by Diana Fraser
She nodded, unable to speak, fighting off the feelings of grief and tears that threatened her, hoping above hope that Dallas would go, would stop speaking, would leave her to recover.
Instead he stood watching over her, angry and anxious at the same time. “What were the parents thinking of, leaving their son alone like that? He could have died.”
“He didn’t though. He didn’t die. It’s all OK.” Cassandra drew her arms around herself, fighting back the tears, trying to hold back the memories.
He sat down on the bed and pulled strands of her sopping hair off her face. A sob escaped her lips and she tried to wrench herself away from him so he wouldn’t see.
“Cassandra, are you all right?”
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t let herself respond as she had no idea what would emerge. She tried to throw off his arm, struggled to crawl across the bed to the other side, needing to be alone, needing him not to see the grief she kept inside.
But his grip simply grew tighter as he lay down beside her, pulling her to him trying to quell her struggle and calm her. She had no escape. Trapped by his arms, her face away from him, unable to move, she tried to stop her body trembling. She tried to focus on the heat that radiated out from his body, warming her own.
“Are you hurt?”
She tried to speak, but was afraid that the sobs that were threatening would burst through.
He pushed the wet hair back off her face, still holding her close.
Cassandra tried a last attempt to pull away. But he wouldn’t let her. Frustration and grief emerged in a wail that escaped her lips before she could stop it. Heaving sobs wracked her body as she still struggled to get away and as he fought to hold her. She needed to escape him, escape the room, escape the whole lot of them. The stronger she tried to wrestle her arms away from his, the tighter his hold grew. And still the sobs kept coming. He was not going to let her go until she’d finished sobbing up the pent up emotion, not knowing that it was for guilt: the guilt of letting her own child die, that she cried.
She collapsed against his chest, sobs wracking her body. She couldn’t stop shaking but he held her firm. All thoughts of where she was, who she was with, had gone. She could only see the face of her son. The emptiness and pain hit her like a wall. She’d pushed it out, held it back with control, with purpose, but the small boy’s near drowning had blown the defenses to pieces. The tears that had been suppressed for so long came in floods. But still he held her.
Slowly she came around. He held her loosely now, stroking her hair, soothing her. She could feel his wet shirt beneath her cheek. She could feel his strength seeping into her, comforting her, upholding her. She wanted to stay that way forever: in a place of comfort from her pain. She knew when she moved, it would all have to start again. What an irony. The man giving her the greatest comfort from her grief was the man who’d caused it. She knew bitterness would follow, but she had no strength for it now.
She had been dimly aware that Lucia had entered and swiftly exited, leaving fresh clothes. She could hear the murmur of people from next door, but inside this place of refuge there was only this man with his arms around her, and the ticking of a clock, steadily marking time.
Slowly Dallas relaxed his hold and drew away from her. She could see the dark stain that her tears had made on his shirt and wondered at his compassion for her. It wasn’t what she’d expected from him. Nothing was.
“That wasn’t just about the boy, was it?”
She didn’t reply, but closed her eyes and pulled away from him, turning to the window through which she could see the rows of orderly grape vines cradled by the rolling hills on either side.
His hand reached out and rested gently on her shoulder. “Lucia left you some clothes. Get changed and we’ll go home.”
Home. Cassandra closed her eyes again in an attempt to control the conflicting emotions. He rubbed her neck and shoulders. Despite her body’s response to his touch she remained looking out of the window, holding herself still, waiting for him to stop.
But he didn’t.
“Your hair,” he pulled one long strand away from her head, “it’s drying into curls.”
She clamped her hand onto his, stilling his caress. “I straighten it.”
“Why? The straight hair is glorious, but the curly, well, it’s very…”
“I know what it is.” She turned wearily to face him. “It’s an unruly mess. I like to keep things tidy, under control.” She looked at him defiantly, daring him to object, as she pulled her hair tightly and twisted it into a merciless knot.
“Let it go, Cassandra. Sometimes things just slip out of control. And I, for one, like it.”
“I don’t make a habit of letting things go.” She tilted her chin as she tried to face him down, dragging up the remnants of her strength from deep within.
“I know that. But I think perhaps you should.”
She could have coped if he’d met her challenge with irritation but his quiet words of understanding hit their mark and she was powerless against him, vulnerable once more.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter.” Dallas didn’t turn to the door. His eyes were locked on Cassandra’s.
“Cassandra! How can we ever thank you?” Lucia looked from one to the other of them and then grabbed Cassandra’s hand and steered her to the pile of clothes.
“Dallas! Out you go. I’ll make sure Cassandra’s OK. We’ll be with you in half-an-hour.”
Fortified by a hot shower and a strong brandy, Cassandra met briefly with the boy’s parents before Lucia showed her a private way to the waiting helicopter. Within moments they were in the air and heading away from Onihau.
It had only been a couple of hours but it had changed her. She could feel it. A barrier had fallen, allowing the grief to slip through and dominate everything. Even her need for revenge, her hate for this man, paled beside it. It had left her exhausted and vulnerable.
He took her hand in his and held it gently. She felt a stirring inside that had nothing to do with her son or the newly cherished boy in Onihau and everything to do with this man beside her.
He drew her hand to his lips. “Thank you.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You have nothing to thank me for.”
“We have everything to thank you for. I don’t know where you came from and I don’t know exactly what you want or what you’re hiding but today you saved a family’s hopes and dreams.”
With Rosa away for the week-end, the house was quiet and drowsy in the late afternoon sun.
After making sure Cassandra was comfortable on the settee, Dallas flung open the French windows and walked onto the deck overlooking the scented garden. Bees buzzed heavily from bloom to bloom and cicadas clicked fitfully as a few early ones basked in the hot sun. He looked up at the sky. Clouds were massing and he could feel the prickle of moisture in the air. A storm was brewing.
That brief glimpse at what lay at the heart of Cassandra was tantalizing and he couldn’t leave it at that. He wanted to discover more of the mystery behind her grief. For grieving she was. Something had devastated her at her core and he was determined to find out what it was. He had to, because he wanted her and he wanted her to trust him. He needed to break down the barrier she had erected in defense and, to do that, he needed to understand her, to get to know her.
He turned back into the house.
“I’ll fix you a drink. What would you like?”
“Nothing. I’m really fine.”
“I’ll get you a brandy. You’re as white as a sheet.”
Before he left the room he turned briefly to see her drag her hand half-heartedly through her tangled curls and yawn. She yawned again and lay back on the sun-soaked settee. The barriers were falling. He just had to wait.
She was fast asleep. She looked so fragile: her face relaxed, her slim body curled into the cushions of the chintz-covered chair, all tension drained, lips softened. His hand gripped the brandy he’d poured
for her. He replaced it quietly on the table, took his own soda water and sat in the chair opposite her and watched.
She awoke suddenly, her disorientation evident in her eyes.
Dallas folded the paper he’d been holding but not reading, passed her a drink and sat back again in the seat opposite her.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Long enough to get some color back into your cheeks.”
“And you’ve been working in your office?”
“No. I’ve been here.”
He could see that she realized he’d been watching her while she slept and he could also see that the thought both excited and appalled her. The contradiction was evident in her heated eyes and shifting body language.
“Feeling better?”
She nodded. “Much.”
He took pity on her discomfort. “Good—because you’ve got dinner to cook.”
Her laughter turned to coughing as she nearly choked on her brandy. “Very considerate of you, Dallas. I should have realized you had a vested interest in me resting.”
Her low laugh unfurled a coil of emotion in Dallas’s stomach; it toyed with his feelings in a way that nothing else could. It was the sound of herself, her vulnerabilities, feelings open, guard down.
“I’m not known for my consideration. I believe Rosa has left everything ready, so it shouldn’t be too onerous.”
“No problem.” She rose. “I used to love cooking.”
“Used to?”
She paused, nodded and headed to the kitchen.
Dallas couldn’t take his eyes off Cassandra’s behind in the borrowed jeans. They were faded in all the right places and slightly loose, making her look more fragile. They made a man think of sliding a hand inside and…
God, if only he could drink. It’d been some time since he’d longed for a whiskey, or for a woman, quite so much.
Cassandra placed the empty brandy glass on the table beside the remains of their meal, sat back amid the heap of cushions and sighed. She felt vaguely surprised at how relaxed she felt. With her body curled up in delicious comfort on the soft sofa, she felt almost weightless.
Despite her languor she was very aware of Dallas sitting opposite her, entertaining her with anecdotes with the obvious intention of distracting her from the pain of her memories. And he’d succeeded. All her senses were attuned to him: his physical presence and force of personality and, not least, his sexuality.
As he walked away to refill his glass she allowed her eyes to drift close once more. Suddenly she was aware of the resonant sound of silence. It wasn’t menacing as it had been in recent months, when she’d done anything to avoid it, filled as it was with images of pain and grief. Now, it was solid, reassuring—and strangely expectant. She snapped her eyes open.
“You’re nearly asleep again.” He was leaning towards her, close and observant.
“No. I just feel,” she stretched, “good.”
“Come on. You should go to bed.”
He pulled her to her feet and her eyes rested on the small creases at the corners of his mouth that formed when he was trying not to smile. She might be the most relaxed she’d been for many months, but she was also the most aroused.
“You should try not to smile more often.”
“And I should do that because?” He was close now, looking down into her face.
“Because of these.” With both thumbs she traced the lines around the mouth, feeling the slight roughness of stubble, aware of the instant change in his manner as he responded to her touch.
He groaned and her thoughts scattered as his lips pressed against hers that parted in immediate response. Desire slid, like liquid silver, through her body, making her aware of every movement of her lips, body and hands. It was as if she were moving in slow motion, with a heightened awareness of every texture her fingers moved over: from the soft material of his shirt, to the hairs on his arms and the tension in the muscles of his back as her hand slid under his shirt.
The sensations intensified as his mouth moved hungrily over hers, until she felt and absorbed every touch, every smell, ever taste, as if time had stood still and every nerve ending in her body was attuned to the man whose mouth and body she was exploring with her own. There was nothing else except their bodies—touching, consuming each other—and the sensations that flooded her mind.
Suddenly he pulled away and she leaned in to him, a whimper simmering in her throat triggered by her need to have him back where he belonged. But he wasn’t a man to command; he was a man to entice. Slowly she tilted her head back, exposing her neck, inviting his caress of her body.
Her breath seemed to hold forever until his teeth lightly nipped her neck and she inhaled sharply in a gasp, that turned into a moan as his tongue trailed a scorching path down her throat. There, he kissed her pounding pulse and his fingers swept down her neck, falling to the curves of her rounded breasts just visible above her top.
His gaze dropped to her breasts that rose and fell with ever-increasing urgency as he undid her buttons, unhurriedly, one by one. Only once her top was undone and—somehow, she hadn’t notice how—he’d slipped open her bra, did he look up at her. The fire in his eyes instantly lit a corresponding fire within her and time suddenly sped up.
His mouth claimed hers once more as his hands cupped her breasts, his fingers and thumbs cleverly playing with her nipples until the tugging and tightening pulled within her, heating her need until it became unbearable. Each time his thumb dragged over her nipple she moaned and moved against him, her hips pressing his as mindless delight swamped her.
He pulled away his lips and hands and watched her, watching her need, her anticipation. And she could do nothing but wait as the need escalated within her, until her breathing quickened further and her body trembled for his touch. It seemed an age before it came but when it did, its effect was explosive. His hands held both breasts and his head dipped down and took each one in his mouth and suckled hard.
She cried out as waves of pleasure flooded her body, releasing her from the bonds that had kept her prisoner for so long. He claimed her cry with his mouth, their kiss intensifying as his touch drove her beyond thought.
With his hands on her bottom, curving over the roundness of her cheeks, he pulled her tighter to him so she could feel his hardness pressing intimately against her. Then he lifted her to him. Her legs embraced his hips while his tongue took control of her mouth. With each thrust of his tongue into her mouth, she wriggled onto him, her hands lost in his hair, her mouth under his, her body a slave to his.
“Cassandra,” his voice was husky with arousal. He let her legs fall to the ground, gently holding her until she’d found her feet, swaying unsteadily. “We should go upstairs.”
She shook her head; she wanted him now.
His eyes mesmerized her. The cool grey had gone, fired up to the darkened molten steel of a storm cloud. Light glanced off the planes of his face from the wall sconces and darkness dwelt in their shadows. In this unlit corner his face appeared enigmatic, mysterious. She could see and feel only the man he was inside: the real man, not the public figure. And she wanted the real man, more than anything.
She dipped her head and pressed her lips to his chest, aware of the spreading dampness of her breath over his nipple before her fingers shakily undid the buttons of his shirt. She wanted to explore his body: its beauty, its strength, its passion. For one night she wanted to consume this man and to forget about the past. She opened his shirt and stood back to admire his tanned and muscular body.
She trailed her tongue down over his chest and stomach, relishing the numbing hairs against her tongue, the smell of his skin. She kissed him and felt his muscles contract under her lips, while her fingers began to undo his trouser buttons.
Suddenly he pulled her to her feet and kissed her again before stepping away from her decisively, his hands holding her shoulders with a welcome pressure and control.
“Stop,” he growled. “I don’t want you hard
against a wall. I want to see you, I want to taste you properly.”
He scooped her up in his arms and kissed her, but softly this time, his hand shifting under her as he slammed open the door with his foot and strode across the hall to the stairs.
Within minutes they were inside Dallas’s master suite, closing the door with their bodies. Cassandra slid through his grip until she stood before him, their bodies tight against each other, their mouths unable to stop an exploration that was driving them on to a point from which neither could withdraw.
She tugged his shirt off, her hands feverishly exploring his body before slipping inside his trousers and caressing his tight buttocks. Pulling him to her she rubbed herself against his erection desperate to feel him against her, inside her. She undid his trousers and pulled them, and his boxers, off.
He groaned and thrust his hand inside her jeans, arresting her movements with a swift plunging of his fingers inside her. His thumb caressed her, his hands moving slickly in and around her. She couldn’t hold on any longer and she came suddenly, in a wave of powerful shudders, pulsing around his fingers.
He kissed her hair, withdrew his hand and swiftly stripped off the rest of her clothes. He carried her to the bed where she lay, naked, feeling suddenly vulnerable. His eyes swept her body and she was once more struck by how his face was barely recognizable in the soft light. She reached out to him and he took her hand in his own and squeezed it. And in that brief, gentle grip she knew him once more: his spirit, his body. She didn’t want, or need, to know anything more.
He swiftly put on a condom and knelt before her, pushing her legs wide before entering with one full penetration. She arched back with a gasp as she stretched around him in an ecstasy of completeness. He was at her centre and neither of them moved for a moment. It was like the sudden quiet when everything comes together: a solution found to a puzzle, a home found after much traveling. It felt so right. Then he moved slightly and a hot wave of pleasure rippled over her body and she gasped once more.