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Forever Instinct, The

Page 13

by Delinsky, Barbara


  “No.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He captured her lips in a languorous kiss, then, with a growl, pulled her atop him. “I was a fool to think once would be enough. Each time I have you, I want you all the more.”

  She could feel it, both in her own body and in his. Sliding up over him, she sought his lips again. Her knees fell to the sheets on either side of his thighs. As her tongue filled his mouth, she teased him at that other point where she was so open, so ready. He was addictive; with so little provocation, she needed him again. And as with any addiction, the first and only thing on her mind was to satisfy the craving.

  Slipping a hand between their bodies, he found her warmth and stroked her with such knowing care that she had to gasp for air.

  “It’s not fair, Pat!” she cried, but already he was lowering her hips onto his waiting strength. And then all that mattered was the rhythmic surge of their bodies, the lips that clung, the hands that found each other’s sensitive spots and drew everything from them. When with joint cries of release it was over, they lay spent, Jordanna’s damp body limp above his, which was no more energized.

  It was then that room service knocked.

  “I don’t believe it,” Patrick groaned.

  Jordanna laughed breathlessly. “I can’t move.”

  “Neither can I.”

  The knock came again.

  “One of us has to get it,” she whispered, sliding to his side and drawing the quilt to her chin. There was no doubt as to her choice.

  Slanting her a punishing scowl, he untangled his legs from the sheets and pushed himself to his feet. He was halfway toward the door when, hearing Jordanna’s gay laughter, he looked down.

  The knock came a third time.

  “Coming!” he yelled, racing toward the bathroom, returning as he pulled on one of the terry robes that had hung on a hook. “Pretty funny, huh?” he mumbled, then stopped before the door, donned his most composed expression and reached for the knob.

  From her position of maximum concealment, Jordanna watched the waiter who wheeled in their dinner. She was instantly grateful that a young, innocent country girl hadn’t been sent. Patrick looked far too appealing with his long, tanned legs extending far below the white robe, whose belt loosely ringed his hips. But, no, the waiter was very definitely a he, and though his tender age suggested he was perhaps as innocent as that country girl might have been, he was obviously well trained. If he suspected what he’d so inopportunely interrupted, he made no show of it. Rather, head bent to his task, he deftly transformed the tray on wheels into a table replete with fresh flowers and the finest of linen and china, not to mention a feast whose aroma was tantalizing.

  When the young man left and they were alone once again, Jordanna threw back the quilt and scrambled from the bed. She was suddenly ravenously hungry. Returning quickly to the bathroom, Patrick produced a second robe, held it out for her as though it was the finest of furs, then bent to nip her ear. “I’d let you eat naked, but I don’t think I’d make it.” He glanced down as she lifted the first of the heavy metal covers. “On second thought, man cannot live by sex alone. That steak looks great!”

  Jordanna had the good grace to set up his meal before uncovering her own. Then they ate greedily, all else forgotten. By the time they were done, nothing edible remained on the table.

  Smacking his lips, Patrick sat back in the cushioned chair. “Think we should try the flowers? If they’re half as good as the cake was–”

  Jordanna’s groan interrupted him. Hauling herself back on the lounge, she stretched out and crossed her ankles. “I’m stuffed. Nothing like pigging out.”

  He sent her a meaningful glance. “We seem to be doing a lot of that lately.” As if suddenly endowed with an excess of energy, he bounded up, collapsed the sides of the table and pushed the whole thing out into the hall. When he returned, he gestured with his hand. “Move over.”

  Innocently she looked to either side of her. “Move over?”

  “Make room for me.”

  “Here? What’s wrong with your chair?”

  “It’s lonely. Come on.” Swooping down, he lifted her, sank back into the lounge, then fitted her to his side. She had to admit that there was something very nice about being squashed by Patrick Clayes.

  “Better?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Much. Are you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Like more coffee? I could order–”

  “Nothing. I’m really filled.”

  “How about an afterdinner drink. Brandy? Port?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing, thanks.” Closing her eyes she snuggled closer. “Pat?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Tell me about your career.”

  “My work?”

  “Football.”

  He went still for a minute. She felt him looking down at her and tipped her head back.

  “You don’t really want to hear about that.’

  “I do.” The truth was that she felt open enough, mellow enough to want to know everything about him

  He saw the message in her eyes, the peace there. And he began quietly. “I played through junior high and high school, well enough to get a scholarship to college.”

  “Had you always intended to turn pro?”

  “Uh-huh. Football had been my life from way back when.” She nodded, recalling what he’d told her before. “Actually, I’d intended to win the Heisman Trophy. Needless to say, I didn’t.” Again, she nodded. She knew very. well who had won it that particular year.

  “No loss,” she quipped. “It’s only a piece of sculpted metal, and it’s a bitch to dust.”

  Patrick snorted, then grew pensive. “Still, I wanted it. I’ll never forget that day in November. I knew there were three of us in the running. According to my agent, I had the east sewed up. Peter had the west. Doug Shoenbrunn had the south. I waited and waited in that office for word, praying that I’d get it, convincing myself that I deserved it. Finally, I just went home. It was two in the morning when my agent called. I was devastated.”

  “It meant that much?”

  “In dollars and cents, not to mention prestige. Almost like an Oscar for an actor. Thank God I didn’t have to be on camera when they opened the envelopes. The presentation dinner was bad enough, but at least I’d had time to prepare myself for the loss. It was a blow, I’ll tell you. And a harbinger. The following spring, Kirkland was the first player chosen in the draft. I wasn’t picked until the third round.”

  “Why the discrepancy?”

  “Go ask ’em. I’d led my team in back-to-back Cotton Bowl appearances and had the best passing record in the NCAA. Who knows what those guys base their decisions on? I sure as hell don’t!”

  Jordanna could feel the frustration oozing from him and momentarily regretted having raised the issue at all. By way of comfort, she slid a hand inside his robe and lightly kneaded his chest. “You did well, though. Proved them wrong. How many Super Bowl rings do you have?”

  Responding to her soothing caress, he lowered his voice. “Just one. The other two I lost to you-know-who.”

  Relieved at the hint of humor in his tone, she grinned. “I had to polish those too. They were almost as bad as the trophy.”

  “Polish them? The rings?”

  “Uh-huh. He wanted them to gleam when he held them up, which he tended to do very often, if you recall.”

  “You bet I recall. How not to win friends and influence people. But, damn it, Peter had that charisma. He could do whatever he wanted and still come out smelling like a rose. The world loves a winner. I guess it’s as simple as that.”

  “If the world’s love is what you want.”

  “Mmm.”

  “And it’s not what you want, is it?”

  “Not in that sense. Sure, I want to be respected for what I do. I want to be rewarded for it. But with the world’s adulation? Uh-uh. I guess I’m like you. What’s impor
tant is what I think. I need self-respect. I want to be able to go to sleep at night feeling good and honest and proud. God only knows how Kirkland slept.”

  “Like a baby. Says something about his values, doesn’t it?”

  Patrick hugged her closer and Jordanna knew that he understood and agreed. “Guess so. Anyway, I had my day with football. I’ve got my MVP awards, my ring, my lame shoulder.” She slid her hand to that spot as he went on. “And now it’s done. I am grateful; football gave me what I wanted. By the time I retired, I had enough of a name and a kitty to go out and start my own business. It’s challenging and rewarding. I’m pleased with it.”

  “Tell me more, Pat. Are you all alone at the top?”

  “I’ve got three partners. They contribute everything to the group that I can’t. In some ways, my story’s like yours. I may have a college degree and a smattering of postgraduate business courses under my belt, but nothing like their MBAs from Harvard and Columbia. While I was tossing that crazy little ball around, they were scoring touchdowns on Wall Street. What with their know-how, my money and the additional backing I had access to, we formed the Houghton Group.”

  Jordanna’s hand ceased its gentle massage of his shoulder. She levered herself up and stared back at him. “The Houghton Group? You’re the Houghton Group?”

  The corners of his lips quirked in humor at her expression of amazement. “Sure. It’s no big deal.”

  ‘Patrick, the Houghton Group has to be the up-and-coming firm. I mean, I’m far from an expert when it comes to venture capitalism, but I do read. You name it – the Wall Street Journal, Forbes, the Times – you’ve had fantastic write-ups in each of them during the past year!” She looked away, puzzled. “Strange. I don’t remember reading your name. I must have been skimming–”

  “My name wasn’t in all of the articles. It’s the Houghton Group, angel, not the Clayes Group. I like it that way.”

  Amazed, but now at the extent of his modesty, she continued to stare at him. He was so different, so different.

  “Does it matter?” he asked so softly that, lost in her thoughts, she didn’t follow at first.

  “Hmm?”

  “Does it matter who I am and who I’m with?”

  “Of course not. It’s just… fascinating.”

  He seemed troubled then. “Am I more fascinating now that you know I’m with the Houghton Group?”

  And she understood. With a gentle smile, she touched her fingers to his lips. “Yes, you’re more fascinating, but not in the way you think. You’re more fascinating because by rights you should be arrogant as hell. Yet you’re not. That is fascinating. It’s also very, very refreshing.” Stretching, she replaced her fingertips with her lips and kissed him softly. Then she set her cheek against his chest and slid an arm around him. His own locked her there moments before he spoke.

  “Refreshing enough to last until Sunday?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Till Sunday?”

  “You don’t have to be back tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  “Then stay here with me until Sunday. Please. I’d like it very much.”

  A slow smile spread over Jordanna’s face. More than ever before she felt she was her own woman, doing what she wanted, albeit on whim. “I’d like it too,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

  PATRICK STOOD AT HIS WINDOW, looking down on Park Avenue. Behind him his desk was covered with papers. His secretary sat just outside his door waiting to type the letters he was supposed to have dictated into his machine the night before. But he hadn’t dictated. He hadn’t done much of anything except think of Jordanna. It seemed to have become a habit of his.

  In the two weeks since they’d left New Hampshire, each in his or her own car headed toward his or her own life, he’d tried to immerse himself in his work. He hadn’t been terribly successful. Now, as had happened so very many times, he thought back to that weekend. It had been a dream, wonderful and warm, filled with everything he ever imagined and more. Not that they’d strayed far from their room for two days. At first they’d had the excuse of their clothes; it hadn’t been until late Saturday that the inn had returned everything washed and neatly folded or hung up. Even then, though, they’d chosen to wear the soft terry robes or, more often, nothing at all.

  They’d talked and made love, ordered breakfast in bed and made love some more, had wine and cheese then talked and made love again, ordered dinner, talked, made love. And each time it was better. They’d become the dearest of friends, the most superb of lovers. It had been sheer hell to think of letting her go.

  That Sunday, as the hours had passed, a subtle tension had arisen. Both had known what was coming. Their conversation, their lovemaking had taken on a more urgent quality. At last he’d been the one to put it into words.

  “We’ve got something too good to ignore, angel. You know that, don’t you?”

  She’d looked at him soulfully and had silently nodded.

  He’d gone on. “We both need time to think. Once we’re back in the city, things will take on a different perspective. It’s all been so beautiful here, but far removed from reality. We’re going to have to think about us in that other context now.”

  Again she’d nodded, but her agreement had only fueled his frustration. He’d half wished she’d argued that it wouldn’t make any difference, that what they had would exist wherever, that she loved him. But she hadn’t argued. She was too sensible for that. She’d been through too much in her life, too much with Peter Kirkland to be blind to the drawbacks of a relationship with Patrick. She had to come to terms with everything if they were to have a chance as a couple in the real world. And he had to come to terms with things too.

  Had he? He wasn’t sure. All the brooding and debating that he’d done, that he continued to do, had convinced him of one thing. He loved Jordanna. She was everything he’d always wanted in a woman – warm and intelligent and exciting and independent – everything, with one exception. She’d been married to Peter Kirkland.

  He couldn’t seem to put that thought to rest. It haunted him, as he’d been haunted for so many years living in Kirkland’s shadow. And he was furious at himself for being haunted. Too often he pictured Jordanna’s naked body, the body he knew so well, in Peter Kirkland’s arms, and something angry coiled within him. Then he would relent and want her all the more. If he loved Jordanna, there was no reason why he shouldn’t call her, see her, even marry her. To hell with Peter. To hell with the snide remarks they were sure to get. To hell with the inevitable newspaper stories their relationship was bound to generate. To hell with the world.

  But he cared. It bothered him. For his sake and Jordanna’s. He wanted nothing to mar the beauty of what they’d found.

  Had she found it as well? He thought so. Everything she’d said and done during that weekend attested to the fact. He thought back to the last time they’d made love. She’d been more abandoned than she’d ever been, using those soft lips of hers, those slender hands, that agile body to conquer every inch of his flesh. She’d said it in her actions. He thought. She loved him. He thought. But what if he thought wrong?

  Turning from the window, he gave a harsh snort. And he thought waiting for the Heisman decision had been tough! Here his heart was at stake, and he was in agony.

  HALFWAY ACROSS TOWN, high in her office overlooking Sixth Avenue, Jordanna stared at the papers spread wide on her desk. Hearing a light knock at her door, she looked up to see Sally Frank enter.

  “Whaddya think?” Sally asked, expectation in the eyes that darted from Jordanna to the desk top and back. “Like ’em?”

  Jordanna pushed herself back in her chair. “They’re okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “I don’t know, Sally.” Jordanna frowned. “There’s something missing. I can’t put my finger on it. Some little bit of extra excitement… or promise… or… oh, I don’t know.”

  Sally came to perch on the edge of the desk. “The art department’s been working on the
m for weeks. I thought they were pretty good.”

  “They are.”

  “But?”

  Jordanna shrugged and raised tired eyes to her friend. Sally had been with her from the start and was the best advertising vice-president she could have hoped for. “I just don’t know.” She looked off toward the window. “Maybe it’s me. I’m not sure what I want.”

  Sally thought for a minute. “Why do I hear something deeper in that than this ad campaign?”

  Jordanna looked back. “Do you?”

  “Uh-huh. Come on, love. ‘Fess up. What’s bothering you?”

  “Is something bothering me?”

  Sally rolled her eyes. “Always answering a question with a question. Is that the prerogative of presidents, or is it just you being evasive?” Her tone gentled. “What is it, Jordanna? You’ve been off somewhere since you got back from that trip of yours.”

  “From Minneapolis?”

  “Not from Minneapolis. That was last week and it was pure business. I’m talking about that supposed vacation of yours. You were to be rested and refreshed. Instead you only seem distracted.”

  “Do I?”

  “Come on, Jordanna. This is me. Sally. Your old friend. The woman whose wedding you were maid of honor at. The woman whose kids are your god-kids. The woman who cries in your tea every time she has a fight with her husband. What is it, love? Something’s bothering you.”

  Jordanna looked at her for a minute, then pushed herself from her chair and walked to the window. Perhaps she needed to talk, to share her thoughts with someone who might be able to help. Lord knew she’d come up with few enough answers on her own.

  “I met someone.”

  “Someone. A man?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Where?” Sally’s enthusiasm flared. For years she’d been encouraging Jordanna to date, with far too little success.

  “On the trip.”

  “In New Hampshire? You’re kidding!”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Why so glum? I think that’s great! So what if he lives somewhere else. You’re as mobile as most women nowadays.” When Jordanna continued to gaze out the window, Sally bridled her tone. “Uh-oh. He’s married.”

 

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