Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set

by Sandra Marton

  Silently, she followed him back to their table. She would do as he’d asked, she thought, but only until they got outside. In the darkness, the truth about herself would be easier to tell.

  Later, remembering, she would be staggered by her own folly.

  In her eagerness to end her deception, she’d never wondered why James, who only last night had been so insistent on facing the past, was now equally determined to bury it.

  But then, James had known all along where talking would lead them.

  By the time they reached the car, the silver fog had cut them off from the world. Gabrielle put her hand on his arm. ‘Please,’ she said, her voice low, husky with nervousness, ‘let’s talk here, in the dark. This is hard for me to say.’

  He shook his head. ‘I told you, I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Yesterday, you said no one could run from the past.’

  ‘Leave it alone, dammit!’

  'I can't do that. We have to talk about who we are. We don’t know anything about each other.’

  His hands framed her face and lifted it to his. In the shadowed night, his features were indistinct. She felt the warmth of his breath as he spoke.

  ‘Listen to me.’ His voice held a rough urgency. ‘As far as I’m concerned, our lives began last night.’

  She wanted to believe him. But he’d told her to face the past squarely, and she knew that that was what had to be done.

  She had only been kidding herself the last few months.

  She didn’t really believe Tony Vitale wanted her silenced, but there were other things to fear. All it would take to resurrect the past was a sharp-eyed reporter or a per­sistent federal agent to discover her whereabouts.

  ‘You have to listen to me, James. When I—when I lived in New York...’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about New York. Just tell me that you’ve left it behind.’

  She hesitated. ‘I—I think I have. But I’m not sure. I...’

  His breath hissed between his teeth. ‘What do you mean, you’re not sure?’

  There was so much to explain. If only she knew where to begin, how to tell him her story.

  ‘I meant that—that you can’t just walk away from the past. You can’t shed it like an old skin.’

  ‘You can.’ His voice was sharp. ‘The life you left in New York, the one I left in Washington, are mean­ingless.' ’

  Gabrielle stared at him. ‘Is that where you’re from? Washington?’

  He nodded, his expression grim.

  ‘What do you do in Washington?’ She waited for his answer, but he said nothing. Nervous laughter rose in her throat. ‘Just don’t tell me you work for the government.’

  ‘Gabrielle, please...’

  Somehow, the night had become strange and alien. She shivered as it closed down around them. What she’d said had been meant as a joke, but suddenly there was nothing funny about it.

  When they’d met, she’d wondered if James meant her harm. She’d even wondered if he was a reporter. But the possibility that he might be an agent had never occurred to her.

  No. Not James.

  ‘Answer my question,’ she said. ‘What do you do in Washington?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘If you work for the govern­ment—if you’re part of that slime...’

  ‘Dammit,' he growled. 'Okay. If you insist upon resurrecting the past, we’ll do it somewhere private. Get in the car.’

  Gabrielle shuddered in the cool night air. James was frightening her; he reminded her of how he’d been that morning in the alley.

  ‘We can talk right here,’ she said.

  His hands closed on her shoulders. ‘Get in the car. Now.’

  His voice was like a whip. She tried to step back, but his fingers bit into her flesh. A chill raced along her skin.

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that.’

  He laughed unpleasantly. ‘It’s a little late to tell me what I can and can’t do, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve done whatever I wanted from the minute we met. Why should that change now?’

  ‘James,’ her voice was thin, ‘what’s wrong with you? Why are you acting this way?’

  ‘I’m even living in your house.’ His mouth twisted. ''What kind of damn fool thing was that to do, huh? Inviting a man home when you don’t even know him.’

  Gabrielle drew a shallow breath. ‘Stop it,’ she whis­pered. ‘You're scaring me!’

  ‘It’s a little late to be scared, don’t you think? The time for that was before you asked a stranger into your home.’

  The moon escaped its clouded prison. In the sudden pale light, she saw the terrible purpose in his face.

  Don’t panic, she told herself, even though her heart was hammering, don’t panic. This is James, this is the man who kissed you and held you, the man who saved your life.

  ‘You aren’t a stranger,’ she said, her eyes meeting his. ‘Not anymore.’

  Her words had been meant to calm him. Instead, they seemed to enrage him. He cursed sharply, then pulled her tightly against him, holding her so that she felt the steel of his hard body.

  ‘Of course I’m a stranger,’ he snarled. ‘Dammit, woman, are you a fool?’

  Tears rose in her eyes. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me any questions the morning we met? Where I was from. Who I was. Why didn’t you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know. It didn’t seem important.’

  ‘All you asked was what I’d been doing in the alley and how I knew the name of your shop. I gave you some idiotic answers, and you bought them.’

  The terror she’d fought to suppress burst free, beating dark wings within her breast.

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.

  James imprisoned her head in his hands, his fingers tangling in her hair. His eyes swept over her face, lingering on her parted lips.

  ‘I tried,’ he said. ‘God, I tried. I thought we could play it your way. I told myself we could bury the past and pretend it never happened.’ He moved closer to her, until his face was all she could see. ‘Hell, I should have known it wouldn’t work.’

  ‘James, I swear, if you don’t let me go...’

  He laughed. ‘What will you do?’ His voice was cold. ‘Scream? Go on, give it your best shot. No one will hear you.’

  Gabrielle stared into his eyes. The pale chips of icy blue chilled her soul. Suddenly she slammed her hands against his chest. He did nothing to stop her, and she beat at him until finally she slumped against him, sobbing and exhausted.

  ‘I hate you, James Forrester,’ she panted. ‘I hate you!

  She cried out as he pulled her to him.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he said through his teeth, ‘you damn well don’t.’

  His mouth fell on hers, and he lifted her to her toes so that her body was pressed fully against his. His teeth nipped sharply into the soft flesh of her bottom lip. She gasped, and instantly he thrust his tongue into her mouth, filling her with the taste and heat of him.

  He moaned her name against her mouth, then pressed his lips to the long curve of her throat.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

  She was trembling in his arms.

  A heat was rising within her, moving like wildfire through her blood, turning her limbs to jelly. James’s kisses were warm against her skin; her head fell back and her hands slid under his sweater and up his chest, her palms flattening against his skin, her pulse racing, racing...

  ‘Gabrielle.’

  The urgency in his voice brought her back. Her lashes lifted slowly and she looked into his eyes. They were smoky, clouded with desire.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said softly.

  Her heart skittered wildly against her ribs. ‘What do you mean?’

  He smiled, and she knew that the memory of the ter­rible sadness of that smile would last her the remainder of her life.

  He watched her face, watched the p
assion leave her eyes, watched first dismay and then fear move over her features, and he made a sound that was half-laugh, half-­groan.

  ‘You’re Gabrielle Chiari.’

  The world seemed to stop spinning. The moon hung still against a painted sky, and Gabrielle’s breath caught in her throat.

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  James’s lips drew back from his teeth. ‘You fool,’ he whispered. ‘Nobody walks away from Tony Vitale.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  There were certain universal truths that had no basis in reality but were valid all the same.

  Some were grounded in superstition: if you closed your eyes, whatever frightened you would disappear.

  Others were more sophisticated: if you travelled to some new place, it took far less time to return home than it did to get there.

  Gabrielle knew both beliefs were childish. Still, on this muggy night in the Louisiana Delta, they were both applicable.

  No matter how tightly she closed her eyes, each time she opened them James was still seated beside her in the dark, leather-scented interior of the Corvette, his face set in stone.

  And the miles were ticking away with im­possible rapidity. James had abandoned the country lanes for the highway, and they were hurtling through the night, passing slower-moving cars with an abandon that left her breathless.

  Not that it mattered. If she had to die, better in a twisted mass of metal than... than...

  Gabrielle choked back a sob. No. No matter what James had said, no matter how it had sounded, he hadn’t meant—he couldn’t have meant...

  Nobody walks away from Tony Vitale.

  The words were so melodramatic they were almost laughable. But James hadn’t laughed when he’d said them: his eyes had been the color of winter ice, the lines of his mouth and jaw like granite.

  What had she said to him? ‘Are you crazy?’ It had to have been something like that, because she could still remember his answer.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d whispered, ‘that’s exactly what I am.’ And then, before she could say anything else, he’d caught her by the arm and started forcing her into the car. She’d screamed then, her voice rising eerily into the muggy night. James had pulled her to him and put his mouth to her ear. *

  ‘Don’t.’ The ominously whispered word, coupled with the twisting pressure of his hand on her wrist, had silenced her. She’d stood, trembling in his embrace, and finally he’d drawn away just enough so he could look into her face. ‘If you do as I say, it will be easier.’

  His eyes had swept over her and he’d smiled, and for that brief moment she’d seen the man she knew.

  ‘James.’ Her whisper had been thin as air. ‘James, please, please tell me...’

  He’d smiled again, sadly this time, and gently stroked back the dark hair that had fallen over her cheek.

  ‘I will, I’ll tell you everything. But not here. Now, get into the car.’

  And she had. There was nothing else she could do: the night was dark, the setting desolate, and, despite his injured knee, James was far stronger than she.

  It made no sense. If James was supposed to kill her, he could have done it a dozen times over.

  Unless...

  She remembered how she’d trembled in his arms a little while ago, even after he’d said things that had terrified her, how her mouth had sought his despite the fear racing through her blood.

  Were they both victims of some twisted passion that had nothing to do with love? Was that what had kept James from doing his job, was he taking her back to the carriage house so he could first take her body and then her life?

  They reached the house and James pulled to the curb. The car filled with silence as he switched off the engine. The street was surprisingly quiet for such a festive night, and it was ominously dark; with lengthened shadows from the distant street-light stretching ahead.

  She felt a strange sense of displacement, as if she were here in mind but not in spirit, the same way she’d felt the night her father had died.

  The sound of music and laughter drifted to her faintly on the humid air, adding to the feeling that she had somehow become separated from the rest of the world.

  James stirred beside her. ‘When I open your door, I want you to get out of the car quickly. Do you understand?’

  Gabrielle swallowed. Her mouth was dry; her tongue felt thick and it seemed to take great effort to answer him.

  ‘James. James, whatever you’re going to do— whatever you think you must do...’

  But he wasn’t listening. He stepped from the Corvette, the door closing softly after him. She watched as he stood still for a moment, looking first at the street and then at the night-draped courtyard and she thought of a wild animal returning to its lair, checking it for intruders before entering. Her eyes followed his, trying to see the scene as he must, and suddenly the familiar street became frightening.

  What was he watching for? The police? But they had no knowledge of Gabrielle Chiari and Tony Vitale. This was New Orleans, not New York.

  Her door opened. James held his hand out to her.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said softly.

  Like a woman in a dream, Gabrielle put her hand in his and stepped from the car. James slipped his arm Ground her; she felt the firm pressure of his hand against her hip, the solid press of his body at hip and thigh.

  ‘Stay close to me,’ he murmured.

  As if she had a choice, she thought. His arm was a band of steel curved around her, molding her against him.

  ‘James.’ Her voice was low-pitched. ‘James, please, if only you’d listen.’

  ‘I’ll listen all you want once we’re inside.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’ll be too late then,’ she said, holding herself stiff, trying to stop their im­placable progress towards the dark courtyard. ‘Don’t you see?’

  ‘Just keep moving. I think we’re all right out here, on the street. It’s too open, too visible. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to take any chances I don’t have to take. Move, dammit. Don’t fight me.’

  She stumbled as he propelled her forward, through the wrought-iron gate and into the courtyard. A tendril of Spanish moss brushed against her face, its touch damp and unearthly, and she shuddered. Wisps of fog rose from the overgrown garden that separated the main house from the carriage house, wraith-like in the darkness.

  ‘Please. Listen to me.’

  She cried out softly as he clamped his hand hard around hers.

  ‘Not a sound,’ he growled. ‘Have you got that?’

  Tears rose in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. ‘James, I beg you, don’t do this. Don’t hurt me.’

  He stared at her. ‘Gabrielle...’

  ‘I thought that you—that we...’

  In one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms, his mouth parting hers for a quick, dizzying kiss. She heard the pounding of her blood in her ears, felt the thud of her heart, and then James put her from him.

  ‘Trust me, sweetheart.’

  The husky plea made her want to weep and laugh at the same time. She had trusted him, that was how he had trapped her in the first place. They both knew that.

  He had just chided her for it—did he really expect her to be stupid enough to make the same mistake again?

  Or did he think the dark fascination that bound them together would make her compliant, even in the face of her own death?

  ‘Open the door.’ She stared at him and his voice turned harsh with impatience. ‘Come on, dammit, get your key out and open the door.’

  She did as he’d ordered.

  The door swung open while her mind scampered in a frantic race for answers. They moved slowly through the foyer and into the living-room. There had to be something she could do, something...

  She kicked out at him as the door closed after them. The cane spun out of his hand and clattered to the floor. He swore and she kicked again, her foot connecting with his knee. She heard the air spill from his lungs and knew he’d bee
n hurt. He groaned her name. The sound was a knife twisting in her heart, but she had no choice, she had to stop him, and she kicked out at him again.

  He went down, gasping for breath. ‘Gabrielle—you don’t understand.’

  She stood over him, breathless, tears flooding her eyes, watching as he rose slowly to one knee. He was in pain: his moon-washed face was contorted, and the effort it took to rise was in his eyes.

  He was an easy target now, no danger to her, not while he was like this.

  Kick him again, her mind screamed. Get the poker from the fireplace and hit him with it. Open the door and run screaming from the house.

  ‘Gabrielle?’

  The sound of his voice stunned her. All the questions a man had ever asked a woman were in the way he whis­pered her name. He grunted, drew a deep breath, and rose to his feet.

  It was too late now. He was whole again, strong and powerful as he towered over her. Her heart skipped a beat, then began to race like an insane clock.

  ‘Who are you, James?’ she said hoarsely, her eyes on his face. ‘At least tell me that.’

  He stared at her while an eternity slipped by, and then a smile transformed his face, changing it from that of a stranger to that of the man she knew.

  ‘I’m the man who’s going to make love to you,’ he whispered, and took her in his arms.

  He bent to her and kissed her, his mouth warm, open, and wet against hers.

  She trembled as his arms tightened around her, moaned as he bent her backwards, his mouth still on hers. His hand moved over her with rough ur­gency and her blood surged in response.

  He lifted her to him until she was pressed against the length of his body. His heart thundered against her breast; his flesh quickened and rose against the cradling warmth of her loins. She shuddered as his hands cupped her buttocks.

  ‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered, ‘kiss me. Hold me.’

  It was what she wanted, what she’d always wanted. The desire that had always smoldered between them blazed to life, lighting the night with fire as it burned away her fear.