His smile was filled with lazy confidence. “I don’t want to talk about the papers, Heather. We have other things to discuss.”
Her pulse was racing and adrenaline was surging through her as though preparing her for the fight of her life. Something wildly irrational was warning her that a step into his room was a step onto a precipice, sky-high, with no way back.
“Write me a letter,” she forced out hoarsely. “Or tell me over breakfast at the Coconut Club in the morning. I…I can’t.”
Whirling, she meant to head for the road, but Mitch caught her before she could move further.
“Not so fast, Heather,” he breathed huskily into her hair, his arms tightening around her from behind. “You’re coming in to hear me out.”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “Let me go!” She pulled at the arm that held her prisoner, but she didn’t have a hope of winning a physical encounter with him.
“Will you be quiet and listen to me?” He pulled her hard against his chest, and she closed her eyes, fighting back the dizziness. “It’s only fair, Heather,” he said quietly. She could feel the warmth of his breath as it tangled in her hair. “I want you to come in and let me show you how I live. I want you to experience it for a change, instead of denying it.”
What was he talking about? “Mitch, I don’t need to experience anything.”
“Yes, you do.” His voice was adamant. “I lived your way for two long years. It didn’t work. We both admitted that.” His face nuzzled into the curve of her neck, and she barely stifled the moan that rose in her throat. “Now all I ask is that you try my way for one short evening. Don’t you think you owe me that much?”
Owe him? How could he be so arrogant? She didn’t owe him anything. He was the one who owed her for a lifetime of pain. But she knew she was weakening. He was winning. He always did.
“Mitch, please...”
“Come in with me, Heather.” He was leading her in now, and she was following as though she no longer had a will of her own. “I’m not going to do anything to hurt you.”
She tried to laugh, but nothing came out. As he drew her slowly into his room, she knew she had to recover her sense of humor. It was the only defense she had left.
“So you’re getting me into your cave after all,” she said, managing a light tone. “And you almost had to resort to dragging me by the hair, I might add.” She glanced nervously about the dimly lit room. “I don’t remember you having to go to such lengths for female companionship in the old days. Your charisma must be fading.”
No, no! She hadn’t meant to say that. That wasn’t laughter, or anything near it.
She looked at Mitch with dread and found him standing, frozen, staring back at her. She half expected him to strike back with something slashing, but he merely agreed.
“I guess maybe you’re right,” he said with what she was sure must be forced amusement. “I haven’t found a strange woman in my bed for three or four weeks now. I must be losing my touch.”
A Segovia tape was playing on his system. The soft guitar music filled the room. Heather turned and pretended to look over his CD collection. But she didn’t see the brightly colored album covers. Instead, she was remembering the way women used to follow him with their eyes when he passed, then look at her with envy. He was the sort of man who made women laugh a little louder, talk a little more openly, act a little silly. It had scared her at first. Then she’d been proud. But finally, when the women started calling the house asking for her husband, she’d wished he were different.
“I can’t stay long,” she warned. “Mele is fixing me something to eat, and I’ll have to get back for it.”
He was walking into his little kitchen, and she took the opportunity to look around her. Mats of woven sea grass covered the floor while mismatched pieces of worn rattan furniture were scattered about the room. A bed was placed discreetly behind a wooden screen. Each chair and couch was fitted with overstuffed pillows in mellow warm colors. The lamps gave off a soft muted light that washed the room in subtle shades. If Rembrandt had painted the cottage of a South Pacific planter, it might look something like this.
Then Heather’s gaze fell on the wooden table set with plates and silverware for two people, candles lit and waiting. Three royal red hibiscus stuffed with clumsy elegance into a water glass formed the centerpiece.
Her fingers laced together tightly as she turned to face Mitch. “Mele has dinner ready for me,” she began, but stopped when she saw him shaking his head.
“She brought it over here earlier,” he told her smugly. “I talked her into helping me.”
Heather felt an involuntary smile curl her lips. “Is this called baiting the trap?”
He grinned. “The way to your heart always was through your stomach. Remember all those expensive dinners I had to buy before you would agree to marry me?”
She nodded. “A full tummy does tend to blot out common sense,” she agreed. “Which is why I think I’ll pass on this meal.”
“Oh, no you won’t.” He had been working behind a low counter, and now he emerged with a flourish, carrying a tray containing two crystal dishes which he passed under her nose.
“Giant prawns in spicy lemon sauce,” he announced. “The Heather I know wouldn’t pass this up for its weight in gold.”
She sighed, taking in the marvelous aroma and noting the firm pink flesh of the huge shrimps as they lay on a bed of tossed spinach leaves. Her stomach growled and she knew it would never forgive her if she denied it this feast. “Maybe just one bite,” she ventured, and he laughed low in his throat.
“Sit down, Heather. Forget to hate me for just a little while.”
She looked into his deep eyes, then quickly away. “Oh, what the heck,” she said weakly, despising her lack of resolve but knowing capitulation was inevitable. “I’m so awfully hungry.”
The prawns tasted heavenly, but not any more so than the main course—marinated lamb shish kebabs, interspersed with chunks of mushrooms, red onion, and pineapple, complemented by a generous serving of seasoned rice.
“Mele’s a wonderful cook,” Heather declared, sipping the red wine in the faceted glass Mitch had poured for her. “All this almost makes me want to stay to sample more of her talents.”
She regretted having phrased it just that way, but he let the reference to her departure pass without comment.
“I deserve some of the credit,” he told her. “After all, keeping it warm just right has a lot to do with the final result.”
“Of course.” She returned his smile. “You always were terrific in the kitchen. Remember your omelets?”
He nodded. “And don’t forget my hamburgers. Not many can achieve just the right combination of black outer crust and raw center that I managed.”
She laughed, warmed by the wine and a flood of memories. “Then there was the time you tried to surprise me with flapjacks and we spent the rest of the day scrubbing down the ceiling.”
“Hey, listen, woman. Let’s not forget the time you decided to save all the chicken bones for soup and boiled them down until they formed burnt splinter stew.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I never did get the smell out of the kitchen curtains.” She cocked her head. “But that was in our first apartment. Didn’t we ever cook like that in the house?”
“No.” His expression lost its animation. “Creativity is hard to come by in a kitchen that looks like an operating room.”
Gleaming stainless steel and hard edges: She’d been so proud of that kitchen. She thought he would appreciate its sterile quality. Apparently not.
She glanced at the kitchen he had now. “Are you creative here?” she asked softly, noting the old-fashioned gas stove and wooden cutting board.
She met his gaze across the flickering candlelight. In the moment before he answered, she couldn’t look away.
Only his dark eyes and the soft notes of the guitar filled the void around them. “It’s more fun when there’s someone to be c
reative for,” he said softly, and she pulled her gaze from his, searching the room for something else to look at.
“How do you like my place?” he asked suddenly, his tone normal again.
She looked around, this time really seeing the rooms, and wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s very ‘island,’ isn’t it?” she tried tentatively, but his laugh was harsh.
“Godforsaken?” he suggested mockingly.
“Not at all.” She frowned, trying to express what she really felt. “Deliberately casual. Warm. Inviting.” Her mouth quirked at the edges. “Seductive.”
He leaned back in his chair, observing her from narrowed eyes. “Any chance of your joining that mood?” he asked quietly.
Now what was he planning? “What do you mean?”
He shrugged lazily. “You’re so primly dressed, I feel as though I were entertaining a formal guest instead of an old lover.”
“Old lover, huh?” She tried to smile. “Have I aged that much?”
He sighed, purposefully taking her twist of words at face value. “I hope so,” he said softly.
Her laugh sounded almost natural to her own ears. “This reminds me of the movies I used to watch on the late show when I was waiting for you to come home after those twelve-hour shifts,” she said lightly. “The island pirate kidnaps the naive missionary and carries her off to his hideout.” She grinned. “Apropos, isn’t it?”
“Very,” he agreed, smiling back. He picked up his wineglass and gazed down into the liquid depths. “And what does he do with his prize once he has her secure?” he asked.
“Not much. Those movies were made in the fifties, you know.”
He nodded. “How lucky we’ve passed into more modern times.”
Heather ran a quick tongue over suddenly dry lips. “Isn’t it?” She glanced at the door. “This has been a wonderful dinner, Mitch. Would you like me to help you with the dishes before I go back to the club for the night?” She might as well indicate her plans right up front so that he wouldn’t indulge in any false expectations.
“No.”
He stood slowly and came toward her. She stared down at her empty plate, trying to steel herself, sure he was about to take her in his arms. She wouldn’t let him do that. Somehow she would maintain the strength to keep him at bay.
But for the moment that was unnecessary. He stopped before he reached her. Looking up, she found him taking a red flower from the center arrangement and stripping it of most of its stem. “I think the missionary could use a touch of island magic,” he said softly. “If she can’t wear a sarong, at least she can have a flower in her hair.”
She held her breath while he tucked the blossom into the sweep of her golden curls just behind her ear. His fingers, ever deft, didn’t really touch her, but still created an exotic tingle where they played with her hair. Her own hands curled around the arms of the chair, clutching as though to hold herself back from disaster.
“I like your hair longer,” he said, answering the question she’d asked earlier that afternoon.
“Even a missionary has some vanities,” she told him breathlessly, staring at his sculptured brass belt buckle. She let her gaze travel slowly up along the line of buttons on his shirt to the cleft that opened to reveal his dark muscled chest, then up across his satin-smooth lips and arrogantly arched nose to meet his illusively shadowed eyes.
His hand was still in her hair. Now it combed through the thickness, his fingers tracing softly across her scalp. “Missionary lady,” he whispered seductively, “you have a lot more than hair to be vain about.”
She should leave now. But how could she get away from him? She couldn’t stand up without pressing herself against his long body, and if she stayed here...
“One thing we missionaries are most proud of,” she said, warning him, “is our honor. Even the wickedest pirate respects it.” Her smile wavered. “You wouldn’t want to put that to shame, now would you?”
His grin was a slash of corsair triumph as his hand slipped around to possess her smooth cheek. “Who says I wouldn’t?” he returned. “Just try me.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but as quick as a privateer boarding a captured vessel, he turned her face up to meet the mastery of his kiss.
She pulled back, trying to break away, but he held her head prisoner while his mouth plundered hers. She gasped at the hunger he displayed, the raw need she felt in him. Mitch had always been passionate, but never rough. An icy tremor of fear flashed through her as she felt the determination of his embrace. He had no intention of letting her go, not until he had what he wanted. She reached out, grasping at thin air, her hands curling into fists that fell back, helpless in her lap.
But even as her mind acknowledged the truth of his purpose, her flesh was responding to the fire in him with its own fragile flame. His mouth on hers was so sweet it drugged her senses. His hands caressed the sides of her head with tender command. No man could set her pulse racing as he could. She found herself kissing him back with an intensity she hadn’t known for a very long time.
“Pirates who abduct missionary ladies also ravish them,” he growled against her kiss-swollen lips. “Just because they don’t tell you that part in the movies doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”
“Don’t ravish me, Mitch.” She was grateful there was no sound of pleading in her voice. “We both know you could if you wanted to. But I’ll hate you.”
He chuckled as he pulled her up to face him, holding her loosely against his hard body. “I’m not going to ravish you, Heather, but I’m sure as hell going to seduce you.”
“Mitch...”
His fingers tightened their hold on her. “Don’t you know how much I need you?” he rasped out. “Can’t you feel it? I want you to stay, Heather. I need you more than I ever have before.” His kiss was a blaze of fire on her neck.
“Oh, Mitch!” She clung to him, knowing all hope of escape was slipping away, fading under his determination like fog before the summer sun.
His arms wound around her in a strong embrace, and she found herself pulling at the tails of his shirt, drawing them out of his pants so that her hands could slip underneath, reaching for the warmth she remembered so well.
His body was just the same. If anything, his flesh was harder, smoother, as hot to her touch as molten metal. Her fingers crept up across his ribs, stretching against his taut skin, until they found the tangled hair that covered his chest. She gasped as she spread her fingers through it, feeling the jolting beat of his heart beneath her hand.
His heart in her hands. If only that were true. She would keep it so safe, so close. But that could never be, for it eluded her like quicksilver, just as always.
Yet that hardly mattered now. She was beyond caring about tomorrow. There was only the heat and joy of now.
His sure hands were swiftly opening the buttons of her high mandarin collar, one at a time, and she let her head fall back as his lips followed his fingers, traveling down the satin pathway until he found the swelling slope of her breasts.
“If I’d known missionary ladies were this sexy,” he teased against her tender skin, “I’d have spent more time at the mission.”
She laughed low in her throat, a rich sensual sound that communicated the totality of her surrender. “If I’d known what it was like to have a pirate for a lover,” she answered, “I’d have stowed away on your ship long ago.”
His laughter echoed hers, and he swung her up into his arms. “Then stow away now, my darling,” he whispered. “Come away with me.”
He settled her on his wide bed, looking down at the picture she made with her golden hair spread out across his vermilion quilt. His eyes were burning in the dim light, and she shivered with delight under their fire, wanting to see him respond to her nakedness. Not waiting for him to finish unbuttoning her blouse, she pulled it open herself, then moaned as his hands cupped her breasts, sliding down to tug at the peaks.
“Will you let me love you, Heather?” he asked unnec
essarily as she writhed beneath his touch. “Will you love me just like you used to?”
She would walk to hell and back on smoldering coals for him. Didn’t he know that? Her desire-blurred vision took him in, so large and dark, leaning over her. She still loved him. But then, she’d always known that. And now she wanted him. At least he would give her his body.
“Love me, Mitch,” she told him huskily. “Hurry.”
He dropped a slow kiss on her open mouth, then slid a hand beneath her skirt. “Heather!” Suddenly he was laughing again. “Still in panty hose! No one wears them in the tropics.” He began to curl the offending garment from her, still chuckling. “I think you really are a missionary lady at heart.”
His teasing didn’t sting at all. She could hear the affection in it and she smiled dreamily, enjoying the sensation of being undressed by him. “I thought pirates made quick raids,” she murmured softly. “I didn’t know they stopped to chat while they were ravishing.”
“I’ll be quick enough for you, my missionary lady,” he growled, tossing her skirt to the floor and ridding himself of his own clothes in record time. “I promised you a special raiding trip, and that’s what you shall have.” He matched her naked body with his own, stretching against her in languorous splendor. “We’ll fly the skull and crossbones from our main mast to warn away all intruders.”
“Oh, Mitch.” She laughed softly, winding her body around his. “Stop talking about it. I want to see a little plundering.” She kissed him and breathed against his lips, “Starting now.”
He took possession of the moment, coaxing her with his skill, leading her with his passion, and she followed, trembling with anticipation, moaning with desire, until she wanted to cry out her joy.
The wild sweetness of his lovemaking was breath-stoppingly fierce, heart-stoppingly tender. As his hands stroked her skin, as his lips found every sensitive secret, as her own body took his and thrust it with hers to the edge of forever, she knew there would never be another man for her like this one. This was what she lived for, the salient ingredient missing from her life. How could she walk away from it again? What would she not endure just to have this?
Charmed By You ((Destiny Bay Romances-The Islanders 5)) Page 5