by Cara Summers
Or perhaps he’d just changed his mind.
Typical, she thought. He could just join the other men who’d left her behind. She hadn’t had many lovers in her life, and they’d certainly come from many walks of life—the football player, the college professor, the antiques dealer who’d first introduced her to her passion, the racecar driver. What they all had in common was the fact that they’d tired of her and moved on.
It was as if she had a date of expiration stamped on her forehead.
She moved toward the balcony door. As she did, the punch of awareness hit her so hard that she stopped and nearly stumbled backward. He was there. He had to have come out on his balcony. The knowledge had a tremor building right up from the souls of her feet. She didn’t go out. Instead, she edged as far as she could to the right so that she could just see a section of his balcony. Sure enough, those long legs were stretched full length on a lounge chair and crossed at the ankles. He had a notebook computer on his lap, and she could see the edge of the parchment envelope peeking out from beneath it.
Her heart skipped, thudded hard and then sank.
Obviously, he’d gotten the message. And he knew who she was. It wouldn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to locate her room. So sometime between that kiss in the stairwell and now, he’d decided to move on.
Okay. Okay. She could deal with that. She would deal with that. But this time she was going to find out why. She moved back to the door, stepped out on her balcony.
He was gone.
IAN STRODE INTO HIS ROOM and placed his laptop on the bedside table. It had been nearly half an hour that he’d waited, sitting in that lounge chair, hoping she’d make an appearance. Then finally he could be certain that the cryptic message she’d pushed beneath his door meant what he thought it meant.
You will experience all the sensory delights and adventure that come with being swept away by a stranger.
Eighteen words. It wasn’t that he didn’t get the gist of them. Hey, he was trained in analyzing cryptic messages.
Jillian Brightman wanted him to sweep her away. That had to be what the message meant.
Every communication was made up of three important components: author, audience and purpose. He knew the parchment was from her. It carried that exotic scent of hers, the one that had been in his head since he’d first gotten close to her on the road that morning. She’d had plenty of time to shove the parchment beneath his door while he’d been strolling in the garden or talking to Jarrell.
He was obviously the audience. She’d know where his room was because she’d seen him on the balcony earlier.
And the purpose? He glanced down at the envelope he still held in his hand. The parchment was old and faded, and the message was written in some kind of calligraphy. He could only guess that she’d wanted to give it a mysterious and perhaps romantic flair. And that was evidence that she wanted the fantasy—she wanted to be swept away by a stranger. And he was the stranger she’d chosen.
Ian sighed and closed his eyes. He might be overanalyzing—a side effect of his old job. But in this case, how could he be sure that he wasn’t interpreting the evidence to suit his own desires? He wanted her more than was reasonable.
When his cell phone vibrated, he checked the ID, then flipped it open.
“Am I interrupting anything important?” Cody asked.
“No.”
“You must be losing your touch. I did a background on the Jenkins duo. The father is Samuel Jenkins the second, but he goes by Colonel. The son is the third Sam and goes by his middle name, Matthew. The colonel is the real deal. Sam Two’s an army career man who retired at fifty and then bought his first hotel. Matthew was already in the hotel business with a degree from Cornell, and he went to work for Daddy. In the past fifteen years, they’ve acquired a dozen-plus small inns, and they’re successful enough to have been written up in several business trade magazines.”
After three beats of silence, Ian said, “You wouldn’t be calling me after midnight, secretly hoping you’d interrupted something, if that’s all you have.”
“It’s the first Sam, the colonel’s father, that you might find interesting. Not only was he born and raised on Belle Island, but he died there at the age of thirty. He took a header off a cliff up near Haworth House. The death is officially listed as a suicide. The guy even left a note. I haven’t been able to find the details of the contents yet. The midfifties just didn’t have the excess of news we have today. You may be able to dig up something from the locals.”
“Thanks, Cody.”
The only answer he received was a huge yawn before his friend disconnected.
It wasn’t a noise that drew Ian’s attention back to the door to his balcony. It was a tug in his core and a ripple of awareness along his skin that told him Jillian had just walked out onto hers.
He glanced down at the envelope he still held in his hand. There was one way to find out if it meant what he wanted it to mean. Tossing the parchment on the bed, he strode to the open balcony doors. Then he stopped short and simply stared.
It occurred to him that he’d never had an opportunity to do that before—just look at her. Each time they’d met, she’d either been in his arms or he’d been wanting to pull her into them.
She wore a blue robe, belted at the waist. Her hair, freshly brushed, was pulled back from her face by a ribbon. Her hands rested on the cement railing as she stared out to the sea.
In the moonlight, her face looked even more delicate. Her hands were fragile-looking also. But they weren’t. He’d felt their strength when she’d threaded them through his hair. That slender body was strong, too. Perhaps the contrasts in her were a part of what fascinated him. Pulled at him.
For a moment he focused on just her profile. Her chin was lifted in what he was beginning to understand was a characteristic of hers. She faced challenges head-on. He ran his gaze from her face to her waist, lingering on each part, the curve of her cheek, the angle of her neck and her shoulder, the narrow torso. And her back. He recalled the way it had stiffened every time she’d sensed his gaze, as if her nerve endings were especially attuned to him. His need to touch her before had been strong, but now…
He ran his eyes over her again, this time letting his body absorb the memory of each separate sensation he’d experienced on that stairwell. The way the pulse at her throat had thundered against his lips, the flash fire heating of the skin on her cheek and the curve of her shoulders beneath his palms. That tiny waist—he’d nearly spanned it with one hand as he’d lifted her until they were center to center.
Something raw and primitive cut through him like a lance. Suddenly, he needed the wall next to him for support.
Just looking at her winded him. Weakened him. No other woman ever had. Then he saw the sudden clenching of her fists and the tension that tightened the rest of her body.
She knew he was there. Could she possibly be feeling some of what he was feeling?
He let the thought go when she suddenly whirled to peer over the railing to his balcony. The moment their eyes met, he stepped through the doorway. “You.”
He very nearly grinned at the accusation in her tone.
“I could say the same,” he replied.
She lifted her chin. “You were out here earlier. You went in.”
“I waited for you, but you didn’t come out.”
“But you got my message.” Suddenly, she frowned. “And I was an idiot to assume you’d understand it. It’s my fantasy, and I was in such a hurry—”
“Wait.” Ian held up both hands, palms out, as an idea flashed brilliantly into his mind. If she wanted to be swept away…
“Don’t say another word.” He moved a chair to the railing of the balcony. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“No.”
Ian felt his blood quicken, his heart race as she closed her eyes, nearly swayed. He knew at least a part of what she was feeling, the sharp ache and the temptation of the risk. And her risk was the greater. To he
r, he was still a stranger.
“Stay where you are. I’ll be right up.” Balcony Scaling 101 hadn’t been offered during his CIA training, but…
Using the chair as a stepladder, he climbed onto the railing. Balancing himself on four inches of cement, he quickly calculated the distance, then stretched out his arms, bent his knees and leaped.
His fingers gripped the railing of her balcony, and for a second he hung there feeling the full weight of his body dragging him down. Hands gripped his wrists. But he was already pulling himself up, levering a leg over. And then he was standing toe to toe again with Jillian Brightman.
7
JILLIAN STARED AT HIM, eyes wide, pulse pounding. “You just…”
“Yeah.” His smile was slow and edged with power.
Releasing his wrists, she took two quick steps back. When he moved forward, a thrill sprinted through her.
“We can use my place next time…unless—” He glanced over the railing, then turned and held out his hands. “I could swing you over and then hop back down.”
“Hop?” She shook her head to clear it. The man had just scaled a balcony and the excitement of it was still rocketing through her system. Now he was talking about repeating the process only in reverse—and taking her with him?
“No.” She raised a hand, palm outward. “And there won’t be a next time. The message—”
“The invitation.”
“Yes. It was just for tonight.”
“You want a one-time fantasy.”
“Right. No regrets, no hassles. Clear?”
“As crystal.”
“Then you can come in.” Turning, she stumbled over the sill. Hard hands gripped her waist and carried her into her room. When he set her down, she experienced a keen sense of loss.
By the time she recovered her balance and turned to face him, he was taking in the room.
“You lit candles.”
“I like candles.”
He met her eyes. “You were expecting me to come.”
When he stepped toward her, she moved back. “I like to be prepared.”
More pleasure assaulted her as she continued to retreat, he to pursue. She stopped only when her back was against the post of the bed. There’d be no escape now. She didn’t want one.
He took a strand of her hair, wrapped it around his finger. “What else do you like—other than to be prepared?”
You, she thought. She knew without a doubt she wanted this man in her room. And she wanted him to make love to her. She wanted to make love to him. But she’d never quite gotten to the details. And his scent, the fact that he was here close enough to touch—that was interfering with her ability to think. “I was concentrating on the big picture.”
He smiled. “Then I’ll handle the rest. Good thing I’m a detail man.” He dropped the piece of hair and drew his finger along her throat to rest just where her pulse was pounding. “Do you prefer slow, fast, in between?”
“Any.” Her voice was weak as if it couldn’t quite get past that spot when his finger rested. She tried again. “All. Of the above.”
“Okay, let’s try this.” He pulled the ribbon from her hair.
She heard her breath catch, felt a quick stab of lust as he combed his fingers through her curls.
“Now this.” His hand gripped the belt of her robe and tugged it free. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw you standing at the railing of your balcony.”
As he slipped the robe down her arms, it was his breath that caught, his voice that sounded raspy. “Speaking of details, I like this.”
Her bra. That’s where she could feel the heat of his gaze. It was pale blue lace, and she’d chosen it thinking of him, daydreaming about him as she had ever since she’d left the tower room to slip the parchment under his door, hoping that he would come.
“I was fantasizing that you were naked beneath the robe. This is better.” He traced lightly over the top of the lace that framed her breast. His finger was long, his skin darker. “For now.”
Then his gaze lowered.
She watched his face, saw his jaw tighten and his lips thin while he drew his finger slowly down her stomach to the lacy blue triangle of her panties. His touch was so light, yet it might as well have been branding her. The weakness in her knees had her putting her hands behind her to grip the bedpost. If she hadn’t, she just might have slithered to the ground.
Then he traced his fingers down the lace and pushed them between her legs to rub at the heat in her center.
Everything inside her clenched as the blast of heat shot through her. Gripping the bedpost for dear life, she lifted herself onto her toes, arched, reached. When he took his hand away, she nearly cried out in protest.
Before she could, his mouth was at her ear, his breath hot. “Sexy underwear has always been a turn-on for me, but I like your response even more. So let’s get rid of the distraction.”
As she tried to absorb what was happening, he freed her wrists from the bedpost, then turned her around and unhooked her bra. The straps slipped down her arms, and her panties dropped to her ankles. He lifted her out of them, then positioned her hands on the bedpost, this time above her head. “I want to just look at you. There wasn’t time in the stairwell. I’ve been watching your back all day, aching with the need to touch it, to touch all of you.”
He lifted her hair and pushed it over her right shoulder. Then he placed his hands on her back so that his thumbs met at her spine and those long fingers wrapped around to just graze her nipples. She clung to the bedpost as reality became better than fantasy.
How could she have imagined how it would feel to have those large hands nearly span her body? Or the intensity of the pleasure they would bring as they moved slowly and thoroughly down her sides, over hips, thighs, calves and ankles? She swore that she could even feel the flicker of candlelight on the sensitized skin they left in their wake. No inch of her escaped his careful attention.
A moan strangled in her throat as he began to repeat the journey in reverse. This time she should have known what to expect, but he changed the pressure so that each stab of pleasure was sharper, each arrow of heat hotter. Each thrill darker.
He clasped her wrists and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Hold on to me.”
Then he pulled her hard against him, one hand covering her breast, the other moving lower and lower. “I’m going to make you come.”
Her climax began the instant he pushed two fingers into her. He drew them out, pushed them in again, adding to a pleasure that already bordered on pain. Layering on more and more until she was completely swept away…
IAN MANAGED TO WAIT UNTIL she’d ridden out her release before he turned her around and braced her back against the bedpost. He’d been aware of his need building as he’d focused on giving her pleasure, on giving them both pleasure. Each sound she’d made in her throat, each tremor, each gasp had fed into it the way twigs built a fire. But when she’d arched against him and he’d sent her over that final crest, his hunger for her had sliced through him like a blade, severing his control and taking him far beyond anything he’d ever experienced before.
He’d intended to go slowly, to draw it out for both of them. But he simply couldn’t wait any longer. And he had too many clothes on. He pulled at the snap of his jeans, and he’d just pushed down the zipper when she began to slide down the bedpost. He grabbed her shoulders and lowered them both to their knees.
“You okay?” he asked.
She managed a nod. “Let me help with those.”
Her hands joined his to push and tug his jeans and his briefs down his thighs.
“I like this,” she said as her hand closed around his penis.
“It’s yours.” He couldn’t breathe, could barely speak as she ran her hand down the length and back up again.
“I’ll never again ignore the details.”
He should get up, take her to the bed. But he couldn’t find the will to capture her hand. “No,” he finally
managed.
“Yes.” She pumped him again. “I want to make you come.”
It wasn’t going to take much more, he thought. He could already feel his climax building at the base of his spine.
“I want to be inside you.” The truth, the driving necessity of the words gave him the strength to close one of his hands over hers and lift it away. He managed to push two fingers into the pocket of his jeans, scissor the condom and pull it out. Once he had himself sheathed, he threaded his fingers through her hair and brought her mouth to his. The way her tongue beguiled, branded and consumed had his focus wavering again.
She moved, first to straddle him and then to slide down over him. It was as if she’d pumped molten lava into his system. Digging his fingers into her hips, he thrust up hard, withdrew, thrust up again.
She dug her hands into his shoulders. “Let me.”
“I can’t.” His climax was already building.
Still, she fought to take over the rhythm, tightening on him and relaxing. But he didn’t let her. He couldn’t.
He knew he was being rough as he deepened the kiss and continued to thrust into her. Gentleness and finesse were beyond his reach. He used his tongue as if he couldn’t bury enough of himself inside her. His heart pounded in a rage of blood. His body throbbed in a whirlpool of need.
As if she could read those needs, she tightened around him more forcefully, squeezing and moving suddenly faster until the climax ripped through him. And she held him fast with mouth and arms and legs as he rode it out.
IAN WASN’T SURE HOW LONG he lay there on the floor at the foot of her bed, holding her. She slept like a stone, sprawled on top of him while candlelight flickered over her skin. Even in sleep, she trapped him. One of her arms wrapped around his neck, one leg still straddled his hip. As if she were afraid that he would leave while she was unaware.
And a part of him was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to leave. Her head was tucked right into the crook of his shoulder. The sweetness of the gesture, the message that her body was giving his softened something inside him.