by Anne Mather
Olivia’s breath escaped in a sound that was half-gulp, half sob, and she wondered if he could hear the hysteria in her voice. If he only knew, she thought, suppressing the urge to tell him. If he loosened her up any more she’d fall apart.
Yet she didn’t stop him when he moved even closer, and she was obliged to draw her knees up to her chest. ‘Open your legs,’ he directed roughly, and she heard the raw emotion underlying the request. His thumb brushed over her lower lip. ‘Open your mouth.’
Olivia’s legs slid down, under his, and he parted his knees and moved closer still. They were face to face and limb to limb, his chest hair tickling her breasts, their lower bodies barely inches apart.
‘You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever known, do you know that?’ he muttered, his tongue stroking her lips. He gripped her waist and brought her closer, his thumbs caressing the underside of her breasts.
Sexy? Her?
Olivia felt dizzy, as much from what he was saying as from the tantalising touch of his mouth. But between her legs his arousal was hard against her softness, pushing with urgent need against his shorts.
‘You don’t mean that,’ she said unsteadily, when he released her mouth to nuzzle the hollow of her neck.
‘Don’t I?’ He bit her deliberately, sucking the soft flesh into his mouth ‘I’m not—Richard,’ he added, when he was able to speak again. ‘I don’t say things I don’t mean.’
Olivia expelled a tremulous breath. ‘I don’t want to talk about Richard right now.’
‘And nor do I,’ he conceded, his hands moving up to encircle her breasts. His thumbs pressed almost cruelly on her taut nipples. ‘But I want you to know I’m not him.’
‘I—I’m not likely to forget,’ she got out jerkily, her own hands coming up to grip his waist. And although she wondered later how she’d found the courage to do it her fingers slid inside the waistband of his shorts.
‘God. . .’
His involuntary recoil was instantaneous as her slim fingers explored his buttocks, and for one awful moment she thought he was going to vault out of the bath. She closed her eyes for a moment, not sure she could bear it if he did so, but when she opened them again he was peeling the boxers off his legs. He tossed them aside without taking his eyes from her, and she felt her limbs melting beneath his sensual gaze. ‘Come here,’ he muttered huskily, reclaiming his position, and this time she felt his muscled heat between her legs.
There was no barrier between them now, no film of silk to prevent an intimacy she’d never known before. When his hand slipped down between them to find the aching nub that craved his attention, she arched helplessly against his fingers, unable to hold back.
Wave upon wave of feeling swept over her, and she sought his mouth eagerly, thrusting her tongue between his teeth. Her hands were gripping his neck, holding him even closer, and he groaned deep in his throat at this evidence of how sweetly responsive she really was.
‘Easy, now,’ he said unsteadily as she covered his face with kisses, but he turned his mouth against hers with increasing need. His fingers were in her now, stroking her slick honeycomb, making her feel as if she was drowning in sensual pleasure.
But she was instantly aware of the moment when his male sex replaced his fingers. His muscled hardness spread the petals that enfolded him, thick and heavy, thrusting into her core. But her body deepened, expanded, stretched to meet his need, until they were closer than ever before.
‘Am I hurting you?’ he asked harshly as he heard her sudden intake of breath, but she shook her head and wound her arms around his neck.
‘It feels—perfect,’ she said huskily, curling her legs about him. She caressed his ear with her tongue. ‘Is it good for you?’
Joe gave a groan. ‘It’s good,’ he assured her thickly, closing his eyes. ‘But God knows how long I can stand this. I have the feeling that if you move I’ll spill my guts.’
‘Not your guts, surely,’ murmured Olivia breathlessly, never having shared her feelings with anyone else. Richard had been adequate, but not romantic; not adventurous at all. She rocked against Joe deliberately. ‘D’you mean like that?’
He swore then, but it wasn’t an angry sound, though she glimpsed the undisguised anguish in his face. ‘If you want this to be over, just go on the way you are,’ he told her, suppressing a moan. ‘Oh, God, I don’t think I want to wait any longer.’
It took only a moment. Pressing her against the bath, he withdrew only a couple of times before his thrusting body shuddered in her arms. And she found to her amazement that her own climax followed his, the tremors of his ejaculation and the spilling warmth of his seed driving her over the brink...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE TOOK her again later, on the carelessly tumbled covers of her bed. Somehow, he found the strength to lift her out of the water and carry her into her bedroom, and, uncaring that they were wet, he sought a second release.
Then he rolled groaning onto his back, gathering her against him with lazy arms. ‘You are beautiful,’ he told her urgently, his hand cupping her breast. ‘Richard must have been crazy to let you go.’
Olivia propped herself up on one elbow. ‘I’ve told you,’ she said tensely. ‘I don’t want to talk about Richard.’ But when she looked at Joe she found he’d closed his eyes.
‘Okay, okay,’ he conceded drowsily. ‘God, but I’m exhausted! Can we leave it till I’ve had some sleep?’
‘Leave what?’ she persisted, wanting him to commit himself, but Joe’s breathing warned her he wasn’t listening to her. He was breathing deeply, his dark lashes spread against his tanned face giving him a curious vulnerability, his impressive manhood dormant now in its moist nest of curling dark hair.
‘Damn,’ she muttered, barely audibly, taking a deep breath and sliding off the bed. He offered an involuntary movement of protest, but he was too far gone to waken, and she took the quilt and flung it over his sleeping form.
In the living room, the undrawn curtains displayed an unreal vista of downtown Los Angeles. As she tied the belt of her robe about her, she saw the ribbons of incandescence marking every street and highway, a multicoloured panorama of fairy lights. Every now and then, the solid bulk of a tall building added its own illumination to the scene. So many lights, she thought; so many people. Were any of them feeling as confused and anxious as she was tonight?
What to do?
She glanced back at the bedroom. Joe was obviously exhausted. He would probably sleep for several hours. But she had a distinct feeling of hollowness inside. She told herself it was hunger, that she’d feel better if she had some dinner. But she suspected its origins were far more complicated than that.
What was she going to do? What would he—Joe—expect her to do? He hadn’t mentioned anything about her leaving the following day, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know she was going. If he was as intimate with Diane as Richard would have her believe, surely she’d have mentioned the change of plan to him?
Diane!
Olivia shivered. She’d almost forgotten Diane’s part in this during the last couple of hours. But she’d certainly had her revenge, if that was what she’d been looking for, so why did she feel as if it was herself that she’d betrayed?
She shook her head. The answer was too painful to consider right now. She didn’t want to think about the possibility that Joe might eventually marry Diane. How ignorant she’d been to imagine that what she’d felt for Richard was all there was to feel.
A feeling of nausea rose into the back of her throat but she fought it down. She was hungry, she told herself again. Once she’d got some food inside her, she’d stop feeling as if the bottom had dropped out of her world. She didn’t love Joe Castellano. She couldn’t. She was letting the sexual pleasure he’d given her blind her to his faults.
And he’d never said he cared about her. Not once. He’d told her that she was sexy, and beautiful—both attributes unwarranted, she was sure. But he’d never said he loved her, or that he wanted to
spend the rest of his life with her. Heaven knew, he hadn’t even mentioned that he wanted to see her again.
She shivered again. She should have told him she was leaving. Before she’d invited him up to the suite, she should have made it known that it was for a farewell drink. That way, he wouldn’t have got the wrong impression—that she had intended that he should find her in the bath. As it was, he’d assumed her actions were a form of provocation. That when she’d unlocked the door, and answered his greeting, she’d been deliberately inciting his response.
Even so, she sighed, she couldn’t have anticipated what would happen. Even in her wildest dreams, she’d never have imagined that he might join her in the bath. Dear God, in all the time she’d been married to Richard, he’d never done anything so outrageous. Or exciting, she admitted incredulously. Every nerve in her body quivered with expectancy when she remembered how desirable he’d made her feel.
She strayed to the open bedroom door again, but Joe was still sleeping. He’d rolled onto his stomach in her absence and his face was buried in the pillow where her head had been. She badly wanted to go in there and wake him and ask him what he intended. But what stopped her was the thought that he might tell her.
She felt the hollowness again, and this time her stomach rumbled. Perhaps it would be a good idea to go and get something to eat. She thought of calling Room Service, but in that case she’d feel obliged to order for two. And the last thing she wanted on her bill was proof that she’d been sharing her suite with someone else.
But what if Joe woke up and found she wasn’t there? she fretted. If she left him a note, he could always come and join her downstairs. She sighed. Wouldn’t a note be rather presumptuous? she argued worriedly. He might not want to join her for dinner now. The situation had changed.
For the better?
She wasn’t certain. Richard had said he had proof that Diane and Joe were having an affair, so what was this all about? Was she perhaps just a brief diversion? If he knew she was leaving tomorrow, he must know there was no future in it.
With a feeling of despair, she went back into the bathroom and took a shower. Then, as he still hadn’t stirred, she donned a silk bra and panties, and a sleeveless dress that fell to her ankles. Her hair was still damp, so she plaited it into a thick braid and secured it with a ribbon. Then, without even looking back, she left the room.
Downstairs, the hotel was busy. She didn’t try to get a reservation for dinner in the Pineapple Room this evening, choosing the Bistro instead, for reasons best known to herself. She refused to acknowledge she’d chosen the Italian restaurant because of Joe’s background, but she couldn’t forget that he’d been eating in here the night she’d decided to play the vamp.
And, although she ordered her favourite pasta dish, she found she couldn’t eat it. She was pushing it desultorily round her plate, when someone came to cast a shadow across the meal. She looked up in sudden relief, convinced it must be Joe come to find her. But it was a woman, and her heart sagged with disappointment.
‘Hello, Miss Pyatt. Remember me?’
She was vaguely familiar, and Olivia was racking her brains, trying to think where she’d seen her before, when she saw the copy of Eileen Cusack’s biography tucked under her arm. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, somewhat flatly. ‘You’re the woman who thought I was Elizabeth Jennings.’
‘Sherie Madsen,’ supplied the woman eagerly. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She paused, as if she needed time to formulate what she was about to say. ‘Um—did you get the roses?’
Olivia blinked. ‘You sent the roses?’
‘Well, it was my husband, actually,’ Sherie admitted ruefully. ‘After the patience you showed over my mistake, he said it was the least we could do.’
‘Well, thank you.’ Olivia was stunned. She’d never have suspected these people. ‘And—and yes. They were beautiful. Thank you very much.’
‘It’s our pleasure.’
A man spoke, and Olivia saw Sherie’s husband behind her now. He was smiling, too, and despite her disappointment Olivia couldn’t help feeling flattered.
‘Anyway, I just—well, I wondered if you’d mind signing your book now,’ Sherie continued, proffering the biography. ‘I haven’t read it yet, but I’m taking it home to Wisconsin and I assure you I will.’
Olivia smiled. ‘Not at all.’ She held out her hand for the book and Sherie’s husband quickly handed her a pen. She made the dedication and signed her name, and then gave it back to her admirer. ‘I hope you enjoy it,’ she added as they bid her goodnight.
The unexpected experience had lifted her spirits somewhat, so that by the time she went back up to her suite she was feeling slightly more optimistic than before. She closed the door with some care, and hurried to the door of the bedroom. But, although she’d been away less than an hour, Joe was gone.
* * *
The flight to Heathrow left at six o’clock and Olivia, who had been hanging around the airport since just after four, knew a curious kind of relief when the plane lifted off the ground. The decision was made, she thought. She was leaving. Whatever misgivings she might have had that morning were all behind her now. She’d checked out of the hotel, and she was on her way to London. The sooner she reached home and resumed a normal existence, the sooner she’d be able to put all thoughts of Joe Castellano out of her mind.
Well, that was what she’d told herself, she reflected ruefully as the big jet banked over the sprawling city below. She’d come here reluctantly, and she was going home in like mind. The only difference was the reasons. She’d exchanged one unhappy association for another.
But, despite her reluctance to leave Los Angeles, she was glad the past twenty-four hours were over. Making love—or, more accurately, having sex, she amended bitterly—with Joe had been exciting, she had to admit, but it was what had come after that had destroyed what little faith she’d had in herself. How could he do it? she wondered. How could he make love to her and then leave her, without even bothering to say farewell? When she’d got back to the suite and found he’d gone, it had been one of the worst moments of her life.
Yet, even then, she hadn’t quite believed it. She’d been quite prepared to accept that Joe had woken up in her absence and gone to look for her. In consequence she’d gone back down to the lobby, only to have no success in any of the restaurants or bars. He wasn’t even enjoying an espresso in the coffee shop, despite the fact that neither of them had had anything to eat.
She’d gone back to the suite, half hoping he might have turned up there; but he hadn’t, and although she’d contemplated contacting Reception she hadn’t been convinced he’d appreciate her doing that. The trouble was, she hadn’t known what her position was as far as he was concerned, and the last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him—or herself, which was much more likely.
Realising she’d never sleep unless she had something to eat, she’d ordered a sandwich from Room Service, and forced herself to eat it when it arrived. Then, because she had to do something, she’d rung the phone company and asked if they could give her the number of the house at Malibu.
Of course, they couldn’t. It was what they called an ‘unpublished’ number, and once again she’d come up against a brick wall. Short of alerting all his staff she was looking for him, she’d been helpless, and, deciding she would think of something else in the morning, she’d gone to bed.
She hadn’t slept very well. Although she was physically tired, her brain refused to rest, and by six o’clock she’d been sitting at the window again. Why had he left? she’d asked herself, for what must have been the umpteenth time. If there’d been some sort of emergency, surely he’d have let her know.
When the phone had rung at eight o‘clock, she’d been sure it must be him, ringing to offer his apologies, but it was Bonnie Lovelace instead. She’d been ringing to remind her that the usual checkout time was noon. ‘But Diane’s had me extend that to four o‘clock,’ she’d added grandly. ‘She also said to tell you that sh
e’d have invited you to the house, but she’s away right now.’
‘Is she?’
Olivia hadn’t been particularly interested in what Diane was doing, but Bonnie had adopted her usual self-important style. ‘Yes, she left last night for Malibu,’ she’d continued, as if she was bestowing a confidence. ‘She’s staying with Mr Castellano. She said to tell you goodbye.’
That was the moment when Olivia’s world had fallen apart. How could he do it? she thought. How could he have gone from her bed to Diane’s? Or invite her to his bed, she amended, suppressing a moan of anguish. Were all men such bastards, or did she just attract that kind?
The rest of the day had been an anticlimax. Although she’d gone down to the lobby to buy some last-minute presents, her heart hadn’t been in it, and she couldn’t wait for four o’clock to come. As it was, she’d left for the airport with almost an hour to spare, and spent the rest of her time in Los Angeles in the departure lounge.
Even then, even after all that had happened, she’d still nurtured the hope that she might be wrong. He would know what time she was leaving. He’d said himself he was a frequent traveller. But, although she’d listened intently to every announcement from the public-address system, there was never one for her.
So, it was over, she told herself painfully. She hadn’t come here with the best of intentions, so perhaps it served her right She’d wanted to hurt Diane, but all she’d ended up doing was hurting herself. Which was probably nothing more than she deserved.
The plane had levelled off now, and the warning sign about fastening your seat belt had been switched off. The pilot had introduced himself by way of the microphones above her head, and he was presently telling his passengers what kind of flight they might expect The forecast, he said, was good, and with a tail wind they should make good time. He expected to land the plane in London at twelve o’clock the following afternoon.
‘Is this seat taken?’
Olivia, who had been grateful that the seat beside her was unoccupied, looked up in surprise. To her dismay, she found Richard easing himself down beside her, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and smug relief.