by Sandra Brown
“No way.”
“Please, Kirsten. I need—”
“I’m telling you! That’s the first thing he said to me. ‘No way.’ ”
“Ah, so you must have been the first to speak to him.” Rylan propped his elbow on the edge of the couch, rested his cheek on his hand, and looked up at her with the grin that had beguiled half the population of the world. “Tell me about it.”
She drew a deep breath. “I had just gotten my master’s degree. I was feeling rather snooty, superior.”
“Nothing’s changed.”
She glared at him, but he was relieved to see that her mouth was twitching with the need to smile. “Most of the men I went out with were academicians. A girl-friend of mine invited me to go with her to a night spot. I knew it was frequented by servicemen and didn’t want to go. But she had met this naval pilot, and he was going to be there that night, and she wanted to go, and I didn’t have anything else to do, so . . .”
“You went,” Rylan said, picking up the story. He extended both hands, palms out, thumbs together, and looked through the square they made as though framing the picture in his mind. “I can just see you. There you are, a pretty, petite lady who felt woefully out of place in a crowd of boozy, bawdy sailors and . . .”
“. . . and after my friend deserted me to dance with this jet pilot, I was sitting alone at the table, trying not to look conspicuous. I noticed this guy across the room.”
A smile broke across her face. A genuine, unguarded, natural, beautiful smile. Rylan’s gut was wrenched by a spasm of jealousy for Charlie Rumm.
She continued. “He was tall, blond, good-looking, broad-shouldered, and he had a smile as arrogant as all get out. It said, ‘Eat your hearts out, girls.’ ”
“And you hated that type,” Rylan said intuitively.
“With a passion. But he wove his way through the crowd over to my table and sat down.”
“How?”
“How?”
“How did he sit down? Did he slide into the chair? Drop into it? What?”
“Actually he turned it around and straddled the seat, then folded his arms across the back of it.”
“Okay, thanks. Pardon the interruption. Go on.”
“Well, he didn’t say a word. He just sat there, wearing this sappy grin and staring at me. I said, ‘Stop staring at me.’ And he said—”
“ ‘No way.’ ” They laughed together. “Then what happened? Did he buy you a drink?”
“He offered. I declined.”
“How cruel.”
Kirsten jumped as though she’d been shot. Her reflective smile was replaced by a look of astonishment. “That’s almost exactly what Charlie said. He pressed both hands against his heart like Romeo and said, ‘You wound me, fair damsel.’ ”
Rylan grinned. “Maybe I’m getting to know him better than I thought. Go on. What happened next?”
“His silliness made me laugh.”
“That was the ice breaker.”
“Yes, and during that weak moment, I agreed to let him buy me a glass of white wine.”
“White wine, huh?” Rylan asked with amusement. “Were you wearing your glasses as you prissily sipped white wine amidst the hard Scotch and beer drinkers?”
Knowing that by now she was feeling more relaxed, he lay down on his back in front of the sofa, resting his head on his hands. Using his toes, he slipped off his shoes. His stomach was drastically scooped out to form a concave bowl beneath his rib cage, and he realized that he was hungry. Also slightly aroused. He wondered if Kirsten was aware of the bulge behind the fly of his jeans. Probably not. That had been his normal state since entering her house, that semifullness that hadn’t reached the uncomfortable stage yet. If she had looked at him at all, she probably simply figured he was well endowed. The thought made him smile.
To justify that cocky smile, he asked, “What did you and Rumm find in common to talk about?”
“We talked mostly about him. Oh, he asked me polite questions, and was impressed when I told him I’d just gotten my master’s degree in English. But he wanted to talk about airplanes and flying to the exclusion of almost everything else. He always did.”
“Do I detect a trace of resentment?”
“Of course not!”
Her flare-up caused one of his eyebrows to v eloquently.
“I mean, flying was Charlie’s life,” she said defensively. “He’d been born to do it. For him not to fly was equivalent to not breathing. I understood that from the beginning, from that first night.”
Demon Rumm had been a fanatic about flying and airplanes, Rylan thought. Men of his ilk were by nature required to be. But living with a zealot for anything wouldn’t be easy or enjoyable. Wouldn’t it tend to make the partner jealous of the fanaticism? Was that what Kirsten Rumm was trying so desperately to conceal, that she had been jealous of Rumm’s obsession with aerobatics?
Rylan studied her for a moment, weighing the advisability of bringing up another touchy subject on the heels of that one. He decided that postponement would never make it easier to verify this point. “According to the script, Rumm told you that he regretted the end of the Vietnam war.”
“He did,” she confessed quietly. “He was a fighter pilot without a war to fight. I think he was actually frustrated when all our spats in the Persian Gulf were peaceably resolved. Not that he wanted to kill people. It was just that flying fast airplanes was what he felt destined to do. That’s why he didn’t extend his time in the Navy or become a commercial airline pilot as most of his friends did when their stints were up.”
This was a facet of the man’s character that Rylan wanted to explore further, but not just yet. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Back to that night, did he come on to you?”
“Naturally.”
“I’d have thought he was crazy if he hadn’t. What was his line?”
“What do you think?”
She was challenging him. How well did he know his character? He squinted and tilted his head to one side. “Will you go to bed with me?”
She sucked in her breath quickly. “No.”
“Is that what you’re telling me or what you told him?”
The room grew very quiet, with only the logs in the fireplace crackling.
“You weren’t asking for yourself,” she said finally. “You were asking for him, weren’t you?”
He grinned obliquely and was pleased to see that she was unnerved.
Without pursuing it, she rushed on. “He said I didn’t look like the one-night-stand type and I assured him that I wasn’t.”
Rylan supplied the next line. “ ‘Good. Because I have something much more permanent in mind.’ ”
“You got that from the script.”
He nodded. “He was a smooth operator. Seduction through the commitment angle.”
“Maybe. Whatever it was, I fell for it.”
“He swept you off your feet?”
“He made me feel giddy and breathless. After being around campus types who wore musty tweeds, affected Ivy League accents, and smoked pipes, Charlie was refreshing, with his rakish leather jacket, his South-western twang, and his dashing smile.” Her blue eyes were glowing. Her lips were slightly parted and moist from frequent licking. Through them her breath rushed, lightly and thinly. “It was exciting just to be near him.”
“I can imagine,” he remarked wryly.
It was a new emotion for him, jealousy. He’d been struck. The fangs of the green-eyed monster had sunk in deep. Jealousy was pumping like poisonous venom through his system with each heartbeat.
He could imagine the effervescence she felt in her chest because it matched his own, that sexual awareness that made one tingle all over, that unspoken knowledge that something good was going on and that, given liberty, it would get even better. It wreaked havoc on one’s erogenous zones and played Russian roulette with one’s judgment. It was hell. And it was heaven. Poets and lyricists, try though they might, couldn’t pe
n words to describe that twisting tightness in one’s chest, that delicious pressure in one’s loins, that fizzy fever in one’s blood.
But, dammit, he wondered if Kirsten was feeling it vicariously through her recollections of another man, or was it for him? Was Demon Rumm responsible for that turbulence in her blue eyes? Or was Rylan North?
Apparently his eyes were as hot as his blood. His piercing stare must have frightened her. She moved quickly, swinging her feet to the floor.
“It’s getting late and I’ve got five pages to rewrite tomorrow.”
With one lithe movement, he was on his feet, facing her and bracketing her shoulders between his hands. “It’s not that late. I’m not finished.”
“Well, I am.” She tried to squirm free, but he wouldn’t let her go. He wasn’t hurting her; his eyes exercised far more force than his hands. He could have compelled her to stay even without touching her.
“He asked you to dance, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“What did you dance to?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Like hell you don’t. You remember everything else. What did you dance to?”
“What does it matter?”
“Precisely. What does it matter?”
Resigned, she said, “The crowd had mellowed out. They were playing a lot of slow dances on the jukebox. Neil Diamond, late Beatles, the Carpenters.”
“Got any?”
He released her and walked over to the wall that had a sound system built into it. He began riffling through the wooden rack that held her compact discs.
“No, I don’t have any of those,” she said. “I don’t think. I’m not sure.”
“Then we’ll improvise. Chicago or REO Speed-wagon? ‘Careless Whisper’ by Wham? What do you prefer?”
“This is crazy. Do you mean for us to dance?”
“That’s the general idea. It’s in the script. I need to research it.” He chose the Chicago album and turned on the sophisticated machine. In a moment the music filled the room from various hidden speakers. He adjusted the volume to suit him and came back to her. “How did he hold you?”
“This isn’t necessary, Rylan.”
That was the first time she had used his name. It had been spoken in exasperation, but he’d take it any way he could get it. Smiling, he slid his right arm around her waist. “It’s necessary for me.”
“Why?” She resisted when he tried to draw her closer.
“Because we haven’t filmed this scene yet. I want to get it right.”
“I sound like a broken record. Read my book.”
“I have. It says in effect that you danced and that it was very romantic. Not much for an actor to go on.”
“That’s the director’s job, to interpret the scene and put it on film.”
“He’ll set up the scene, Kirsten, but I’ll bring it to life. By the time it’s over, every man in the theater should want to be me and every woman you. Now concentrate.”
The order was directed as much to himself as to her. Because with the contact of their bodies, he’d felt an onslaught of desire, and the only thing he could really concentrate on was being inside her. And he knew in that instant that it would happen. If he died trying, he would have carnal knowledge of this intriguing woman.
“I’m Rumm and I’ve just met an incredibly attractive woman that I’ve got the immediate hots for. What do I do? How do I act under those circumstances?” He yanked her up hard against him. “How did Rumm hold you when you danced? Did he hold you like this?”
He was holding her in the traditional waltz position, except much closer than most ballroom teachers would have thought appropriate or even feasible for intricate steps.
“Yes, at first.”
Rylan began to lead, moving them in time to the moody strains of “Inspiration.” Their dancing consisted of little more than swaying in rhythm, a brushing of two bodies electrically charged, a flirtation of masculinity with femininity. Vertical foreplay.
“Was he shy with you? Did he hold you this close?”
“Yes.”
“To the first or second question?”
“The second. Charlie was never shy.”
“Did he rest his cheek against your hair?” When she nodded, Rylan pressed his jaw against her temple. “Like this?”
“Yes, only . . .”
“Only?”
“Only he was a few inches taller. He had to bend down more.”
“Well, I’m not going to dance on tippy toes, so we’ll have to make do with this. Besides,” he whispered, “I like the way we fit.”
Their bodies did fit phenomenally well. They meshed perfectly. As though they had been blueprinted to fit together, his maleness nestled in her feminine softness. He couldn’t stop himself from nudging her lightly. The cloth of her dress was sheer and giving, so that it was like there was nothing between them except his jeans. He could barely hear the music over the pounding racket his pulse made in his head.
“Anything else I should know?” he asked. He lightly blew against the wispy strands of hair that lay on her neck.
“He was brawnier than you. I remember feeling very safe when he put his arms—”
She broke off, and Rylan angled his head back and looked down at her. “Where?”
“Around my waist,” she replied hoarsely.
He linked his hands at the small of her back and pulled her even closer against him. Higher. His body settled more deeply into the cove of her thighs. “Like this?”
She nodded. Leaning back slightly, she gazed up at him, as though trying to clearly distinguish Charlie Rumm’s face from his. “His hair was lighter than yours. And curlier. The texture was different.”
“Texture?” Rylan asked, pouncing on the word. “Did you touch his hair that night?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were filled with contradiction and bemusement. “I . . . you’re confusing me. I don’t remember.” Her head fell forward onto his chest. Her arms were dangling loosely at her sides.
“Were your arms like this when you danced with Charlie, Kirsten?” She rolled her forehead against his sternum in a negative motion. “Where were they?” he asked gently.
Somnambulantly she raised her arms and looped them around his neck. She had small breasts. Her position only served to make the nipples more prominent.
Rylan drew in a hissing breath. “Is this when you touched his hair?”
“I think so. I must have run my fingers through it.”
She matched action to words and it was all Rylan could do to keep from moaning as her fingers sifted through the hair at his collar. “How does mine compare?” He didn’t give a damn. He only wanted to know how his felt to her.
“Yours is sleeker. Softer. Longer. Not as coarse. Not as curly.”
He nibbled at the outer point of her eyebrow. His hands splayed wide on her bare back. “Were you wearing a backless dress that night?”
“No. It was fall. I had on a sweater.”
She had the smoothest, most unblemished skin he’d ever felt. “Were you wearing a bra?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am blessed.” Groaning, he rubbed his chest against her breasts. When the tips tightened into harder points, he cursed beneath his breath. “Did you know he was getting aroused?” He rubbed his lower body against hers.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“How long did you dance, Kirsten? Hours, I hope?” Though heaven knew that if they had, Rumm had more stamina than he.
“No, just a few songs. My friend came up and told me that she was going home with her pilot.” She dropped her arms from around Rylan’s neck and pushed herself out of his embrace. Short of reverting to caveman tactics, he had no choice but to release her. She walked over to the stereo, and when she switched off the music, it created a noisy silence. “Gallantly, Charlie offered to take me home.”
“Gallantry wasn’t his only motivation,” Rylan muttered thickly.
She faced him an
grily. “He was a perfect gentleman. He didn’t try anything.”
“I’m sure he was a gentleman.” He took enough steps to reduce the distance between them considerably. “But I’m also just as sure that he was horny as hell and wanted more than anything to take you to bed.”
“How would you—”
She never vocalized the rest of her question. He saw her eyes sweep down his body, saw her startled expression when they confirmed her suspicion.
“Right, Kirsten, you’re better off not asking,” he said softly. “Did Charlie kiss you good night?”
“Is it in the movie script?”
“There’s an obligatory kiss in the script. But we want to sell tickets. Did Rumm actually kiss you that night?”
With an affirmative bob of her head, she began backing away from him.
“What kind of kiss was it?”
“You’re the expert screen kisser. I’m sure that however you handle that first kiss will satisfy your audience.”
“I’m sure it will too,” he said with conceit. “This is for my own satisfaction. Was Rumm hesitant, not wanting to offend you? Or did he want that kiss so badly that he didn’t give a damn if he offended you or not?”
His better judgment warned him that he was courting disaster. Neither of them was emotionally stable enough at that moment to handle what was about to happen, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was either going to kiss her or he was going to die.
He had a lot to live for.
“Was his kiss sweet, chaste, and nice? Or was it hard, hungry, and carnal? Was it anything like this?”
He hooked his hand around the back of her neck. Before she could recover from her surprise, they were mouth to mouth.
All similarity stopped there if her first kiss from Charles Rumm had been awkward and bumbling in any way. If the young Navy pilot had bumped noses with her, apologized self-consciously, and tentatively tried again to do better, then their first kiss didn’t even resemble the one Rylan impressed on her mouth now.
Instinctively he angled his head in the opposite direction of hers and sealed their lips together with just the right amount of possessiveness and pressure. If Charlie had given her several closemouthed, tight-lipped, dry kisses before working up enough courage to use his tongue, then Kirsten was no doubt surprised with Rylan’s indelicacy. His tongue arrowed into her mouth with one swift thrust. It stroked her evocatively, unapologetically, masterfully.