Forbidden Fire

by Heather Graham

  The scent of him swept her. A rich scent of leather and fine brandy and man. And then she could no longer hold him to her for his kiss was pressed against her shoulders. The searing heat of his mouth curled around her breast as his passion plucked at one rouge crest. Then his lips were buried in the valley between them before moving on.

  He fell to his knees, and the flickering motion of his tongue moved in and out of her navel. Then he turned her and a gasp escaped her as his kiss centered upon the base of her spine, as the fire of his tongue moved up and then down again, until a fire seared all the flesh of her buttocks, and she was certain she would fall.

  He turned her yet again, and now his kiss was searing the center of her being, boldly, intimately, completely. Shock and excitement wrapped her, and she grasped desperately for his shoulders. She was going to fall. She could not fall. Sensations she could not endure began to sweep through her. Sweet, so sweet, hot and sweet and so unbearable that she could surely die.

  She cried out, she had to protest. But it was no cry of protest that left her lips. The cry was sweet with growing wonder, growing desire …

  Then startling, shattering knowledge. So quickly, so wonderously, so heatedly, a startling, shimmering lava burst within her. She cried out again, stunned, shivering, gasping, almost falling.

  He swept her into his arms, and his lips touched hers, and she was so stunned with the wonder that had seized her, she could not kiss him. She was barely aware that he carried her into the bedroom, barely aware that she lay on the bed, stretched out, waiting for him.

  And then he was with her. Naked this time. He crawled atop her and found her lips again. And suddenly she was clinging to him, shivering. Her eyes met his, he smiled, she closed her eyes, and he kissed them, then kissed her lips. And her arms went naturally around him.

  And as he kissed her she began to explore his flesh. Her fingertips moved over his naked shoulders and back. She heard the sharp inhalation of his breath as she touched him. And touched him.

  She shivered, awakened anew as his weight sank between her thighs. She buried her face against his shoulder as he teased her with his touch, creating a new rise of desire, of heat and dampness. She wanted to cry out, but she could not. He brought her fingers down and wound them around him, and she started at the pulse and boldness of his body. She cried out as he wedged himself hard between her thighs, then entered deep within her in a slow, sensual thrust.

  The rhythm of the world took flight. In his arms, she soared. She felt the fullness of him within her, she felt the texture of his thighs, the caress of his hands, the heat of his whisper. And she felt, too, the wonder, the soaring …

  And the final caress of the magic. Deep and shattering, filling her body, coursing through her. Stars seemed to burst, and disappear, and there was nothing but blackness, and she was drifting …

  Until she heard her name, the whisper of her name, upon his lips.

  She opened her eyes, and he smiled. The slick dampness of their bodies was still hot between them. He had not moved, but remained deeply imbedded within her even as little tremors remained to touch their bodies.

  The tremors faded away, and still their eyes met. And he spoke to her again at last.

  “I have learned something, Marissa,” he said, his voice amazingly tender. “I have learned that I do, after all, want a wife. I want her very much.”

  Her heart seemed to slam against her chest. And she started to smile, and he caught her lips in another deep and shattering kiss.

  And with that kiss, she surrendered all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marissa would remember little that was precise about that afternoon. Rather she would remember the sensations. There had been sweet comfort in the quiet between them when ecstasy faded to gentle bliss and she lay beside him, her hair a tangle upon his shoulders and chest. There was the sound and the cadence of his words as he spoke to her. He never said he loved her. She wouldn’t have expected him to do so. It didn’t matter. She had more than she had dreamed, for he wove a future for them. He spoke of the opera, of the ballet, of the waterfront. Of sunsets and sunrises, trips to Sausalito and Carmel, of riding along the coast to see the majestic sights.

  Then the quiet and the comfort faded as passion was rekindled. And in the next sweeping wave of fire, she began to learn to explore herself. She began to dare new things, to discover the man. To run her fingers through the soft, dark hair upon his chest, to touch and stroke … to tempt. She was amazed at the laughter between them, at the breathlessness, at the closeness that blanketed them as her inhibitions were shed.

  Twilight came, and a soft fog wafted over the city. It seemed to enter the windows, to wrap them in something mystical. Marissa could almost feel it, cool and caressing against her naked flesh. Within its embrace she rose over Ian, smiled and met the curious fire in his eyes. Then leaning low against him she sensually swept the soft length of her hair slowly over his chest, following each silken sweep with the damp heat of a lazy, luxurious kiss. And so she made her way down his body, delighting that he could tremble so beneath her, until he caught his breath in amazement and excitement, going rigid beneath her bold touch. He swore softly, then lifted her above him to impale her swiftly and surely.

  The gentle fog tempered her cries and whispers, and caressed her still when she lay exhausted and sweetly sated and amazed once again.

  Marissa drifted into sleep, curled by his side, her hair blanketing his chest, her fingers resting lightly upon his naked flesh. She heard a rapping sound, as if far away. Then she started, for the hard-muscled cushion beneath her head moved. “What is it?”

  “Lee is at my door,” he said. He rose, sleek and handsome in his nakedness. He found his trousers and started for the connecting door.

  Then the rapping came at Marissa’s door. In the hazy twilight that blanketed the room, Ian cast her a wry grin that caught at her heart. He opened her door.

  Lee was there. Marissa heard her softly spoken words, but could not understand them.

  Ian closed the door and came to the foot of the bed. His hair was dark and tousled over his forehead, and the shiny dampness of his chest enhanced the muscled structure of it. Marissa started to stretch out on the bed, heavy-lidded, lazy and luxurious.

  “Oh, no!” Ian told her with a laugh, snatching up the sheet. “We’ve company.”

  “Company!” She bolted up. She was a mess, hair everywhere, naked, and slick with a slight sheen of perspiration.

  He smiled easily at her panic. “Take your time—you’ve at least five minutes. I’d forgotten, Sullivan and Funston are here for supper.”

  “Who?” she gasped.

  “Dennis Sullivan, the fire chief. And Frederick Funston, Brigadier General Funston, that is, acting commander of the Presidio. He and his wife, Eda, have a beautiful home here on Nob Hill. I’m afraid you caused it to completely skip my mind, but they’re downstairs now. Lee will serve drinks, I’m sure.”

  “We’ve company, and you’re standing there like that!” she gasped.

  He laughed and headed for the door to his room. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “No, I can’t dress in five minutes and meet people! Ian, you must wait—”

  But he was already gone. Hastily she went to the bathroom. Biting her lip, she doused herself with cold bathwater then dried off furiously. She raced to her room, rummaged through several drawers to find underclothing and proper attire, then tried to brush, arrange and pin her hair.

  Her hair was civilized, she decided, staring into the mirror. Her eyes were still very wild.

  She heard a low whistle and turned. Ian was back, dark, handsome, immaculate in black. His blue gaze took in her appearance from head to toe. She had chosen a white ruffled silk blouse with a high collar and a watered silk skirt. The white of her outfit was offset by the jet beads and drop earrings she had chosen, and the fine black brocade jacket.

  “Am I all right?” she asked anxiously.

  “Positive
ly—virginal,” he told her. She flushed, and he arched a brow with a curious smile. “It’s just Dennis and Freddie and Eda,” he said, “not royalty.”

  She glanced at him quickly and remembered that although it had seemed that she had been changed completely and forever by their lovemaking, she hadn’t been. She might be in love with him, but that didn’t change the fact that she was living a lie. She could tell he was thinking that she was accustomed to meeting the upper crust of British society.

  She looked at the dresser. Not even the lie really mattered now. She was a good actress, and she had learned her role well. “They are your friends, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they are very important to me,” she said softly.

  He was across the room to her with a few long strides, raising her chin with his thumb and looking into her eyes. He studied them carefully and slowly smiled. “My love, you are such an enigma. So very proud and determined, fighting all the way. And yet when you choose, the pride is stripped away, and the heart can be laid bare, and it is a beautiful heart.”

  “Don’t!” she whispered.

  “Don’t?”

  “It is not so beautiful a heart,” she murmured quickly. She backed away from him. “You’ve been very good to my friends.” She stood still, then raced to him, throwing herself into his arms and looking into his eyes. “Ian,” she began hurriedly, “I started things badly, I forced this on you, but I mean to try to make things work, I want very badly to be what you want—”

  “Shh!” he whispered, puzzled, as he caught her face between his hands and kissed her gently. “Marissa, if I had been completely against the idea of marriage to you, I wouldn’t have married you, no matter what. I could not have been forced to do so. And since I met you, you’ve been surprisingly many things that I want, many.”

  She flushed, her lashes lowering.

  “Modesty now?” He chuckled, then moved his thumb gently over her lower lip. “Marissa, you caught my heart the other day. You made me see that I was creating my own hell. Marissa …”

  He pulled her against him and held her close. Then he broke away, his eyes sparkling. “Our dinner guests await.” He caught her hand and led her from the bedroom, down the stairway and to the dining room, where their company awaited them.

  A short red-haired man stood beside a lively little woman with dancing blue eyes. By the buffet, which was doubling as a bar, was a taller man with a lean face and a haunted gaze.

  “Eda, Frederick, Dennis, welcome,” Ian said quickly, drawing Marissa around. “My wife, Marissa. Marissa, I give you the true heartbeat of San Francisco and Nob Hill, Mrs. Eda Funston, and her husband, Freddie. And by the buffet, Dennis Sullivan.”

  The gentlemen assessed her silently; Eda’s blue eyes sparkled as she greeted her effusively. “So this is the new bride that has the city abuzz!” Eda said. “Marissa, welcome, welcome. What a lovely addition you are to this house. It has not seemed quite so alive in positively ages.”

  “Thank you so much,” Marissa told her, glancing at Ian. Eda was wonderfully warm. She felt very welcomed, indeed.

  Lee appeared. She remained silent until Ian noticed her, then she announced that dinner was ready.

  They were soon seated. Lee returned to serve the soup, and Ian poured wine, and the conversation remained casual. Then Dennis Sullivan almost curtly asked Ian, “Have your clients received the permits for the new buildings from City Hall?”

  Ian stared at Dennis, then lifted his glass and stared at his wine. Then he looked at Dennis again. “Yes, the permits were received.”

  The fire chief slammed a fist upon the table and the dishes rattled. He apologized profusely, but he was still vehement when he looked at Ian again. “I’m telling you, this is more corruption! Those codes are insane! It’s Mayor Schmitz and that kingmaker of his, Reuf, collecting under-the-table money on these things. Just like the Barbary Coast, feet from our door! Reuf makes money every time he hands out a license for a French restaurant!”

  Marissa had no idea what was going on. Eda Funston gently put a stop to the conversation. “Gentlemen, we are at the dinner table!”

  “Yes, we are at dinner.” Ian offered Marissa a wry smile, then looked at the fire chief. “Dennis, I have turned the project down in no uncertain terms. They’ll have to find themselves another builder.”

  Eda turned the conversation, chatting easily about the upcoming tour of the Great Caruso and his famed temper. When the meal ended and the gentlemen had disappeared into the study for cigars and business, Eda and Marissa wandered across the entry to the parlor, and Marissa asked Eda what was going on.

  Eda sighed, taking a seat before the window. “Corruption, my dear. I’m afraid this city is filled with it! My dear Freddie and Dennis and your Ian are quite disgusted with all of it.”

  “But what, precisely, is going on?” Marissa demanded.

  “There’s not so very much that we can prove, but we know licenses and permits can be bought. The insurance underwriters have given us reports. It’s amazing—and entirely through the diligence of the fire department, they have said—that the city has not burned to the ground. Dennis wanted to train men to use explosives to fight the fires, and he thought a supplementary saltwater system to fight fires was necessary. The War Department in Washington was willing to send men to the Presidio to be in readiness to help with the fire department. All they wanted was for the city to provide a thousand dollars to build a brick vault on the Presidio grounds to house the explosives. Mayor Schmitz managed to thwart his plans.”

  “But if the city has been warned—”

  “The board cannot enforce changes, only recommend that they be made.”

  “What is wrong with a license for a French restaurant?” Marissa asked her.

  “Oh, my dear!” Eda said, and laughed softly, a look of mischief in her eyes. “The restaurant is usually there, all right. Downstairs. And then upstairs … well, French restaurants are often the facade for … well, for bordellos. Er, houses of ill repute. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand,” Marissa told her, hiding a smile. She understood quite clearly. She might not have known the names of such places, but from the first time Ian had discussed his life with her, she had been well aware that he knew the location of many a dance hall and house of ill repute.

  “And the building codes?” she said to Eda.

  “Building permits can be bought, you see. But Ian has never been fooled by Mayor Schmitz. He is far too brilliant a builder not to love the quality of his work. I knew he would never agree to work unless his own codes were met!”

  She smiled proudly at Marissa, then added softly, “Of course, it is a shame. Someone will be willing to build using those permits. Then heaven help us all if there ever should be a problem!”

  Marissa was startled to feel a curious little tremor seize her heart. She shrugged it aside. Whatever happened, Ian would not be involved. And that was all that seemed to matter.

  “Well, now, that’s settled. Now, tell me more about your life in England, dear. You’ve the softest, loveliest accent! You’re from the country, and your father was a squire, and now you’re here. So, does that make you Lady Tremayne?”

  Marissa lowered her head quickly. Guilt riddled her. “I’m Mrs. Tremayne, Ian’s wife,” she said. That, at least, was true. She managed to describe the manor in England, and to avoid any other direct questions.

  Eda was sweet and pleasant, and Dennis Sullivan and Freddie Funston were charming when they joined them in the parlor.

  And she knew she did well. The evening should have been a triumph.

  But listening to Eda talk, Marissa realized bleakly that, for her, every night of conversation might be a tightrope walk. She would always have to lie and hedge and take care.

  It was a sorry thought.

  She glanced up and realized that Ian, standing by the fire, was studying her very carefully. Something of her unease must have shown on her face, and it seeme
d as if he was reading into her soul. She was betraying her own guilt.

  She looked away from him quickly, her heart thundering.

  She was coming to know him so very well. His eyes were still upon her.

  And even when someone asked him a question and he turned aside, she knew that he had not forgotten what he had seen in her face.

  And later, there would be a reckoning.

  She wasn’t expecting it as soon as it came.

  She was the last at the door, saying goodbye to Eda, when their company left. Returning to the parlor, she felt at first as if her heart were warmed despite the cool winter night. There had been the wonderful afternoon, when she had begun to believe that she could be cherished. And then there had been the evening, when she had begun to believe that she could really become a part of her husband’s life.

  But as soon as she walked into the small parlor and saw the way Ian looked at her as he stood before the mantel, she was forced to remember that she was living a lie.

  She wanted to run for the stairway, to escape to her room, slam and lock the door. Just fighting for the courage not to do so kept her heart hammering hard.

  Perhaps cowardice would serve her well at the moment. It was strange how she had once dreaded being too close to him. Now she longed to be close. A passionate kiss could spark the magic to make them both forget that secrets lay in her eyes.

  He was staring at her darkly and broodingly. She opened her mouth to speak, but words would not come. She picked up an elegant little pillow from the sofa and plumped it, seeking easy, casual words.

  “Your friends are very nice. I enjoyed them thoroughly.”

  He didn’t say a word. “It does seem a shame that you’ve got this beautiful city and then problems in the City Hall.”

  He still didn’t speak, and she felt her nervousness growing. She set the pillow down. “Well, it seems very late. I think I’ll retire for the evening—”