by Nora Roberts
“That’s ridiculous.”
Ah, he considered. Now she was flustered, and flustered was better than irritated, better than nervous. Because a flustered Tia wouldn’t be able to stop him from saying things he so much needed to say. “But that wasn’t the main thing. I liked how shy and tired and confused you seemed when I came up to you with my book. Oh, so polite you were.”
He stepped toward her again, and this time she eased herself around so the couch was between them. “You weren’t thinking I was tired, you were thinking how you’d pump me about the Fates.”
He nodded. “True enough, I was focused on the Fates, but I had room for both in my head. Then when I lured you away from the hotel and into a walk, I liked seeing how dazzled you were when you started to look around, when you really saw where you were.”
“You liked thinking I was dazzled by you.”
“I did. I admit it. It was flattering, but still that wasn’t the moment things started to shift around so I’d finish off the first of the mistakes.”
He moved to the end of the couch, and she backed into the coffee table, flushed, then nearly skipped backward to the far end.
“It was when we got back to your room.”
“My trashed room.”
“Yes.” He caught a whiff of her scent that lingered in the air where she’d been standing. So soft. So quiet. “I was angry over that, and furious with myself, as well, knowing I’d had a part in bringing that on you. There you were, all frazzled and upset, digging for some pill or other, and that thing you suck on like a lolly.”
“An inhaler is a medical—”
“Whatever.” He was smiling now, pacing her around the sofa. “Do you know what did it for me, Tia? What just slipped right through my defenses and had me starting to moon over you?”
She snorted. “Moon? My butt.”
“It was when I looked in the bathroom. That wonderful Finnish bath and I saw all those bottles and packages. Energy this, stress relief that. Special soap and God knows.”
“Of course. You were attracted to my allergies and phobias. I’ve always found them ruthless sexual tools.”
He found the prim, damn near prissy tone like music. “I was fascinated that a woman who believed she needed all that to get through the day would have taken herself off, alone, on such a journey. What a brave soul you are, darling, under it all.”
“I am not. Will you stop stalking me?”
“My plan had been to see if I could get solid information from you, in hopes you’d lead me to the other statues. Very simple and no harm done. But there was harm. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
There was a tickle at the back of her throat, a pressure settling on her chest. “I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”
“I kept seeing you sitting there, with all your things jumbled around you. And how you talked so calmly to the police even though you were pale and shaken.”
Now there was heat, or outrage. “You left me there, left me until you thought I might be of use again.”
“You’re right. But it wasn’t just the Fates I thought of when I came to New York. It wasn’t only them I wanted. Do you remember how I kissed you outside your door? Do you remember how that was?”
“Stop it.”
“I made you go inside alone, and closed the door between us myself. If you hadn’t mattered, I’d have come inside. I knew you’d let me. But I couldn’t, couldn’t touch you that way while I was lying to you.”
“You’d have come in, and you’d have taken me to bed if you could’ve stomached making love to someone like me.”
He stopped in his tracks, like a man who’d come up sharp against a thick glass wall. “What the hell does that mean? Someone like you. It pisses me off to hear you say that.” He moved fast, nearly had her by the arm before she scampered back and away. “And I’m damned if I’ll have you believe it. I wanted you that night, too much for my own good, or yours. And I’ve had the taste of you inside me ever since. The way I see it now, there’s only one way to solve all this. I’m having you.”
“Having me what?” When he stopped his forward motion, laughed like a loon, it clicked. The blood rushed to her face, then fell away again. “You can’t just say something like that. You can’t just assume—”
“I’m not assuming, and I’m not just saying. I’ve been trying to say since I got here, and I’m giving up on words. I want my hands on you. Stop gulping air before you need that sucking thing.”
“I’m not gulping air.” But she was, even as she raced around to the back of the couch again. “And I’m not going to bed with you.”
“It doesn’t have to be the bed, though I think you’d enjoy it more if it was.” He feinted left, dodged right and grabbed for her arm. He deliberately shortened his reach to let her escape, as he was enjoying himself.
Her color was back now, prettily pink in her cheeks.
“You’re not very good at this,” he commented when she nearly tripped over her own feet. “I’ll wager you haven’t had many men chase you around your sofa.”
“As I don’t date twelve-year-olds, no, I haven’t.” If she’d hoped to insult him, his chuckle told her she’d missed the mark. “I want you to stop it, right now.” She shot a look toward her office, measuring the distance.
“Go ahead and try for it. In the interest of fair play, I’ll give you a head start. I want to kiss the back of your neck. Just run my lips over that elegant curve.”
He dived for her. With a squeal, she pinwheeled her arms and, overbalancing, flipped onto the couch. More out of luck than design, she kept rolling so he landed flat on the cushions when she hit the floor, butt first.
With a nervous giggle that surprised her more than him, she leaped up and made the dash for her office.
He caught her a step outside the door, spun her around and pressed her back, hard, against the wall. Words rushed into her throat, babbling words that stuck there as she stared into his hot and glittering eyes.
“This is how unattractive, how undesirable I find you.”
He crushed her mouth with his, ravaged it, without any of the warm and stirring tenderness he’d shown her before. His body pressed unrelentingly against hers so that the pounding of his heart seemed to ram inside her.
She brought her hands up with some idea of . . . with no idea at all. And they fell limply to her sides again.
He lifted his head, an inch only, so his face blurred in her vision. “Are we clear on that now?” he demanded. When she could do no more than shake her head, he captured her mouth again.
It was like being shot out of a cannon, or torn out of a roller coaster in mid-dive. At least she imagined both those events would whip a rush of color and sound into the brain and bounce the pulse rate screaming high. Turn the limbs to water and cause the system to be trapped somewhere between iced terror and molten exhilaration.
Her ears began to ring, reminding her she was holding her breath. But when she let it out, it sounded like a moan.
That helpless response had him chewing restlessly on her bottom lip before he ended the kiss. “How about now?”
“I . . . I forgot the question.”
“Then I’ll rephrase it.”
He swept her into his arms. Really, she could think of no other way to describe how he plucked her off her feet.
“Oh, God,” was the best she could manage when he carried her into the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind them.
“Hold that thought. You know, of course, I’m only doing this so you won’t be angry anymore.”
“Oh.” He laid her on the bed. “Okay.”
“I’ve no personal interest whatsoever in getting you naked and sinking my teeth into you.” He straddled her, watching her face as he unbuttoned her blouse. “But sometimes a man has to make sacrifices for the greater good.” He skimmed his thumbs, whisper light, over the swell of her breasts. And she began to tremble. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I, yes . . . No. I don
’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve lost my mind.”
“I was hoping you would, Tia.” He eased her up so he could slip the blouse away. “You’re such a pretty little thing.”
“I’m not wearing the right underwear.”
He’d distracted himself by running a fingertip up and down her torso. Her skin, he thought, was like warm rose petals. “What’s that?”
“If I’d known we’d . . . I’m not wearing the right kind of underwear for this.”
“Really?” He studied the simple, serviceable white cotton bra. “Well then, we’d best get rid of it right away.”
“I didn’t mean . . .” She gulped audibly when he slid his hand under her, and undid the bra’s catch with two fingers. “You’ve done that before.”
“I confess I have. I’m a cad.” He bent down to rub his lips over hers as he tugged the bra aside. “I’m going to take terrible advantage of you now.” He used his thumbs again, running them over her nipples until heat balled in her belly. “You should probably call for help.”
“I don’t think you need any.”
With that he scooped her up into a fierce hug. “Christ, you’re one in a million. Kiss me back.” He brushed his lips over hers. “Kiss me back now. I need you.”
In all her life, no one had said those three words to her. The thrill of them spurted through her, flooded her heart and gushed into the kiss. She threw her arms around him, shifting her body so it pressed against his with an abandon neither of them had expected.
Rocked, he dug his fingers into her flesh, struggled for about two seconds to maintain some reasonable control. Then he tumbled her back and did just as he had threatened. He sank his teeth into her.
She rose under him, like a woman riding a wave, and with no thought but the taking, tugged at his shirt. “I want . . . I want . . .”
“So do I.” He was breathless now, with muscles quivering. There was the taste of her skin, warm and sweet in his mouth, the feel of it, silky smooth, under his hands. And the surprising, delightful enthusiasm of her as she ran those small, nervous hands over him.
She was so delicately built, and the curves of her so wonderfully subtle. Her scent was a quiet, very female drift that slowly hazed the senses until it seemed as though he could simply breathe her in. Eager to explore, he let his lips rush down her body, back up to those small and lovely breasts.
Back to her warm, willing mouth.
When he did no more than press his hand against the heat and she came with a quick, shocked cry, he felt like a god.
He was murmuring something, or perhaps he was shouting it. There was such a roaring in her head, she couldn’t tell. Her system was barraged by a series of long, liquid pulls, of quick, slapping jolts with each sensation rapping so hard into the next it wasn’t possible to separate them.
And her body absorbed them greedily, then called for more.
And his, his was so firm and smooth, and hot. Was it any wonder her hands were in such a rush to touch? When she did she could feel the quiver of a muscle, the wild leap of a pulse.
Need. It was need for her.
Then she forgot his need for her own when his fingers slid slickly over her, into her. She could do nothing more than fist her hands in the rumpled bedspread, holding on even as she flew.
His mouth came back to hers, and she opened. Opened everything, so that when he thrust inside her, he entered both heart and body.
He said her name again. It seemed to echo endlessly in his head as he sank into her, into that wet heat. She rose to him, fell away, rose again until the rhythm was like music. He lost himself in it, in her, as the beat became more urgent, and urgency became desperation. And desperation a brilliant pleasure that swallowed them both whole.
WEAK AND WRECKED, she lay under him. In some dim area of consciousness she was aware of his weight, of the galloping race of his heart, even of the shallow breaths he took. But she was much more aware of the lovely limp stretch of her own body, of the hot river of her own blood that swam under her skin.
A part of her mind continued to huddle in a corner and gape with shock and stingy disapproval. She’d made frantic, reckless love with a man she had no business trusting. And at nine o’clock in the morning. A Thursday morning.
Those same basic facts brought on a wave of smugness she knew she should be ashamed of.
“Stop thinking so hard,” Malachi said lazily. “You’ll hurt yourself. I missed the nape of your neck.” He turned his head so he could nibble a bit on her shoulder. “I’ll have to make up for that oversight when I can move again.”
She closed her eyes and ordered herself to listen to that scolding voice. “It’s nine in the morning.”
He turned his head, focused on her bedside clock. “Actually, it’s not. It’s ten-oh-six.”
“It can’t be. They left at just before nine.” It was so nice to be able to run her fingers through his hair, through all that rich, dark chestnut. “I looked at the clock so I’d know when to start worrying if they weren’t back.” She tried to shift to see the clock for herself, but he stopped the movement with his mouth on hers.
“And when are you scheduled to start worrying?”
“At ten.”
“You’re running behind, then. Darling, it takes a bit of time to make love if you put any effort into it.”
“Ten? It’s after ten?” She wiggled, shoved, squirmed. “They could be back any minute.”
“So they could.” Her movements were perfect, he decided. “So what?”
“They—We can’t be in here. Like this.”
“Door’s closed, and the bedroom’s off limits, as I recall.”
“They’ll certainly know what we’ve been doing. And we shouldn’t have—”
“They will, I imagine. Oh, it’s shocking.” He snuck a hand up to stroke her breast.
“Don’t tease me.”
“I can’t help it, any more than I can help wanting you again. I like you out of bed, Tia, but I have to tell you.” He bit her earlobe and made her shiver. “I surely like you in it as well. I’m just going to take a few more minutes here, and show you.”
“We have to get up, right now,” she began, but his tongue slid down to her breasts. “Well. Well, I guess a few more minutes won’t make any difference.”
Seventeen
GIDEON Sullivan should give lessons on payback, Cleo decided. He should write a goddamn book on it.
HOW TO MAKE YOUR LOVER FEEL LIKE SLIME IN TEN EASY LESSONS
But there was no way she was going to break. He could be cold; she’d be colder. He could speak in monosyllables. Well then, she’d communicate in grunts.
If he thought the fact that he’d chosen to sleep on the stupid roof rather than share a piece of the bed with her hurt her feelings, he’d miscalculated.
She wished it had rained. Buckets.
They used the subway, which was, Cleo thought, the perfect venue for a stony silence. She sat with her well-developed New York stare into middle distance while he read a tattered paperback edition of Ulysses.
Guy should lighten up, she thought to herself. Anybody who chose, of his own free will, to read James Joyce for pleasure wasn’t her type anyway.
He probably figured she’d never cracked a book in her life.
Well, he was wrong. She liked to read as much as the next guy, but she didn’t choose to spend her spare time wading through some metaphoric jungle of depression and despair.
She’d just leave that to Slick, who was so goddamn Irish he probably bled green.
She got to her feet at their stop. Gideon simply marked his place in the book and shuffled off the car with her. She was too busy sulking to notice how his gaze swept over the others who got off, or the way he angled his body to shield hers. He followed her through the tunnels to the crosstown train.
He stood patiently on the platform while she tapped her foot, shifted her weight.
“Don’t think we were followed,” he said quietly.
She
nearly jolted at the sound of his voice, which irritated her enough that she forgot to grunt in response. “Nobody knows we’re at Tia’s, so they can’t follow us.”
“They may not know we’re at Tia’s, but someone might be watching her building. I wouldn’t want to lead them to her or let them scamper along after us.”
He was right, and it reminded her she’d led someone to Mikey. “Maybe I should just throw myself in front of the next oncoming train. Maybe that would be enough penance for you.”
“That’s a bit over the top, and self-defeating. At least until you get the statue out of the bank.”
“It’s all you ever wanted anyway.”
The platform vibrated with the sound of the crosstown train. “It must comfort you to think that.”
She shoved herself, blindly, into the subway car, all but hurled herself into a seat. He took one across from her, opened his book, began to read.
And kept reading when the ride bumped and juggled the words on the page. There was no point in arguing with her, he reminded himself. Every reason not to do so in public. The priority was to get to the bank, retrieve the Fate, get it back to Tia’s. Quietly and unobtrusively.
After that a good shouting row might be in order. Though he could hardly see what good it would do. Despite the enforced intimacy they were, at the base, strangers. Two people from different places, with different ideas. And different agendas.
If he’d let himself think of them as more, had let his feelings for her tangle up with the reality of things, that was his problem.
His primary quest, so to speak, had been Lachesis. And so, shortly, that part of the journey would end.
He wished he could go back to Cobh, back to the boatyard and work off some of this excess energy and heat by scraping hulls or some damn thing. But the second Fate was only one of three, and he had a feeling it would be some time before he saw home again.
He felt her move, caught the flash of the blue shirt she’d borrowed from his brother as she rose onto those endless legs of hers. He got up, shoved the book in his jacket pocket.
She strode onto the platform and away as if she were in a great hurry. But then as everyone else did the same, Gideon doubted anyone would take notice. She practically flew through the streets as he scurried after her.