Deadly Little Lies

by Jeanne Adams

  The rolling of his hips and the flick of his tongue were more than enough to send her flying. Dav supported her as she climaxed. Desire and something more, something deeper, reflected in his face as he continued to rock into her, drawing out her orgasm.

  “Now,” he said, “let me do more.”

  “No.” She recovered as well as she could, gripping his wrists. “My turn,” she insisted. “Mine.”

  He muttered something in Greek, but lay back, not relaxed, but not taking over either. Good.

  Mimicking his pace, that slow roll of the hips, had a marvelous effect. She saw the muscles clench in his jaw, his readiness to pounce. She captured his hands in hers, prevented him from taking over, flipping them and ending it with a rush. She knew he still could, he was strong enough and they would both enjoy it, but she wanted more.

  It might be all she ever got.

  Running her tongue up the side of his neck, she tasted him, male and aroused. Now it was his turn to move with restless excitement beneath her ministering hands and tongue. By the time she’d come again, she had brought him to a fever pitch. His hands were everywhere, racing over her skin to ignite every nerve, every sense.

  As she rose over him, it was her turn to watch as he took command, even from his position beneath her, guiding her hips, lifting her as her climax turned her muscles to water, urging her higher, faster.

  “Again.” He used his velvet voice, that deep resonant growl, to call her to more satisfaction, more pleasure. “Come for me again, my heart. Yes,” he murmured. He must have seen it in her face, because he continued to rock her as she crested so powerfully that she brought him with her.

  “Ahhhhh!” The shouted praise couldn’t have come from her, could it? She had never ... She decided it didn’t matter what she’d done before as she collapsed onto his chest, throbbing and trembling with the intensity of the release.

  Their panting breath was loud in the closed space, intimate, reflecting their shared experience. His heart beat under her cheek, steadying now as their breathing leveled too.

  “You are a miracle, my flame.” He kissed her hair, toying with the strands of it that trailed down her back. He seemed fascinated by her hair. She loved the way he called her his dark flame. When he said it, she felt invincible, impossibly sexy and feminine. She felt powerful.

  “I hate to say it,” she whispered, and she very much did hate to speak of anything commonplace, hated to break the golden cocoon of pleasure. “But I need to get up, go to the bathroom, such as it is.”

  “Of course,” Dav said, loosing her from his capturing arm, and bracing himself on an elbow as she rose. She knew he watched her as she slipped into her shoes and made her way across the dusty floor. She felt his gaze caress her skin, and shivered, aroused all over again by his watching her.

  She knew the moment he turned away to give her privacy. The room felt cooler, darker.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t provide a long hot shower too,” he said, as he began to retrieve their clothes, sort them into piles of his and hers.

  “Don’t even talk about it,” she groaned. “Really.” She desperately wanted a shower. Even a cup of water and a washcloth would be a blessing but they dared not chance wasting what little water they had. She dreaded the thought of getting back into her wrinkled skirt and sweater.

  As she watched him, she had to grin. Their things were strewn everywhere, with no regard for how little they had, or the conditions. He was having a hard time separating her jacket from her sweater.

  “I guess we really did rip each other’s clothes off,” she said, pointing at the various items. “I think that’s your shirt. Do you see my bra?”

  Dav rose and once again a Greek god came to mind. He could be the young, powerful Apollo, she decided, though the more she looked, the more he reminded her of the statue of Poseidon in Copenhagen harbor. His body was strongly muscled, his hips narrow without seeming disproportionate. Broad shoulders and bronzed skin made her want to touch, to taste, to explore.

  He held up her lacy demicup bra. “Had I known you wore this under that quiet”—he hesitated—“I think the word is demure? Yes?” he asked. When she nodded, he grinned and continued. “That demure sweater, I might have suggested a different place for lunch.”

  She smiled as she came over and took the bra, slipping into it with practiced ease, then did the same with her panties, although she’d have preferred not to. Dav was dressing as well.

  “Ah, I believe I’ve done something bad,” he murmured, lifting the sweater by the shoulders. Along the asymmetrical neckline, where beads had studded the narrow band of the collar, there was now a tear. The fabric drooped downward, leaving the neckline exposed halfway down to the midline.

  “Oh, my.” She took the garment from him, turning it to and fro. She pulled it over her head and the rip caught on her breast, then dropped below it.

  “Anywhere in the world but here,” he said, his smile pained, “I would buy you a dozen to replace it. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” She grinned at the look on his face, not really hearing the words as she tried not to look at his magnificent body. She knew if she did, she’d want him even more. As it was she was sore, wonderfully sore, in wonderful ways, but she wasn’t sure how much more she could take in one twenty-four-hour period.

  “Here—” He bent down, lifted his dusty undershirt. “Wear this. Much as I love your new look, darling,” he drawled, mimicking her former gallery clerk, “it won’t do to show too much skin.” He kept the smile on his face as she took the shirt, but his eyes changed and she saw the pain there.

  “It’s okay. It’s what it is. We’re alive and that’s what counts.” She turned the shirt around in her hands, brushed off some of the dust. The cotton was heavy and soft. Like everything he owned it was beautifully made, probably incredibly expensive. She sneaked a look at the tag and laughed.

  “Dav, you rascal,” she accused.

  “What? Is there something wrong?” He was all concern, moving quickly to her side. “Is it ripped as well?” He took it from her, examined it. Puzzled, he handed it back. “You don’t want to wear it?”

  “It’s fine. It’s a Fruit of the Loom.”

  “A what?”

  She laughed even more. Obviously the words meant nothing to him. “A plain cotton undershirt.”

  Still puzzled, he pulled the collar, checked the tag. “Yes, it is. I have many of them. My assistant buys them in large packages.” He indicated the size of the packaging with his hands. “Why? Is something wrong with it?”

  She shook her head. “Your shirt—” She fingered the material. He’d slipped it on, but hadn’t buttoned it. She really wanted to run her hands over his skin again, but confined herself to the shirt and remembered to continue the sentence. “Probably cost what, three hundred dollars?”

  “A bit less,” he confessed. “My tailor likes me.”

  “Right. The T-shirts are maybe, what, five or seven dollars apiece bought in bulk?” She let her hands measure the same size he’d shown her.

  “Ah, I understand now. You are a snob, my flame,” he said, sweeping her into his arms with a laugh and swinging her around. “Eh-la, you would prefer I wear silk underneath as well?”

  “No, no.” She giggled at his antics and wiggled to be put down. Embarrassed, she ducked her head. “It’s just that I had this thought in my head that here I’d be putting on something dearly expensive in such a primitive circumstance....” She trailed off when she saw he was still laughing at her. “Stop laughing at me.” She punched his bicep lightly. “Okay, I’m a snob, or I guess I should say that I thought you were. Satisfied?” The last was muffled in the folds of the shirt as she pulled it over her head.

  “Evidently not,” he murmured as he swooped in for a passionate kiss, banding her in his arms, the crumpled hem of the T-shirt caught between them. “You look beautiful in my shirt, Carrie.” He rested his forehead on hers, his breathing quick and his body hard against her hips. �
��You simply look beautiful. Anywhere. In anything.” And now the grin was back in full. “Or nothing.”

  “Thank you,” she said, holding him close, running her hands up his back. She didn’t want to move, or think. Why had she waited so long for this, for him? He’d been there. He’d asked. She’d been the one to hold him at bay.

  “You are welcome, my flame. My shirt is common, perhaps, but comfortable. It is good quality cotton and heavy. I sweat a great deal.” He said it like it was a bad thing, an embarrassment.

  “Means your body’s healthy,” she said, a little breathlessly because his body heat was exciting her again. Much as she wanted to rip the shirt back off, and jump him again, she was sore. And hungry.

  “Perhaps, but what is the commercial?” He lifted his head, closing his eyes to call the concept to him. “Ah yes, never let them see you sweat?”

  “Right. Well, I won’t get it any dirtier or sweatier than it already is. How’s that?”

  “That’s acceptable.” He said it with a pompous, condescending air. “I accept those terms.”

  “I’m hungry,” she said, just as her stomach growled loudly as it had the day before.

  “Then, my lady, we should eat. I believe we have an amazing menu this morning,” he said with a flourishing bow. The fact that he hadn’t yet put on pants or fastened his shirt did nothing to detract from the elegance of the bow.

  “I think we wrinkled our picnic blanket,” she said, pointing at the rumpled coat.

  “I’ll fix that as soon as I find my pants. Now, where could they be? So much clutter in this space, so many things to search through. Too much mess for me to see them, I guess. We are terrible housekeepers, you and I.”

  She’d never seen him so light, making fun of everything and laughing with her as if they had no cares. Perhaps they didn’t. There were no meetings, no shipments to manage, no temperamental artists to soothe.

  Still laughing and bumping one another, they found his pants, straightened the coat and got out the meager supplies. Sitting with their backs to the wall, they ate.

  “You know, I keep thinking about the carvings. They mean something, I know they do. If I could just remember. Aaargh,” she growled in frustration. “That damn art course was so long ago. I took this course on Mayan art,” she explained when he questioned her angst. “I know I’ve seen some of this”—she waved toward the walls—“before.”

  “You are doing a great deal better than I, Carrie.” He shook his head. “I’ve learned about art over the years, but nothing compares to your encyclopedic knowledge of obscure but brilliant artists.”

  “Hmmm—” She turned her head to look at him. “That really doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

  “But it was meant as one,” he insisted. “I remember you told me once at one of the openings about that flamboyant artist, Carusia, you’d shown at the gallery. You said his work reminded you of a Matisse, but not just any Matisse, a particular one. Within minutes, you’d remembered the name of the painting and when and where it was painted. You even knew which museum held it in trust. When that annoying man from La Jolla asked you—” he continued, but she interrupted him with the man’s name.

  “Mr. Collingsworth.”

  “Yes, him. You deconstructed Carusia’s work, painting by painting, referencing the Matisse that I’m sure only you could see in your head. We all nodded sagely, and Collingsworth bobbed, of course, because when he moves, everything bobs.” Dav demonstrated and she crowed with laughter.

  “Yes, it does,” she snickered. “Just like that.”

  “Just so. I went home and looked the painting up. It is indeed in the Louvre, as you mentioned.” He chewed thoughtfully on a cracker before he spoke again. “I looked at the photos of that painting for an hour. I saw everything you’d described.” He met her embarrassed gaze. “Now, don’t be shy about your brilliance. Never be shy about that. Too many women are.” He reached out and tapped a finger on her nose, a gesture she’d seen him use with his cousin, the elegant actress Sophia Contas. “It was amazing.”

  She absorbed the compliment for a moment, remembering that opening and the odious Mr. Collingsworth.

  “I tried to buy it,” Dav broke the silence, looking at her again. “The Matisse.”

  “Buy it? But...” She often forgot just how wealthy he was. He seldom made an issue of it, and now, looking rumpled, dusty and with two days’ growth of beard rapidly shadowing the lower half of his face, he looked nothing like the suave billionaire she knew him to be.

  “Even the Louvre has a price, love,” he replied with a shrug.

  It boggled the mind. Really. “Did they sell it to you?”

  “Not yet,” he said, and a predatory, catlike smile curved his lips and crinkled his eyes. “I will wear them down eventually.”

  That kind of wealth was astounding to her. She couldn’t fathom calling the Louvre, offering to buy something from the collection, then waiting until they were ready to deal. Such patience. No wonder he was worth billions.

  Thinking about his power made her think about powerful men in general. The gods of commerce. Trade and commerce.

  Staring at the wall opposite where they were sitting, her eye lit on a particular whorl in the pattern. Wait...

  “Hold this.” She passed him the canteen she’d just picked up so she could scramble to her feet, hurry to the wall. Following the pattern she’d seen, the glyph for water, she traced it around the space, stepping over his legs when she got to them and moving back almost to the beginning of the glyph. It stopped though, three or four feet short of its beginning.

  “The serpent isn’t swallowing his tail,” she muttered, stepping back to look for another glyph. She found it high, near the ceiling. Pointing at it, to keep her place, trying not to lose the rhythm of it, she traced it all the way to the same juncture, three to four feet from where it began.

  “Carrie?” He heard the impatience in his voice, tightly leashed, but there.

  “It’s a pattern, a regular thing in these ceremonial sites,” she explained. “The glyph begins—” She pointed to the wall, reaching up to tap the fat whorl that began one tracery. “The glyph ends.” She pivoted, her outstretched arm showing the path of the wave. “But they’re supposed to connect. The never-ending circle of the elements.”

  He could see it, now that she pointed it out. The ending line of the pattern curved back on itself, on its back, then wriggled down the edge of the space. Other lines and whorls and patterns flowed seamlessly across the blank space but not the ones Carrie deemed to be the most important.

  With his help, she searched the whole wall. It took them most of the day, but they found the patterns for water and metal and sun. They found at least one more pattern that Carrie couldn’t identify that was a continuous line. It was like a winding maze or an Escher drawing, fooling the eye again and again.

  All of the main, important lines stopped four feet before they began again.

  Hours passed, marked by the sun’s path on the floor. They sat again, drinking to clear dusty throats, brushing their hands off as best they could to save water.

  “I think the places where the pattern stops, right there,” Carrie said, pointing to the area on the wall where the patterns didn’t quite meet. “I think it’s important.” She didn’t want to raise his hopes, or hers, but she couldn’t help but blurt out her suspicions. “Dav, I think it’s a door. I can’t be sure,” she temporized, “but it could be.”

  “Where would it lead? Would it lead out?” She heard the hope, quickly suppressed, rise in his voice. “Or just to another chamber?”

  “I have no idea. But it’s something, it’s something.” Turning to him, she searched his face. “Isn’t it? It’s something. Maybe something we can use to get ourselves out of here.”

  “Yes, it is. You’re brilliant, Carrie,” he praised, reaching over to caress her cheek the way he had the night before. He was looking at her with admiration, with approval written all over him. It warmed her r
ight to her soul. He was open and smiling and her heart lurched.

  Love was such an ass-kicker. How could fate be so cruel to give her, finally, a man like this, a lover, a friend, someone honorable and amazing? Why would love come now, like a terrible nightmare in these conditions, when today might be their last day?

  He must have seen her thoughts in her face. “What is it? Carrie?”

  “Nothing, it’s just...” She choked on the words. “We finally get together and you’re amazing and, and, and—” She fought for control. Throwing up her hands, she let the tears roll. “Here we are. Stuck. Probably going to die today, or tomorrow. And here you are. Finally.”

  “Oh, my flame,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “Hush now. We’ll find a way. We will,” he insisted when she shook her head, the gesture lost as she pressed into his chest, wishing the haven of his arms offered more hope. “Carrie? Carrie, listen to me.”

  He forced her away, not to arm’s length, but enough so she had to look at him. Face him.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.” What did he want? She felt angry now. Didn’t he see how hopeless it all was?

  “Look over there.” He pointed to the wall they’d been examining. “You found that. Life and hope, you said, yes?”

  Dav stood up, moved to the space where the patterns stopped, stretching to graze his hands over the wall, starting at the top and moving over it to the bottom.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Finding the edges. If it is a door, and the patterns are stopping in this space, there will be edges. Come help me.”

  She struggled to her feet and complied, listlessly following his movements. “What are we doing?”

  He grinned at her, his face a mask of dust and sweat. “Where there is a door, there is a doorknob, isn’t there? At least in Greece there is. I may be just a poor, young Greek businessman, but even I know that.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Davros Gianikopolis.” She poked at his bicep again, an excuse to touch him. “Very funny.”

  “I try, I really do. Now, shall we look for our doorknob?”

  Finding her resolve, and feeling a surge of hope, she nodded. “Absolutely.”