“Well?” she whispered.
He lifted his hands. “What’s it to be? A truce for the time being? I’d dearly love to take a bath and relax, but if you won’t give me your word to sit still…”
The words fell warningly on the air.
She leaned against the window, and a cool, mocking smile curved her lips. “Let me hear this one. If I don’t, what?”
He seemed to muse over the question carefully, walking farther into the room as he pulled his shirt over his head. Despite herself she watched him, her heart catching a little, her abdomen warming and quivering inside at the bronzed muscles of his shoulders, the tightly sinewed display of his broad back and narrow waist, the temptation of the curly blond hair that feathered his chest.
“Hmmmm…” he murmured, tossing his shirt on the foot of the bed and planting his hands on his hips. He angled his head slightly, surveying her as he might a computer program. Then he shrugged, and she realized that his temper had faded somewhat, that the silver glitter in his eyes now was one of amusement.
“If you won’t be a good kid—and heaven knows, shame at the hassle you created should cause you to be so—I’ll have to forsake that nice, calming, soothing idea of a long hot bath. And we’ll have to stretch out together just as we are now. Since it would be rather crude, not to mention archaic, to shackle you to the bed, I’d have to sleep with my arms around you to see that you didn’t disappear again.”
“Oh, really? I thought you weren’t going to touch me.”
“Only if you insist. I would, however, take your word for your good behavior. Damned if I know why, but I would.”
“You’re always so complimentary, Bret. How did I ever survive without your honey-sweet tongue?”
He grinned suddenly. “You like my tongue, huh?”
“Oh, go to hell, will you!” Colleen snapped. He chuckled, and she was determined not to lose her cool again.
He was walking toward her, and the quivering sensation began all over again. That feeling of melting inside and becoming electric at the same time.
She lowered her eyes and quickly walked past him to perch on the foot of the bed. “I’ll give you my word that I’ll stay, Bret. But you can take the floor.”
“Not on your life, my love. I’m exhausted. Ah, come on, Colleen! I saved your damned life! I saved you from the arms of a fat pervert—”
“Maybe I like fat perverts!” Colleen interrupted. Damn, she’d been wrong! She’d made a mistake. She could have been killed.
She needed nice words. Gentle words. Not his flippancy and erratic temper.
“Colleen…”
“Oh, go take your bath! Drown in it, for all I care! I won’t leave!”
“Do you mean that?” he asked her softly.
She stared down at her hands. “Yes.”
She heard him turn. A minute later she heard the sound of rushing water.
She fell back on the bed, casting her arm over her eyes with a sigh that threatened to turn into a sob. Things had gotten so out of hand. The story, her life. Bret was there, not thirty feet away. She loved him so much, but there was nothing she could do. She was so tired, yet on edge. If only she could forget everything else and go to him, maybe, just maybe, he would forget that he was furious, that she had tricked him, that…
That they were getting a divorce he obviously wanted.
And maybe she could forget that loving him with all her heart could not make their marriage work, could not make him love her, really love her, more than journalism, more than a story.
* * *
Bret sank into the tub, instantly glad of its warmth. Maybe it would make him stop shaking. Maybe it would give him more control over himself. He’d never been so scared in his life. Terrified. In his line of work he’d seen so many horrors, so much death and pain and despair. He’d always been touched by it, but he’d learned that no man could cure the despair of the world. He had helped when he could; he’d learned to be distant when he could not. Yet the thought of Colleen, of something horrible happening to her, had shattered everything inside him. Even when things had been all right, when she had been safe with him again at last, all he had been able to do was yell and scream.
She had been stupid, he reminded himself.
Not really. She just wasn’t equipped to deal with ruthless and desperate people.
Still, he’d wanted to hold her, clutch her to him, touch her everywhere and assure himself that not an inch of her flesh had been harmed. But he hadn’t been able to do that, only shake and yell and scream and play out his fear in fury. Somehow he always did that. He wanted her so badly, yet she might have been a crystal glass, something he was terrified to hold because he would be too clumsy. He would touch her, and everything would shatter all around him.
He sank farther into the tub, closing his eyes and splashing warm water over his face. This thing had to end. Quickly. Because he couldn’t stand this kind of fear. He couldn’t go on worrying that someone might be after her for what she knew.
Worrying…when he couldn’t be with her. When he couldn’t hold her, touch her, love her, have her at his side always. He opened his eyes, reaching for the soap.
And that was when he saw her.
She was standing in the doorway, a massive towel wrapped around her. It was white. Her hair curled over it like black waves. One shoulder leaned against the doorframe, and her head rested against it, too. She was watching him with her eyes wide, her lips twisted into a wistful little smile that tore at his heart.
“I thought I could use a bath, too,” she told him quietly. “Would you mind?”
He leaned back and smiled at her slowly, then lifted his hands from the rim of the tub, indicating the size of it. “It’s a big tub,” he told her.
She started to walk toward him, then hesitated. Bret lifted a hand to her. She came nearer and knelt down by the tub. He reached out, lacing his fingers through the hair at her nape, his hand gently cupping her skull as he pulled her to him. “Come here, babe,” he said softly and she did.
His lips touched hers and parted them, and he felt all the fiery warmth of her kiss. She dropped the towel as her arms moved around him. Her nails raked through his hair, ruffling it, and then her fingers were on his shoulders. Everything was moist and warm, the water, the steam around them, the salt taste of her tears as they slid down her cheeks.
Bret stood, feeling the sleekness of her body next to his, the welcoming softness of her breasts. He swept her into his arms, then slowly sat again, cradling her on his lap in the bath. His whispers touched her throat; his fingers rippled over her belly and then hugged her close against him, her back to his chest, her buttocks on his thighs. “Don’t you know…don’t you know?” he whispered hoarsely. “I almost went out of my mind. Colleen, please, for the love of God, don’t do anything like this to me again.”
She twisted around, slipping an arm around his neck and laying her head against his chest. “I’m sorry, Bret. I’m really sorry. I was so terrified. Hold me, Bret….”
He did. He held her tightly against him, and he moved his hand gently along her arm. It was comfortable. Natural, as it had been to be naked together when they were truly married. Just to be together, knowing each other so well, was a delight.
And it was also sexy. Exciting, just as it always had been. Her breast seemed to move into his palm, and it was natural for him to caress it, tease and taunt the nipple, then grow hard and hot himself as the bud crested at his touch. Natural for him to moan softly, to duck and touch it with his tongue, and then taste its fullness in his mouth. Natural for them both to spiral ever closer to a fever of desire as she moaned and arched against him.
“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he asked her breathlessly. Her eyes seemed completely golden now, still brilliant with the mist of tears, yet heavy lidded like those of a hunting tigress.
“I think you’re doing it to me,” she corrected him, and she moved slightly, sinuously, against him, using her body to sen
suously stroke the heart and heat of his desire.
“Witch!” he accused her, growling slightly, and he cast back his head to better search out her eyes. “If we share the bath, we’ll share the bed,” he warned her, and as he spoke, he brought his hand questing intimately between her thighs.
He heard the sharp intake of her breath and shuddered, then watched with fascination as she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and smiled slowly, wickedly, invitingly….
“Must I wait for the bed?”
Her fingers, delicate, elegant and masterfully exciting, closed around him. His heart gave a little thud, and a jet-speed thrill of heat coursed through him. He could have sworn he ceased to breathe.
He watched her as she gracefully moved over him, the sleek tenderness of her thighs wrapping around his hips. And he lifted his hands from the tub again as he smiled at her.
“Like I said, it’s a damned big tub.”
His hands spanned her waist, helping her, guiding her, touching her, finding the fevered rhythm of their need. He caressed her buttocks, stroked her back, touched her breasts and loved the beauty of her face. Wild feathers of raven-black hair curled around her shoulders, as wanton as the reckless passion that flamed between them. Sweet and urgent, increasing with every gasp for breath, each rampant beat of their hearts, each driving thrust and stroke that melded them ever closer together. So good…
Until the crest, the pinnacle. The wondrous moment when the sheen of their bodies matched the glitter of the water, when they gasped out their pleasure, when she fell against him, moaning with a strangled little cry and shuddering with the shattering impact of the climax that had burst upon them.
She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling. The warmth of the water around her, the warmth that seeped through her, his warmth, filled her body with ecstasy, touching her like a tangible eulogy for the love that might have been.
He held her and tenderly nibbled at the lobe of her ear. “This doesn’t mean that you get out of sharing the bed,” he said hoarsely.
“You’re greedy,” she mumbled lazily.
“You’re right,” he whispered.
She didn’t mind. Finally he stirred, telling her that the water was growing cold. Then they both started laughing because neither of them had realized that they had soaked the floor with wild sprays of water overflowing from the tub.
“We need to soak it up…” Colleen began.
“It will wait,” he assured her. Bret was already out of the tub, sweeping up the huge towel she had discarded earlier. “Stand up, Venus,” he teased. “I’m still in my Errol Flynn mood.”
“What…?”
He was grinning; she was laughing. He caught her hands and pulled her to her feet.
“I’m going to slip and break my neck,” she said.
“Oh, quit bitching and live recklessly,” he countered, then wrapped the towel around her and lifted her extravagantly into his arms.
“All right, you’re going to slip in the puddle and kill us both!” she accused him, giggling into his chest.
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
She did a second later when she descended on the bed and he took a flying leap to land beside her, instantly attacking her with kisses on her throat, her breasts, her cheeks.
She laughed and caught her breath. He teased and fondled and suckled her breast and began to whisper, “I love…”
Another kiss followed, and she almost cried out, Say it, say it, oh, please say it.
“I love…to make love to you.”
Tears came like fire to her eyes. Those were not the words she craved, yet they were enough. She had warned herself that this could not last forever. And she would not deny what was between them now.
She caught his cheeks between her hands and stared hungrily into the silver depths of his eyes. She kissed him with passion and greed and tenderness and told him that she loved to make love to him. It was enough.
* * *
“What we did was wrong. That cannot be contested,” James MacHowell said to Colleen.
They were alone in the courtyard; Colleen had awakened before Bret and came restlessly down to the courtyard to find something to eat. MacHowell had been there when she’d skipped down the last of the stairs, giving instructions to his houseman. Seeing her, he ordered a typical English tea, with scones, pastries and meat pies. The tea was Earl Grey; the meat pastries had an exotic taste. They were lamb, MacHowell told her, and though the recipe was English, the flavor was all Moroccan.
Colleen didn’t really care what they were; she was starving. So hungry, in fact, that she ate several before sighing softly and leaning back with her tea. That was when MacHowell had begun to reminisce.
His green eyes were cloudy, as if he were seeing another time, actually going back. As if he had done so many times before. “Yes, it was wrong. Very wrong, and we all knew it. But…” He paused, shrugging. “It was not quite so wrong as it appears today. We did not know how many would die; we had no idea…” Again he shrugged, and the movement seemed to be filled with his pain. “It was near the end of the war, you see. We were all so tired. Before France, I had been in Italy. One day we would take a town. The next day the Germans would take it back. We never knew, we just never knew. Then, in France, it was worse. You would think you were safe, you would think you could sleep for the night in a deserted barn, and you would lie down and find that the hay had been mined. I started in the ranks, but I worked my way up during the war to become a general. I never wanted to be one. I wanted to go home. I was sick of watching young men die, watching them smile one minute, then seeing them blown into pieces the next.”
He took a sip of his tea, sighed and shuddered. “The whole thing came about because Holfer and I were trying to avoid the battle. History has taught us that the war ended in ‘45. We did not know how close it was then. Holfer was, I believe, more tired than I. He had just come from the Russian front, where he had watched his men starve and freeze. Again history has taught the world that the Germans were the villains of the Second World War. That Hitler was a lunatic. Holfer did not know that then. He led troops of boys, foot soldiers, common fighting men. They knew only battle and death. Nothing of politics, death camps or that their great ‘Fatherland’ had been doomed from the start. That’s always the pity of war, my girl. Innocent boys and young men go out to fight it, while politicians direct it from their desks. Poof! A squadron is wiped out. They remove a little pin from a map. That is all. They do not see the blood and the death…but forgive me. I am not asking that you excuse any of us. I am not giving excuses for Holfer, or Rutger Miller—or even Sam Tyrell. We were all in on it. This French partisan told us that he knew where the Helmond diamonds were hidden. Fabulous, fabulous diamonds, once owned by an aristocratic Franco-Deutsche family, now the property of the French government. A man could escape the war with those diamonds. He could live for an eternity with another name, another identity. In fact, many men could escape the war with them….”
His voice trailed away. He drained his tea, then lit a cigar with shaking fingers. “Well, you know the rest. All hell broke loose while we were stealing the diamonds. Thousands died—while the generals were stealing diamonds. Thousands.”
Watching MacHowell, Colleen could not help but feel sympathy. Though he had not been executed as Sam Tyrell had, that might have been the more merciful punishment. The ravages of guilt on the man’s face told Colleen that he had paid with every moment of his life since the slaughter. Yet she didn’t know what to say; she couldn’t assure him that it was all right. It hadn’t been. It wasn’t.
She moistened her lips with a sip of tea. “General, what happened…after? I spoke to Rutger, you know. He told me that he and Rudy Holfer escaped through Switzerland to Austria straight after the battle. What happened to you?”
He smiled with bitter ruefulness. “I ran into the field. When I heard the noise of battle, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. I ran straight into the field. It wasn’t fr
om bravery, though. It was pure horror. I was desperate to try to do something. Instead, I didn’t do a damned thing. I got shrapnel in my shoulder. I thought I was dead for sure. But I didn’t die. I woke up in a hospital, clear of any thought of a court-martial. I was suddenly a downed hero.”
“So why did Sam…?”
MacHowell shook his snow-white head miserably. “Sam was probably the most innocent of the lot of us. But he ran, you see, with the diamonds. And the Americans, well, it was a time when patriotic feeling was running very high. Americans did not betray other Americans or their allies. Sam was a scapegoat for every other man who made a wrong move, who went AWOL, who picked up a bottle of French wine or plundered delicacies from a shop window. He was judged guilty before he was even tried.”
MacHowell picked up a small ivory cigarette box from the table and passed it to Colleen. She accepted and lit one with a quick thanks, then leaned back, exhaling, to study MacHowell again. She did feel sorry for him, terribly sorry. A moment’s greed had in a very real sense cost him his life. He had lived in his own hell ever since.
“General, why didn’t you ever try to find the diamonds? Why did you come here and disappear?”
“I didn’t want the diamonds after I saw what happened because of them. And I came here because I couldn’t endure being back in England, knowing what I had done to so many of my countrymen.” He smiled, puffing on his cigar, watching the smoke drift from it. “I know where the diamonds are—or at least what country they’re in,” he said flatly.
“You do?” Colleen said, stunned.
He reached into his breast pocket and produced a sheet of paper, old, brittle and worn at the edges. Colleen recognized it instantly; she had already seen two such pages.
Rutger’s and Sandy’s parts of the puzzle were both locked safely in her office, yet both had been perfectly reproduced and hidden upstairs in her luggage. She felt a stirring of excitement; the puzzle was so close to being solved! And once it was solved, she would be safe again. Sandy Tyrell would be safe again.
“Can—can I see it?” Colleen asked a little breathlessly.
Double Entendre Page 16