.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and walked into the kitchen herself, calling to him over her shoulder. “Bret, if you’re staying, I’m leaving.” She kept talking as she walked through the sitting room and into the bedroom, reaching into the closet for her overnight bag. “I’m not going to run out the back door again. I’m going to pack my suitcase, grab my purse and keys and—”

  She dropped her suitcase on the bed and then stopped short; he was in the doorway again, leaning comfortably, one hand on his hip, the other about his beer. His silver-gray eyes were on hers, narrowed just slightly, but beyond that he appeared completely relaxed and very much at home.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Colleen.”

  “Oh, come on, Bret! You can’t stop me. This is the twentieth century, remember? Or,” she added softly and very sweetly, “perhaps they neglected to tell you that in the first place!” Still smiling over clenched teeth, Colleen went to the closet again and grabbed two hangers, suddenly so tense that she wasn’t even sure what kind of clothing she had grabbed.

  She turned around again to hurry back to her suitcase, but crashed into his still-naked chest instead.

  “Bret! Will you please get out of my way? And would you put your shirt back on! I’m starting to feel like I’m being stalked by Johnny Weissmuller!”

  She stared up at him and caught a glitter of laughter in the hard silver of his eyes. “Can’t take the heat, huh, Colleen?”

  “Would you move, please? I’m not asking you to leave anymore; I’m volunteering to do it myself!”

  He shook his head; the laughter was gone from his eyes, and his features seemed taut and maybe even a little sad.

  “Colleen, you’re not leaving. You’re going to come out to the living room and sit down and tell me everything you know about Rutger Miller.”

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, but it didn’t help. All that happened was that she inhaled the rich scent of his chest, soap—Irish Spring, she was certain—and something vaguely musky, powerfully masculine and, like his kiss, totally unique to him, subtle, and sensual on a primitive level.

  He would use her again. Make a fool of her, then leave her. Unless she could be harder than he was.

  “Bret, there is no reason in the world anymore that I should do what you say. I don’t even owe you the courtesy of listening. There is nothing between us anymore. You’re a rival journalist, nothing more. There’s no reason—”

  “Colleen…”

  She started violently when his arms slipped around her again, his hands locking at the base of her spine so that her hips were pressed to his. His voice was rough, his eyes so hardened that they looked almost black. She stiffened and forced herself to return his stare, allowing herself to shiver only inwardly. Bret could be very dangerous when he chose; a number of people had learned that when they had thought to stand in his way. But he would never hurt her, not physically, at any rate.

  “Colleen, you are going to listen to me. Because, believe it or not, you beautiful bitch, I’d just as soon not see you dead.”

  “Bret—”

  “I mean it, Colleen.”

  “There’s not a damned thing you can do!” she shrieked at last in utter frustration and more than a little fear. She raised her arms against his chest, grunting as she tried to break his hold.

  “Colleen, don’t kid yourself. I’m getting tired of this. Really tired. Pay attention to reason.”

  “Reason! What is reason? Bret says jump, and Colleen asks just how high?”

  Something in his face hardened. “That’s about right, for the time being.”

  “Like hell—”

  “Colleen,” he said very quietly and with an irritatingly calm assurance, “I’m asking you as nicely as I can not to give me any more trouble. Because if you do…”

  “What?” she challenged.

  He shrugged. “I’d have to come up with some type of persuasion you simply couldn’t resist.”

  She stared at him for a minute, then burst into laughter.

  “Ah…you don’t think I’m serious.”

  “No.”

  “Want to keep testing me?”

  He asked her in such a way that she wasn’t sure that she did. But she lifted one delicate brow, trying subtly to break his hold about her waist.

  He pulled her closer. She was disturbingly aware of the rock hardness of his stomach muscles, his hips and his long legs, of his naked chest pressed against her sweater, against her breasts. She knew that he was aware that she wore no bra, that her breasts were crushed to him, that her nipples were grazing his flesh through the soft cashmere of the sweater.

  And that she was beginning to flush because of their intimate contact, though she was also aching to escape him.

  “Bret…” She lowered her head.

  “You think I’m kidding, Colleen. I’m not. I’d take some fairly drastic measures right now. Trust me. It would be easiest to sit down like a good girl, with a glass of wine, and talk.”

  Her eyes met his, and she found an amused glimmer of silver laughter in them again. As well there might be, she thought acidly. He knew damned well that, after one glass of wine, she talked a blue streak. “Trust you?”

  “Seems the intelligent move to make when you have little choice, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll make coffee, Bret.”

  He shrugged, releasing her. “Suit yourself.”

  Only then did she realize her mistake. She had just agreed to talk.

  “Where are your interview tapes?” he demanded.

  She smiled very sweetly. “Sorry, Bret. They’re not here. They’re at the office.”

  Undaunted, he gave her a grim smile. “Then let’s sit down and talk, okay? Come on, get your sweet derriere moving. Unless you want me to move it for you?” he asked politely.

  She cast him a warning gaze and sailed on past him. In the kitchen she stopped at the stove, ready to reheat the leftover coffee. Her hands were shaking when she picked up the pot.

  From behind, Bret reached for it and set it back down. He gave her a little shove toward the living room.

  “You need the wine,” he told her, and she decided not to protest.

  She felt the need for a whole carafe full of the stuff. Anything to blot out the fact that he had come back into her life like a bolt of lightning out of the blue.

  She walked into the l
iving room and pulled off her sneakers, tossing them into the center of the room in an act of defiance. Fat lot of good it would do her, she reflected, but it made her feel a little better to take her aggravation out on her sneakers. Then she sat on the couch, curling her feet beneath her. She could hear Bret in the kitchen opening the wine. She thought a little sourly that Bret never had trouble with a cork; the man had never to her knowledge crumbled a wine cork into a zillion pieces. Bret just did things; he never had problems.

  Colleen leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Like the time they met. A whole bunch of reporters had been on location in Central America. They’d all been shaking like fools because a band of guerrillas toting machetes had been on their tails. Bret had been the last to board the plane. He’d barely looked ruffled. A machete had split the air over his head, and he’d merely looked annoyed when he turned to take a right jab and flatten his attacker to the country’s sad excuse for a runway….

  “Here.”

  She opened her eyes and accepted the wine from him. He didn’t try to sit near her. He sat at the end of the couch Indian style, his bare feet also curled beneath him. She glanced at his toes, thinking how they had once spent an evening laughing at them. Just like the thick tawny mat on his chest his toes had little clumps of chestnut and golden hair. Every single toe. When he wasn’t paying attention and she was in a mischievous mood, she always attacked his toes until he was paying attention.

  “Colleen?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug of resignation. She might as well tell him the innocuous stuff.

  “Rutger Miller called me at the magazine about three months ago.” She shrugged. “I didn’t even know who he was at first. I know I’d heard something about the Helmond diamonds disappearing during the war, but it’s such an old mystery…. Anyway, something he said triggered my memory, and I knew he was important. As soon as I hung up that first time, I hit the computers and dug up all the old newspaper and magazine stories on the scandal that I could find.”