Snowfire

by Heather Graham

  The silk encompassed her. She met his eyes again as he pressed her back into it. And then she couldn’t move, she couldn’t touch him, she could only meet his eyes.…

  And feel his body and her own as he pumped in a sudden, reckless, wild tension. The room seemed to spin. Desire was bubbling within her. It was delicious, and it was anguish. She was desperate to reach the crest. She undulated to his slightest move, her hips rising against his. She choked out his name, then cried it out. He caught hold of her hands, pressing them down, too. And his fingers entwined there with hers while he thrust ever more deeply against her.

  And then it seemed that he exploded within her, rocketing against her. And the touch, hot and sleek, the feel of the searing seed of his body, entered her like a taste of mulled wine. And the pinnacle of her own fulfillment burst upon her, like stars in the black velvet of a winter night. The feelings washed over her. Cascaded down and over her, so wonderfully rich. Blackness seemed to surround her.…

  She closed her eyes, shaking as the aftermath of her climax brought tiny new sensations, softer and softer, sweeping through her. He lifted his weight from her, regretfully. She trembled again as he pulled himself from her body.

  He lay down beside her. She opened her eyes, and the world was still black.

  It was a world of black silk.…

  She would never, never forget the feel of it.

  He touched her chin, and she lifted her eyes to his. He leaned down and touched her lips lightly, tenderly with his own. Then his blue gaze swept the length of her, and a slow smile curled into his lips.

  “This was a hell of a lot better than a game of chess.”

  A flush quickly colored her cheeks, and he laughed and kissed her again.

  “Justin—” she began.

  “I didn’t tell you that you were exceptionally beautiful, did I?” he asked her huskily.

  She smiled, lowering her lashes. He really could be an extraordinary host. Even here, he was trying to make her feel comfortable. But she wasn’t uncomfortable. She had come here with him more than willingly.

  But his eyes were dancing now, and he rose above her again, careful to balance his weight as he straddled her.

  “I mean you are really, really beautiful on black silk,” he said huskily.

  “You’re rather beautiful on black silk yourself,” she told him. She reached out to touch him again. There was so much that she liked about him.

  That chest…

  That great, dark furred chest with its ripple of muscle and its delightfully rough texture. And his legs, tightly molded thighs and calves. She liked his hands, long-fingered, bold, talented.

  She smiled wickedly. “Your eyes are just great against black silk.”

  He arched a brow. “Really.”

  “Really.”

  “You are an incredible woman.”

  He seemed serious. And so sincere. And it mattered so very much to her.

  “Do you say that.… often?” she asked him. She wanted the question to be light. She hadn’t asked for promises. Neither had he. They had just needed to come close to each other.

  But the closer they came…

  The more it seemed to matter.

  “I’ve never said it to anyone before.”

  “Never?” she whispered.

  “Never,” he promised.

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed just the very tip of her fingers. Then he drew her finger lightly into his mouth. Just the tip. And he moved his tongue over it. She caught her breath, realizing that she was squirming beneath him again.

  “Admit it,” he demanded. “This was a lot better than chess.”

  “It was a lot better than chess,” she told him.

  “Good,” he said. Then he lowered himself slowly against her. “Want to play again?”

  “Chess?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer her, but she knew that he didn’t have chess in mind at all.

  Because he kissed her…

  And the game that he meant to play was reengaged.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, the electricity gave up at last.

  Justin had a small battery-operated television, so they were able to find out what the storm was doing. New England had come to a screeching halt as the blizzard raged on.

  “It will be days before you can get out of here,” Justin told Kristin, pleased.

  She laughed, pleased herself, and amazed that she could feel that she had found a little piece of heaven here, captive with a man who had once seemed so determined to rid himself of her whatever the cost.

  It was a fool’s paradise, she reminded herself. And in all of her life, she had never done anything like this. Trusted quite so easily.

  Fallen quite so deeply for a man. For a total stranger.

  But she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about anything but the relationship between the two of them. She’d never felt like this before.

  But then she’d never been in a situation like this before. Isolated as they were, some things just seemed understood.

  They had both napped, awakened, sat in the whirlpool together, talked lazily and made love again. And then Justin had been hungry, but they hadn’t had a lot of energy, so they had eaten fruit and cheese before the living room fire. And then they’d made love there, with Kristin protesting that he hadn’t wanted to do so there before.

  “Ah, but that was only the first time!” He laughed. “We’ve a whole house to go through now.”

  Later they’d gone back up to Justin’s room and the black silk sheets, and they’d fallen to sleep there. Kristin had awakened once to find him watching her. And he had drawn a pattern around her lips with his finger, and asked her what she was doing on her own.

  “Never married? It’s difficult to believe. Some young fellow must have set out to snare you.”

  She smiled, but she winced at the same time. “I was married. For three years, but it seems like a long time ago now.”

  “What happened?”

  “It wasn’t so much ‘what’ happened as it was ‘who’ happened,” she said with a note of irony. “I was very young when I married. And I was planning on college, but he was already enrolled, and so I was going to work. I worked very hard, and he started having a lot of fun. I imagine I was rather trusting for a while, but then I managed to get off early one night and when I came home, he was entertaining. In our apartment.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I think I walked most of Boston at two a.m. I never went back.” She smiled. “I ran home to Mother. My parents are great. No questions, just a place to stay.”

  “And that was it? You never discussed the situation with your husband?”

  She shook her head. “I was shattered. There was nothing to discuss. I’d never have trusted him again. And if you can’t trust someone, you can never relax, you can never be happy.” She frowned, moving her fingers over the black sheets. “I don’t know if we were ever really in love with each other. Deeply in love. We were so young back then. Sometimes I think that we were both in love with the idea of being in love.”

  “But you trust me,” he murmured.

  She smiled, her eyes very wide as she watched him. “I never felt the entire world should be condemned because I had a bad marriage. I’ve known far more fine and trustworthy people—men and women—than I have known those who are cruel or treacherous.”

  “Well,” he said bitterly, “I have not had that experience.”

  “You don’t seem to trust anyone.”

  “People are always just looking out for themselves. Especially women … and reporters.”

  Guilt seemed to singe her heart. She had to tell him the truth about herself. She just needed the right time to do so. She couldn’t just tell him. He was too bitter when it came to a point of trusting anyone.

  But she had trusted him! When she should have been frightened of him, when the things that he had decided to tell her were just so damnin
g.

  Against all odds, she trusted him. She wished that she could have the same in return.

  He was studying her, perched up on an elbow. “You took your own name back?”

  “What?”

  “Your own last name. After your marriage. You took it back?”

  She nodded. “It was important for me to do so. I quit working and stayed home and went on to Holy Cross. Maybe I was trying to erase the whole thing, I don’t know.”

  “You know, Ms. Kennedy, you may be too trusting an individual,” he told her.

  She shook her head, smiling slightly. “I’m trusting, but I don’t trust just anyone.”

  “You trusted me. After I tried to shoot you with a shovel.”

  She smiled, but said simply, “I trust you.”

  “You made a mistake before.”

  “My instincts have been finely honed since then.”

  He had smiled and taken her into his arms.…

  And now, with the night behind them and morning on them again, Kristin still felt like a honeymooner. They had breakfasted on toast made over the fireplace, and now they were both curled on the sofa, idly watching the blaze. Candles gleamed from silver sconces, while outside the day remained dark. Time had little meaning. They were warm inside. Kristin set down her cup and leaned her face against Justin’s shoulder. She didn’t ever want to leave, she realized.

  And she still didn’t know anything about him.

  He shifted suddenly, looking down into her eyes. “You still haven’t asked me any questions,” he said.

  “I don’t dare. You’ll bite my head off and throw me out into the snow.”

  “Still think that I would do that?” he teased.

  “Yes!” she told him flatly.

  “So you’ve really taken me on trust alone. After everything,” he murmured.

  She nodded, smiling, then her smile faded. “I don’t know what happened, but it must have been awful for you. What happened? Why were you accused?”

  He stared at her for a long time. “You really don’t know who I am?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You’re not really Justin Magnasun?”

  “Yes, I am Justin Magnasun,” he said wryly. “But it’s not the name that the world knows me by. Well, the theater-going world, that is.”

  Intrigued, Kristin pushed against his chest and stared at him. “Who are you to the theater-going world?”

  “Jon Mountjoy.”

  She gasped, jerking up and gazing at him with disbelief, and then total understanding.

  Jon Mountjoy…

  Oh, she didn’t know the details, but she knew all about the scandal. He’d been arrested for the murder of his wife, Myra Breckenridge, the beautiful—and hot, hot, hot!—star of stage and screen.

  Out at his country house…

  Here. Right here. He was supposed to have killed her here.

  “Oh, my God!” Kristin breathed.

  “Still trust me?” he taunted.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It’s so damned hard to believe,” he said softly, touching her hair.

  She shook her head, feeling an overwhelming tenderness sweep through her. “It’s not hard!” she answered equally softly.

  “I’ve been burned pretty badly.”

  “So have I.”

  He shook his head, watching her still. “Not like I’ve been burned,” he assured her.

  Jon Mountjoy…

  If she’d even given it some thought, she might have recognized him. Although playwrights didn’t make headlines in the scandal magazines as movies stars did, Jon Mountjoy had been in the public eye often enough. His first hit play had appeared off-Broadway when he had been a student at Columbia in New York City. His next play hit Broadway, not only to rave reviews but to warm audience responses. Kristin could remember a review she had read of one of his plays a few years ago: “Mr. Mountjoy gives us everything, a gamut of emotions. We laugh, we cry, we strive along with his characters, flesh-and-blood people with real pathos and humor.”

  She’d seen pictures of him. But he’d always been turning away, avoiding the camera. And in the quick flashes taken at Broadway openings he was always dressed in elegant tuxes.

  Not in jeans and flannel. Or in nothing at all.

  Kristin had always assumed he was a much older man.

  She remembered seeing glimpses of him on television during the trial, entering or leaving the courthouse. He’d never had a single comment for the media, and that had probably angered a number of reporters, and in turn they had been harsh on him.

  And they had painted Myra Breckenridge as a being far more beautiful than any mortal could have been.

  But she was beautiful.… Kristin thought.

  “I can almost see the gears of your mind in motion, Ms. Kennedy,” he said.

  Once again he was shirtless, barefoot, clad only in his jeans. He moved back, leaning against the far side of the couch, his bare feet upon it, his hands folded idly between his knees. Again, his naked flesh seemed very bronze in the firelight. Shadows of flame fell across him, darkening his features. He appeared very comfortable, but she had the feeling that he could move in a flash if he so desired. He wasn’t comfortable at all. He was wary. And he was watching her for any response whatsoever.

  “You do recognize the name?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Of course. I love your plays. Midnight and Lace was my favorite. I never saw Snowfire—”

  She broke off. Snowfire had just opened when Myra Breckenridge died. She had been the leading lady, and the play had closed after her death.

  His lip curled into a wry smile. She wondered how she could have spoken so foolishly.

  “I wasn’t really asking what you thought of my work,” he said dryly. “And I’m sure my name is far more familiar because of the scandal than because of my work.”

  Kristin shook her head, irritated. “I would have known your name one way or the other,” she insisted.

  He jumped up and started to prowl the room like a cat. He paced the floor behind the couch, then strode over to the granite mantel, leaned an elbow against it and stared into the flame. “You’re a theater lover?” he asked, a casual, polite tone to his voice.

  “Yes.”

  He spun around. “You’re not afraid. You’re really not afraid? I’m supposed to have strangled her with her scarf and my bare hands, you know.”

  Kristin stared at him levelly. “You were acquitted of murder.”

  “Lack of evidence. That’s not entirely reassuring to the bulk of the population.”

  Kristin waved a hand in the air. “This all happened at least four years ago—”

  “Five,” he corrected her.

  “What difference does it make!” Kristin snapped. “You said you didn’t do it.”

  “You’re taking me at my word that simply?” he asked softly.

  Taking him at his word that simply…

  Yes, she had done that since she came here. She had awakened in a strange bed—on black silk sheets, no less—naked and confused, and she had believed him then. She believed in him.

  A cold shiver ripped through her.

  She should be frightened, she told herself.

  She was snowbound with this man, caught here in this house.

  And they had said that he strangled his wife with his bare hands.

  They were strong hands. She had felt them often enough now. She knew them very well. They were long, strong hands, with long tapering fingers. Broad at the palm. Very powerful.

  But he wasn’t a murderer. She was convinced of that.

  She shrugged, watching him. “Want to tell me what happened?”

  He grinned. “Sure. Just so long as you’re not going to write all about it.”

  She wasn’t, of course she wasn’t. But a sudden searing guilt tore through her and it was hard to keep her smile. She must tell him the truth about herself. She should have done so sooner. She just couldn’t do it now. “I—well, I poured out my hear
t to you,” she said lightly.

  He was quiet for a moment. “I’m not quite sure that it compares to murder,” he responded harshly.

  “My life wasn’t as important as yours?” she snapped. “You know, your ego is quite incredible.” She was suddenly terribly nervous, and anxious to be away from him. No matter how smoothly they seemed to be going along, his temper could suddenly lash out.

  There wasn’t anywhere to go—except out into the snow. But Kristin was both hurt and uneasy.

  And if he knew what she did for a living…

  Would he ever believe that it was just a coincidence?

  “Don’t,” she told him, her tone as harsh as his. “Don’t tell me a damned thing, I don’t want to know.”

  She whirled around. She wasn’t sure where she was going—just somewhere away from him for the moment.

  “Kristin!”

  She ran for the stairs, his bathrobe flapping around her knees.

  He caught her at the base, whirling her around to face him. “I’ll tell you—”

  “No!” She stared at his hand, not bothering to wrench away from him.

  “Then damn it—”

  “I just don’t want to be around you!” she cried.

  His fingers tightened. She never could have escaped him if he wanted to hold her.

  But he let her go. She turned and ran swiftly up the stairs and into his room. Sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, she stared into the flames. Then she fell back on the sheets.

  Jon Mountjoy…

  She shivered. He hadn’t been exaggerating. It was this month’s big story. The story of the year maybe.

  Because Snowfire was opening on Broadway once again. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the exact date. Before Christmas, she thought. Some of the news-based programs at night were already doing spots on Myra Breckenridge, beautiful Myra, cut down in her prime.…

  And she had been beautiful. Tall, slim, golden blond, with huge blue eyes. She and Justin had been in love. Deeply in love.

  At first, Kristin reminded herself with a frown. They’d been separated at the end. Right before Snowfire.