Ross kissed her, and she forgot everything but the touch of his lips, the taste of his mouth—oh, Lord, she loved the taste of him—the heat of his flesh, the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders as he took her into his arms.
Suddenly there was no Pacific Ocean. No jungle. No Port Manya. No Hotel Paraiso. No dingy bar. No threadbare honeymoon suite with a rickety, squeaky double bed. There was only Ross and the way he made her feel.
It frightened her.
Then she even forgot to be afraid.
He kissed her and she only wanted more. He thrust his tongue between her parted lips, and she chased after it with her own. Her pulse was beating in double time. Then triple. Her heart seemed caught in her throat. She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t care.
His hands were on her neck, her shoulders, her arms. She could feel his roughened skin, the calluses on his palms, through the material of her wrapper. Her only thought was how good he would feel against her bare skin.
He found her rib cage. He spanned her body with both of his hands. Then he reached up with his thumbs and flicked her nipples through the material of her gown and robe.
Diana’s lips opened, and a low, husky groan escaped.
“Yes,” was all Ross muttered.
The wrapper was pushed aside, her nightgown followed, and she could feel the moist heat of his mouth on her, the hard tip of his tongue tracing a wild erotic pattern back and forth across the rigid tip of her breast. The serrated edges of his teeth gently nipped her. His tongue lathed her. His lips caressed her. Then he drew her deeper and deeper into his mouth until she thought he intended to swallow her whole.
Passion.
The word was forevermore burned into every cell of Diana’s brain, every nerve ending of her body, every inch of her flesh. This was passion in its primitive, all-consuming form. It was a fever in the mind, in the body, in the soul.
His first mistake had been kissing her on the airplane that morning. Now he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. It was the damnedest thing.
Diana was everything he had imagined she might be, could be, and more, realized Ross as he covered her breast with his mouth. The first time he had set eyes on her he’d asked himself if there beat the heart of a passionate and sensuous woman beneath the cool, haughty exterior.
He had his answer.
She was like wildfire in his arms. His blood ran hot and heavy in response.
He could feel the heat pouring from her. He knew her skin must be flushed with sexual excitement, her body soft and moist and ready for him. She was aroused, and the realization only aroused him all the more.
He yearned to strip the bedclothes from her and ease her lovely thighs apart. He wanted desperately to unzip his suddenly too-tight and uncomfortable pants, release his rigid flesh and bury himself in her right up to the hilt.
He dreamed of watching her face as he thrust into her again and again, as he brought her to a shattering climax, as he emptied himself into her utterly and completely.
A short, succinct expletive exploded in his brain.
He groaned aloud, “I can’t!”
Diana drew back and stared at him with passion-glazed eyes. “You can’t?” she repeated, obviously at a loss to understand what he meant.
“We can’t,” he bit off sharply.
“Can’t what?”
“We can’t let this go any further than it has,” Ross stated in a tightly controlled voice. He rolled over onto his back and gave a short, self-mocking laugh. “Some Boy Scout I’d make. I’m not even prepared.”
The woman beside him silently adjusted her nightgown and wrapper.
“I’m sorry, Diana.”
“It—it wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.
“Yes, it was.” Ross punched the pillow behind his head with a hard fist. “I shouldn’t have started what I wasn’t prepared to finish.”
In a small but firm voice Diana repeated, “We’re only human, flesh and blood. We got a little carried away. We went a little crazy. It happens. That’s what you said this morning.”
He felt like a grizzly bear with a burr caught in its paw. In short, he felt like hell. “Yeah, well, maybe I lied,” he growled.
She apparently hadn’t thought of that. “Did you lie to me, Ross?”
A tense frown bracketed his mouth. “No.” He reached over and took her hand in his. It was ice-cold. So was the bracelet on her wrist. “I didn’t lie to you, Diana. I never have. I never will. I promise.”
After a minute or two, she went so far as to admit, “You were right, you know.”
“About what?”
“I’m a fool and a liar.”
“You’re no fool, sweetheart. And we all lie to ourselves once in a while. It’s a natural part of self-preservation.”
“I thought I could live without passion.” Her voice caught. “I was wrong.”
Ross turned his head. He could clearly see her profile in the moonlight, and the tears poised on her eyelids. “Didn’t you ever feel this way with Grimmer?”
She swallowed. “No.”
“Oh, hell…”
“What?”
“I’d better get out of here before I do something we’ll both regret.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ross took her hand and placed it on the hard bulge below his waist. “Feel that?”
She flinched. “Yes.”
“You know what it is, don’t you?”
He heard her gulp. “Of course I do.”
He made a half angry, half helpless sound. “Well, damned if I can explain it, but I want you, Diana Winsted, more than I have ever wanted any woman.”
She gave a soft, “Oh…”
“If I stay here, we’re going to end up making love. And frankly, sweetheart, neither of us is prepared for that.” Ross pushed the mosquito netting aside for a moment and swung out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
He grabbed his shirt. “Out.”
“Out where?”
He shrugged and quickly pulled on his boots.
“But you said there was no place to go.”
“I can always take another cold shower,” he said, his voice a harsh rumble.
“Ross?” It was a little cry for help.
He made himself walk away from her. Someday she’d thank him.
One last command was issued. “Lock the door behind me, Diana.”
Ross stalked down the hallway, took the stairs two at a time and made it to the verandah of the Hotel Paraiso before he managed another breath.
Like a litany it kept going around and around in his head: Let your conscience be your guide, Ross. Let your conscience be your guide.
There was a rusty tin can lying in the middle of the street. He gave it a good kick with his boot.
Eight
Diana lay there in the dark and fought back the tears. She didn’t blame Ross. It was as much her fault as his. If you were foolish enough to play with fire, you always took the chance of getting burned. That basic rule applied in any part of the world.
Ross had set out to teach her a lesson tonight, and, in the end, he had done her a favor. She’d learned something important about herself: she was not an “ice princess.” She was not a coldhearted bitch. She did not have a lump of black coal where her heart was supposed to be. She was not frigid, as the few men she had dated since college had claimed.
She was a warm, responsive woman—with the right man.
Surely, if she could feel such overwhelming passion with Ross St. Clair, there was nothing very wrong with her and something very right about her.
Suddenly Diana was feeling almost cheerful. She fluffed her pillow, straightened the bed covers and made herself as comfortable as possible on the lumpy, too-soft mattress. Then she stretched out and waited for Ross to return.
It gave her time to think.
Yale Grimmer.
Tall. Handsome. Well educated. Ambitious. Polite. Well mannered. Safe.
<
br /> It occurred to Diana that one of Yale’s greatest attractions for her—besides his impeccable credentials, of course—was the fact that he had never pressed for physical intimacy. His kisses were pleasant and non-threatening. He was gentle. He was thoughtful. He was as concerned for her feelings as much as his own. He never lost control.
He was, in short, the perfect gentleman.
It was just that she was no longer certain she wanted to marry the perfect gentleman.
Maybe she had suspected all along that there was something vital missing between Yale and herself. Now, thanks to Ross St. Clair, she knew what it was: passion.
Diana rolled over and faced the empty side of the bed. She reached out and ran her hand along the sheets where Ross had lain, the indentation in the pillow where his head had been. She inhaled, and the distinctive, masculine scent of him that clung to the bed covers filled her senses.
If she were honest with herself—and it was long overdue—she had tasted passion and she liked it. It was intoxicating. It was addictive. It was as necessary to her now as the air she breathed or the food she ate.
She wasn’t naive enough to believe that passion by itself was enough to ensure eternal happiness. But she knew that it was absolutely essential between a man and a woman, that it was the foundation upon which a relationship was built.
Ross had given her a rare and precious gift tonight: he had shown her the truth about herself. She had learned a valuable lesson. He had been an excellent teacher. She wanted to tell him salamat.
Diana curled up and pulled the covers over her. She tried to stay awake, but the long days of travel were catching up with her again, and her eyelids grew heavy.
What had Ross instructed her to do as he’d stormed out of their room?
She couldn’t seem to remember.
As her eyes closed, a question crossed her drowsy mind: had she locked the door?
Diana wasn’t sure what awakened her. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and stared into the inky darkness of the honeymoon suite.
It was the click of the doorknob that brought her straight up in bed. It also reminded her that she had forgotten to lock the door.
Her next thought was reassuring. It had to be Ross returning to their room. Who else could it be? Only a handful of local residents even knew that “Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair” were staying at the Hotel Paraiso.
Of course, in a village the size of Port Manya, what one person knew, everyone knew, right down to the deaf octogenarian rocking on his front porch and the smallest child playing in the street. News traveled fast here. No doubt because there was so little of it. The arrival of a stranger was a major event. In which case, she and Ross should provide enough gossip to last for months, possibly for years.
The tarnished brass knob turned. The door opened an inch or two on its squeaky hinges.
“Ross, is that you?” she called out quietly, peering through the mosquito netting.
There was no answer.
The door was cracked open another inch.
“Ross?”
There was still no response.
Diana wasn’t in the mood for games. Not at this time of the night. “If you’re trying to frighten me, you’re not succeeding,” she said in a censorious tone.
There was the soft thud of a footstep, then another.
She tried a different tact. “Yale?”
Just as the door to the honeymoon suite swung open wide enough for a man to pass through, the moon slipped behind a cloud. The room was plunged into darkness.
Diana couldn’t explain how, but she suddenly knew that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. It wasn’t Yale at the door. And it certainly wasn’t Ross. She would know if it were Ross.
The moon broke away from the bank of clouds. A pale yellow light illuminated the bedroom. There were two shadows looming in the open doorway.
Her hand flew to her mouth. She barely managed to stifle the startled gasp that sprang to her lips. She wanted to scream. Instead, she bit down hard into the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger, and tried to think.
What to do? God in heaven, what should she do?
From what she could determine the midnight intruders matched the description of the two men Ross had told her were looking for Yale earlier that day. They were both tall and thick through the shoulders. They had no necks. They bulged like muscle men.
They looked like thugs.
“She’s got to be here somewhere,” one of them whispered.
“Think Grimmer’s with her?”
“Don’t know. But Carlos said to bring them both back alive, along with the merchandise.”
“Then don’t use your gun unless you have to, stupid,” hissed the other one.
Gun?
They had guns!
Diana’s heart began to slam against her chest. All she could hear was its violent drumming in her ear. She had to stay calm. She had to think fast. Could she slip under the bed before they discovered her presence? Or would that be the first place they’d search once they found the empty, rumpled bed covers?
It was too far to the closet. There was no place to hide. And they were between her and the door.
She was trapped.
Diana Winsted understood for the first time what it was to fear for her life. It wasn’t something she’d ever thought about, considered, imagined, dreamed of. Not even in her worst nightmares.
Hers had been a sheltered, privileged existence surrounded by loving parents and grandparents, an adoring younger brother, numerous friends and devoted sorority sisters. Disappointments had been few and far between. She didn’t take her good fortune for granted, but she hadn’t appreciated the simple fact of being, feeling, safe.
She was genuinely afraid now. She didn’t know what to do, but she hated the feeling of helplessness that accompanied it. She regretted not taking a course in self-defense. She wished she had a gun. She wished she knew how to use a gun.
Where was Ross?
She needed him more than ever. He would know what to do. After all, he was the expert at these things. She was willing to bet that he wouldn’t cower in the corner of his bed while two gorillas sneaked into his hotel room.
Diana realized she had only one weapon at her disposal. She decided she’d better use it.
Opening her mouth, she yelled at the top of her lungs, “Ross! Help me! Ross!”
“She’s here somewhere and screaming loud enough to wake the dead,” complained one of the thugs as they bumped into each other in the ensuing confusion.
“Well, find her and shut her up.”
“You find her and shut her up.”
“Ross! Help! Someone Help!” Diana kept up the racket as long as she could, only pausing for a split second to catch her breath. “Ross! Help! Ross!”
“Who the hell’s Ross?”
“How should I know? Do I look like a damn mind reader?” growled one of the muscle men.
“There she is in the bed. Grab her.”
One of them dove for her. Diana quickly scampered to the opposite side of the mattress. She tried to blind the man with a faceful of mosquito netting. When that failed, she grabbed a pillow and began to hit him with all her might.
Damn, her nightgown and wrapper were proving to be more of a hindrance than a help. She wished she wore pajamas to sleep in. At least they would have facilitated movement more easily.
The second thug came up behind her. Diana spun around and kicked out with her bare foot, trying to connect with his groin. She remembered reading somewhere that it was best to go for the attacking male’s physical weaknesses: the groin, the eyes, the throat, a stiletto-sharp high heel ground into his instep.
Too bad her three-hundred-dollar pair of imported Italian high heels were neatly lined up in the closet across the room. They would have finally come in handy.
Then one of the men succeeded in grabbing Diana by the arm. She fought like a tigress, like a wild creature that refused to be caged. She rolled into a ball, ope
ned her mouth and sank her teeth into his skin.
He jumped back, holding his injured hand, and complained to his accomplice. “Ouch! The bitch bit me!”
“Stop your bellyaching.”
“I’m not bellyaching. But it hurts.”
“Don’t be such a damn crybaby.”
Diana waited for the right moment and prayed that Lady Luck would be with her.
She was.
The moon slipped behind a veil of clouds and Diana knew it was her last and best chance to escape. She pushed the mosquito netting aside, jumped off the foot of the bed and made a mad dash for the open door.
“Quick! Grab her! She’s making a run for it!”
Diana hitched up her nightgown, raced through the doorway and out into the hall. She flew down the stairs, nearly tripping on the hem of her gown. Her wrapper came loose. She shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it fall into a silky heap behind her, hoping that one of her pursuers would slip on it like a banana peel and end up flat on his back.
Like a shot, she was across the lobby and out the front door of the Hotel Paraiso. She hit the street in a single bound and sprinted as fast as her bare feet would carry her, never daring to look back, not caring that her heart was about to burst in her chest.
She ran and she ran and she ran until she hit a solid wall of human flesh.
“Diana!”
Ross! Ohmigod, it was Ross!
Her breath was coming in great gulps. She couldn’t speak. Not a word. Not even his name. But he immediately realized she wasn’t out for a casual evening stroll.
Ross quickly drew her into the shadows and lightly covered her mouth with his hand. Then he pulled her down behind a corrugated box, and they watched together as the two thugs barreled out the front door of the hotel and stood there staring up and down the deserted street.
One of them kicked the railing of the verandah and bit off a brief expletive. “We’ve lost her.”
“The boss isn’t going to like this.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
The second thug was still massaging his injured hand where Diana had sunk her teeth into him. “He didn’t warn us she was a hellcat.”
Not His Wedding! (Silhouette Reissued) Page 7