by Alison Kelly
His mouth moved to trail along her neck and she arched into him, trembling in anticipation as she felt his denimcovered arousal against her thigh. She moaned wantonly, totally enmeshed in desire, and when he lifted his head to look at her she knew that what she felt wasn’t unique. As he slipped a hand beneath the hem of her nightie his eyes fixed on her face, the silent query in them more than audible, and so erotically exciting that a spasm of need tightened her pelvic muscles.
Jacqui knew that only he was capable of satisfying the sensual hunger gripping her body, for he had triggered it.
When? A minute ago? A week ago? She couldn’t say exactly, but she’d endured the famine too long to deny herself the feast. So, like his question, her response was similarly wordless; she flicked off the lamp and reached for his belt. And as their vision adjusted to the darkness nothing more articulate than half-groaned, half-muttered ‘mmm’s, ‘aah’s and ‘yes’es broke the passion-choked atmosphere of the room as they abandoned themselves totally to each other.
Jacqui marvelled at the mastery of Patric’s hands as time after time they stroked the length of her body, teasing, soothing and preparing the path he ultimately took with his mouth and tongue. Her flesh singed and burned under the fire of his touch, inflaming her blood until she could no more have stopped herself from orally worshipping every inch of his body than she could have spontaneously explained how to split an atom.
She’d never cared for science at school, but now she wondered how she’d ever survived without the chemistry she felt in Flanagan’s arms.
Patric’s greatest fear was that he would be burnt to ash by Jacqui’s passion before he could release her from it. No woman had ever before posed a threat to his control as quickly or as effectively as she did. He wanted her fast and all at once, yet at the same time his hands and mouth wanted to savour her inch by deliciously slow inch.
His hands closed over the weighty firmness of her breasts and demanded that his mouth taste their sweet, pebbled peaks. His lips, needing no second bidding, obediently obliged. And as he gloried in the taste of her he heard her pleasured moan through the tips of his fingers as they flattened themselves against the silky muscles of her belly; again his lips greedily followed.
She clutched at his hair when he finally reached her core, and the symphony of her abandoned whimpers as she bent her legs to embrace him made his heart stop. He was shaking as he kissed a trail back to the ardour of her mouth, but that was nothing compared to the quakes of emotion which rocked through him when she demanded the same intimate access to his body that he’d had to hers.
Afraid that the searing desire would be drawn from him before he’d experienced what he craved most—the ultimate possession of her—he closed his hands on a thick strand of the blonde hair draping his stomach and wound it around until her head lifted from him. His chest momentarily cramped at the sight of her eyes clouded in passion and her face flushed with it. No woman had ever looked more beautiful.
She smiled then and, groaning, he levered himself from the pillows to taste that smile. When her eager mouth met his he felt the intensity of his own feelings returned in her kiss. A kiss that went on and on and on…
They were slick with sweat and their breathing laboured when finally he moved over her. He tried, with the remnants of the control he still had, to delay the moment, but she gave him no chance, lifting her hips to meet his thrust.
Jacqui Raynor was something else!
But when their passions simultaneously combusted, leaving him in a glow of galactic brilliance, on some level of his euphoric, clouded mind he suspected that she was much more than that…
Patric squeezed his eyes shut—not against the glare of the morning sun, but against the recognition of his own stupidity.
In sleep the woman beside him snuggled closer, and again his eyes were drawn to her right hip. Again the memory of the man who’d introduced himself to Patric on the front veranda of Jacqui’s home sprang to his mind. Only this time the image of Phil Michelini was entirely blurred except for the tattoo of a butterfly on his forearm. A miniature replica of that butterfly was tattooed on Jacqui’s hip.
The woman he’d made exquisite love with last night wore another man’s brand!
CHAPTER NINE
HE WAS gone. It was morning and Patric was gone.
In the few seconds it took Jacqui to open her eyes and register these facts a million confused emotions attacked her. Yet she didn’t need to see the indented pillow next to her to know that last night hadn’t been a dream—the slight discomfort in her lower body was infinitely conclusive.
She smiled, wondering if Flanagan had woken to the same sense of euphoric rightness about what had happened.
She frowned, figuring that if that was the case the least he could have done would have been to hang around and share the moment with her.
She sighed, uncertain whether his absence made her feel angry, disappointed or relieved.
‘Oh, heck,’ she moaned. ‘What am I supposed to make of things now?’
What, she wondered, was Flanagan making of things? Of her? Did he consider last night a mistake? Was that why he’d left before she’d awoken? Or was he simply being tactful and giving her time to reappraise the situation? She laughed. Tact wasn’t one of Flanagan’s strong points! He was handsome, confident, incredibly talented and a fabulous lover, but definitely not tactful! And—she sobered—definitely not here.
A look at the clock radio told her that he was probably at breakfast, waiting for her to join him. But damn! What was she supposed to do when she did—calmly order tea and toast and make no reference to the evening until he did? Or jump right in and announce that she’d never experienced anyone like him in her entire life?
By twenty-five most women had presumably dealt with at least one ‘next morning’ scene, but a less than memorable first time hadn’t encouraged Jacqui towards an active sex life. Until last night hers had been a case of once bitten—not again! But, while her practical experience was minimal, to Jacqui waking up naked next to the person you’d spent the night with seemed a whole lot more natural—not to mention romantic—than confronting him again fully clothed over a breakfast-table.
‘Hey, you were wonderful!’ sounded way better than, ‘Hey you were wonderful; pass the Vegemite, please.’ But then, what did she know?
‘You were right, Mum,’ she conceded aloud, climbing from the bed. ‘The day has come when I regret not spending more time at school—they probably covered this situation in sex education class!’
He was sitting drinking his coffee when she reached the door of the dining-room, and if the sight of him made her heart somersault then it made it do cartwheels when his gaze met hers.
She tried to look composed as she started towards his table, but her nerves were such that she wasn’t sure if her legs would get her there, and she was teetering midway into the room when he rose and strode to meet her.
‘Good, you’re up. You’ve got fifteen minutes to eat breakfast and then we’re out of here. I don’t want to waste a minute today.’
Though stunned by his curtness, it was the impersonal way he took hold of her chin and inspected her face which made her heart crumple.
‘Great, no make-up. I want the natural look.’ He released his hold and dipped his head closer. ‘But for God’s sake camouflage that damn tattoo you’ve got. It looks cheap.’
He didn’t add the words ‘like you’, but Jacqui heard them in his tone. She didn’t bother to try and defend herself against his insinuation for a number of reasons: one, because she was afraid she’d turn the air blue if she tried to voice her thoughts; two, because she was certain she’d burst into tears if she moved so much as a muscle in her face; and three, because he was already walking away as if being near her made him sick.
But it was Jacqui who felt nauseous.
How long she stood there in the middle of the room she wasn’t sure, but the voice of the teenage waitress finally pulled her from her haze of hu
miliation.
‘What would you like for breakfast this morning, Ms Raynor?’ she asked.
Jacqui laughed bitterly through a mist of burning tears. ‘A lethal dose of arsenic would pick my day right up!’
The October sky was cloudless, with the sun still short of its peak when they reached the shoot-site at the creek. Unlike the previous time they’d been here, Jacqui was oblivious to the native beauty of the area. The tall gumtrees on either side of the crystal ribbon of water might have shielded them from prying eyes, but even before she climbed into the back of the Land Rover and undressed she felt cruelly exposed.
Now, sitting naked beneath a full-length towelling robe while several metres away Flanagan set up his tripod, she was fighting to keep a hold on her control. Her insides were being ripped apart by such violently strong emotions that she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to scream with rage or sob with humiliation.
She could think of a dozen words she’d heard when she’d been growing up that she wanted to hurl at the man working close by, but saying them out loud seemed beyond her. Not that it mattered—calling him a heartless, hormone-driven lump of pond scum would have been too flattering!
You can’t lay all the blame on him, her conscience chided. She sighed, knowing that it was the self-disgust wedged in her throat that kept her tirade of abuse a silent one. Still, it scared her that she couldn’t vent her anger, couldn’t rid herself of the confusion pouring through her blood and flooding her brain.
On some bizarre level she felt as if she understood how her niece, Simone, felt immediately prior to one of her infamous tantrums. But, even though her niece always slipped into an angelic state of serenity following such outbursts, Jacqui knew a similar self-purging exercise wasn’t an option for her. Society was less tolerant of twenty-five-year-olds throwing themselves on the ground and kicking and screaming.
‘You about ready?’ he called to her.
She swallowed down her denial. He was so calm, so remotely professional that in that instant she hated him.
Hadn’t last night touched him at all? How was it possible that she could have lost herself so completely in their lovemaking and he could be immune to its effects—so immune that he hadn’t even made a passing reference to it? Not that she had, but, then again, if she tasted any more humiliation today she’d need her stomach pumped!
‘Hey!’ he roared. ‘I asked if you were ready to start! Is something bothering you, or what?’
She wished she had the nerve to say, Yeah Flanagan, how big a clue do you want? But she didn’t.
‘Dammit, Jacqui,’ he complained, running a hand through his hair. ‘Are you just going to sit there—?’
‘Keep your shirt on, Flanagan!’ she yelled back. ‘I’m coming.’ She stood up and forced her feet to move in his direction. Pride was her motivation.
She wouldn’t even think about last night from this point onwards. She’d get through this shoot and every other one after it without once thinking of how magical his hands had felt on her body even if it killed her! The only thing she was going to remember about Flanagan’s hands was that they held a camera. And with any luck she’d be so coolly professional that Patric too-sexy-for-her-own-good Flanagan would
end up with terminal frostbite!
* * *
Patric again put his eye to the viewfinder and focused in on Jacqui. She was sitting with her back to the camera, in a cross-legged yoga position, with her hands resting on her knees. Her long blonde hair was pulled over one shoulder and reflected the sunlight as spectacularly as the crystal-clear water of the creek, which splashed against the rock before continuing its dance downstream.
The mix of colours in the picture would be fabulous—the intense blue of the sky above a horizon of treetop-greencovered mountains, the beige trunks of towering gumtrees stretching down to the cool, polished silver of the creek, and there, in the centre, Jacqui’s golden head and creamy white skin. And…
Ah, hell! Part of her bundled-up robe was in the shot!
‘Jacqui!’ he shouted, standing away from the camera. ‘Drop the dressing-gown; it’s in the shot.’ He bent back to the camera, still talking. ‘We’re trying to capture the rawness of nature here, not—’ He jerked his head back. This time his view was of Jacqui awkwardly pulling the damn robe back on!
‘Give me strength!’ he muttered, imploring any or all higher life-forms to intercede on his behalf.
Again he moved from the camera, concentrating hard on gritting his teeth in an effort to rein in his emotions. He cursed softly as the action only made him more tense, and began kneading his neck with his left hand while rotating his right shoulder in the hope of gaining some measure of physical relief.
Would this shoot never end? More importantly, would they ever get it started? He watched Jacqui wade back from the centre of the creek, clutching at her robe as if hiding some hideous deformity. He knew better.
He pulled his sunglasses from their resting-place on the top of his head to dull the impact of her approach on his senses.
It was a totally futile attempt at self-defence because, unbidden, his memory detailed every inch of what lay beneath the fluffy white towelling—the soft expanse of satin-soft skin, the high, rose-tipped breasts, the flat, firm stomach that had contracted with excitement beneath his hands, and the taut buttocks above long, hard-hugging legs. The most exquisite body he’d ever seen—or known.
A shudder of desire gripped his body, bringing a groan so close to his lips that for a moment he thought it had escaped, and suddenly his neck muscles threatened to be the least of his physical problems!
Quickly he pushed the thought aside, reminding himself that this woman, who’d given herself so readily to him, was living with another man. He might have forgotten it last night in the heat of passion, but he sure wasn’t going to let it happen again. No way! It was bad enough that she was screwing up his shooting schedule—there was no way he was going to let her screw up his life!
‘Damnation, Jacqui!’ he snapped, airing his frustration in anger. ‘What’s your problem now?’ So far she’d complained that the sun was in her eyes, that the rock he wanted her to pose on was too hard, and that the water was too cold. Well, he’d had all he could take and he’d be damned if he’d fall victim to the wounded look in her eyes. ‘Well, spit it out!’
Jacqui quelled the desire to cry, telling herself that no photographer had ever had the satisfaction of reducing her to tears, and that hell would freeze over before she granted it to Patric Flanagan. He might have scored a first with her body, but it ended there!
‘My problem,’ she said tersely, ‘is that you won’t let me sit on my robe, and when I hold it it’s getting in the shot. I need a plastic bag.’
‘A plastic bag?’
‘Yes. To put—’ she tugged at the garment she wore ‘—this in.’
‘Look, Jacqui,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Put the bloody thing anywhere you like! Just get back out on that rock!’
She nodded. ‘Do you have one?’
‘One what?’
‘Plastic bag. A big one. And some string.’
‘String?’ He was barely holding on to his temper.
‘So I can tie the top of the bag with one end of it and tie the other on to my toe—’
‘Why, in the name of all things holy, do you want to tie the thing to your foot?’
‘Because otherwise the bag will float away,’ she explained, watching his fingers rake through his hair and remembering how it had felt when her own had done it.
‘Forget the string, the bag, and every other stupid thing going on in your head, and get out on that rock!’ He held his arm towards her. ‘I’ll take care of your damn robe.’
‘If you think I’m going to strip and walk naked out there you’re—’
‘It’s about twelve hours too late for a pseudo-attack of modesty, don’t you think?’ His voice was cool and cruel ‘I’ve seen everything worth seeing. And, believe me, I’m not interested
in another session of one-on-one lust.’
Lust. The way he said it told her that he would no doubt describe what they’d shared last night with a far more crude four-letter word.
The taste of bile seemed to start in her mouth and burn through her entire body. Jacqui had never felt so sick in her entire life. Nor so stupid. So really, really dumb! She wished instant death for herself, but no one granted it. She wished a retrospective death for Flanagan, but was equally disappointed. She wished that she could come up with a really cutting retort, but even that was hopeless.
‘Jacqui?’
His voice was impatient and impersonal, yet it compelled her to move—it was either that or break down in front of him. Blinking back tears, she reached to untie the belt securing the sole article of clothing she wore, but before her fingers even began to move on the knot her wrist was caught in a hard male grip. Her breath froze in her lungs.
‘Wear it out to the rock. When you’re ready I’ll come and get it.’
She didn’t look up or respond in any way to his words until he let go of her hand. Then she turned and waded back into the calf-deep water.
The warm tears tracking down her face were in stark contrast to the coldness of the creek and the ice crusting her heart. How could she have been so stupid? Why couldn’t she have kept Flanagan at arm’s length as she’d done with every other man who’d tried to bed her over the years? Why couldn’t fate have thrown her at one of them?
Why, when she had been able to withstand being wooed with flowers and gifts, being plied with copious quantities of champagne and charm, had she succumbed so easily to Flanagan—a man who’d only ‘courted’ her with arguments, aggravation and avoidance?
Oh, God, what had happened to her pride? Forget the pride, what had happened to her common sense? She had to work with this man!
How many times in her career had she sat around consoling sobbing colleagues after they’d yielded to the temptation of an affair with an associate? Dozens, she recalled ruefully. And how many times had she vowed not to make the same mistake? Plenty! Millions! Countless times! More than enough to know better.